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EDGAR ALLAN POE
ROMANCES OF DEATH
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
EDITED BY . . . . .
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
AND
GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY
VOLUME I

©
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1914
CopyRIGHT, 1894, by
STONE & KIMBALL

THE WORKS OF
ED GAR ALL AN POE,
VOLUME I
$º
TALES OF THE GROTESQUE
AND ARABESQUE
I l

IN HONOR OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINLA
THIS EDITION
OF THE WORKS OF HER DISTINGUISHED SON
IS DEDICATED
380363
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
The publishers wish to acknowledge their
obligation to Professor Woodberry, who has
made use of the opportunity given by this de-
finitive and permanent issue to re-examine the
text with great care and minuteness. The re-
sult has been to confirm fully the course orig-
inally followed by Mr. Stedman and himself.
Some verbal changes and corrections have been
made; but, except in a few immaterial points,
their critical opinions as expressed in the Notes
and their decisions with regard to what consti-
tutes Poe’s permanent writings and the correct
text have been entirely sustained. This final
review warrants the publishers in the belief that
this will remain the authoritative edition of
Poe’s Works.
The very thorough bibliography has been
brought down to date in both its lists of English
and foreign titles. A facsimile of a character-
istic page of Poe's changes and interlineations
has been included in the volume of poems, and
the matter relating to the illustrative portraits
has been carefully re-examined and re-arranged.
GENERAL PREFACE
THE works of Poe were collected by Dr. Rufus
Wilmot Griswold, his literary executor, and published
in three volumes by J. S. Redfield, New York, 1850.
The edition, thus authorized, was protected until
lately by copyrights owned by the publisher, and has
remained substantially unchanged in its successive
issues, although enlarged in later years; the papers
added, and the few corrections made under the stim-
ulus of the English editions of Mr. J. H. Ingram,'
should, perhaps, be specially referred to; but the
edition is practically as Griswold left it, and should
be known by his name. It was good enough for his
own time; and, in view of the contemporary uncer-
tainty of Poe's fame, the difficulty of obtaining a pub-
lisher, and the fact that the editorial work was not
paid for, little fault can justly be found with Gris-
wold, who did secure what Poe in his lifetime could
never accomplish—a tolerably complete collected
edition of the tales, reviews, and poems. But after
the lapse of nearly half a century something more
may be exacted from those who have had the custody
of a great writer’s works, and something more is due
from those who care for the literature of the country.
Poe's fame has spread as widely through the world
as that of any imaginative author of America; and
vii
GENERAL PREFACE
longer neglect of the state of his text would be dis-
creditable to men of letters among us, now that his
works have passed by law into the common property
of mankind. With this conviction the present edi-
tion has been undertaken, in order to ascertain and
establish as accurate and complete a text of his per-
manent writings as the state of the sources now
permits.
The editors have been fortunate beyond expecta-
tion in the recovery of final corrections by Poe, made
on the margin of his published volumes for the pur-
pose of being incorporated in later editions. These
manuscript notes are contained in Poe's copies of the
“Tales,” 1845, and “The Raven, and Other Poems,”
1845, recently bequeathed by James Lorimer Graham,
Esq., to the Century Association, and of “Eureka,”
lately on the shelves of William Evarts Benjamin,
Esq. The volumes were in Griswold's possession,
but the changes indicated were not made by him,
and are now for the first time embodied in the
text. Mrs. Whitman’s copy of the “Broadway
Journal,” with slight marginal corrections by Poe,
found in the collection of Thomas J. McKee, Esq.,
has afforded a few verbal changes. The Duane copy
of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” similarly re-
vised by Poe, now in the possession of J. H. Whitty,
Esq., has also been collated, but the collections there
made represent an early state of the text. It is be-
lieved that these comprise all the extant manuscript
sources affecting the final form of the text; and the
editors beg here to express their deep sense of obli-
viii
GENERAL PREFACE
gation to the owners of these documents, invaluable
for the establishment of the text, and to thank them
for the use of the volumes.
For the body of Poe's works, however, the printed
sources are final. In every case, except as men-
tioned in the NoTEs, the editors have had recourse
to the original issues, and have collated the various
forms of the text in each republication during Poe’s
life, whether in periodicals or in books; the last form
having Poe's authority has been followed, and given
as the authentic text. In the prose no attempt has
been made to show the nature of Poe’s revision, but
a complete variorum is given of the poems. The
quotations, book-titles, and all expressions in ancient
or foreign languages have been revised with a view
solely to accuracy, and references have been more
exactly and minutely given than in the original publi-
cation; the punctuation, and all that concerns typo-
graphical style, has been modified to accord with
later usage and taste, and generally the editors have
exercised free judgment in all matters not affecting
the integrity of the text. Hundreds of errors have
been corrected; and, though the editors cannot hope
that all the original and accumulated faults have been
amended, they have spared no pains to verify what-
ever was susceptible of any doubt. They desire to
thank all who have assisted them in any way, and, in
addition to the acknowledgments already made, par-
ticularly to own their obligations to the late Thomas
J. McKee for the right to engrave the portrait that
bears his name, and for the free use of his collection
IX
GENERAL PREFACE
of Poeāna; to the late W. M. Griswold for the use of
the Poe-Griswold papers, from which many extracts
are given in the MEMOIR, and to Robert Lee Traylor
for the right to engrave the Shelton portrait.
In regard to the Tales comprised in the first five
volumes of this edition, it is only necessary to add in
this place that the main text is, in substance, that of
the revision of 1844, which Poe made with the hope
of publishing a complete collection in rive volumes,
but used only in the “Broadway Journal.” The
generic title given to the Philadelphia edition of 1840,
“Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” has been
retained, as the characteristic description always in
Poe's mind in referring to his Tales; but the whole col-
lection has been separated into a few natural groups.
One tale, hitherto included, “The Landscape Gar-
den,” being bodily and identically the opening por-
tion of “The Domain of Arnheim,” is omitted; and
one tale, “The Elk,” is here added for the first time.
“The Journal of Julius Rodman” is also now in its
place among Poe’s works. Special prefaces are pre-
fixed to the subsequent general divisions in later
volumes, and to them and the NoTEs the reader is
referred for further detailed information. On review-
ing their work the editors feel assured that the present
edition embodies Poe's writings, both as to substance
and form, in the way that he desired when he in-
trusted them to his literary executor, Doctor Gris-
wold. It would be possible to expand the critical
portion of his works indefinitely by collecting the
large number of his early reviews, but nothing of
X
GENERAL PREFACE
value would thereby be added, as he himself included
in his later notices all that was not purely contem-
porary and transitory in these; in “The Literati”
especially, and its cognate pieces, he had summed
up his lifelong critical work in the form in which he
desired it to survive. It is with confidence, there-
fore, that the editors present this edition as com-
plete and definitive.
THE EDITORs.
NEw York, October 1, 1902.
CONTENTS
PAGE
MEMOIR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES . . . . . . . . ci
ROMANCES OF DEATH:
OVERTURE:
SHADow—A PARABLE . . . . . . . . . . 3
TERRESTRIAL:
THE FALL OF THE House of Usher . . . . . . 11
BERENICE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
THE OvaL PORTRAIT . . . . . . . . . . . 56
MoRELLA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
LIGEIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
ELEONORA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
CELESTIAL:
THE Colloquy of Monos AND UNA . . . . . . 109
THE Conversation of EIRos AND CHARMION . . . 125
THE PoweR of WoRDs . . . . . . . . . . 135
FINALE:
SILENCE—A FABLE . . . . . . . . . . . 142
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE:
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH . . . . . . . 151
THE ASSIGNATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO . . . . . . . . . . 182
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MoUNTAINs . . . . . . . 193
METZENGERSTEIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM . . . . . . . . . 226
HoP-FROG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252
ILLUSTRATIONS
PORTRAIT PAGº
ENGRAVED BY J. SARTAIN FROM THE ORIGINAL PICTURE IN
THE COLLECTION OF R. W. GRIswold . . . . . Frontispiece
PICTURES TO PACE PAGE)
THE FALL of THE House of USHER . . . . . . . 88
LIGEIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
ELEONORA . . . o . . . . . . . . . 100
THE MASQUE of THE RED DEATH . . . . . . . 160
MEMOIR,
MEMOIR.
DGAR ALLAN POE was the grandson of David
Poe, a patriot of the Revolution, who established
the family name in Maryland, and distinguished it by
life-long service to his country. His eldest son, who
bore his name, disappointed him by adopting the pro-
fession of an actor, and married a fellow-member of
the Virginia players, – Mrs. Hopkins, whose husband,
a comedian of the same company, had recently died.
Her maiden name was Elizabeth Arnold. Her mother,
Mrs. Arnold, was an English actress who had emigrated
to America and made her first appearance here at Bos-
ton, Feb. 12, 1796; but she remarried, and, after a brief
interval, passed into an obscurity which concealed her
fate. The daughter, whose education had been in the
theatre, remained with the players; and she was now,
at the time of her second marriage, in 1805, accom-
plished and attractive in her art. David Poe was not
less than twenty-five years old, and she was, perhaps,
somewhat younger. In the fall of 1806, they joined
the company of the Federal Street Theatre, in Bos-
ton, where she had sung her first song in public
with her mother ten years before, and for the three fol-
lowing years they made their home in that city. There,
on Jan. 19, 1809, was born their second child, Edgar,
the subject of this memoir; an elder son, William, and
a younger daughter, Rosalie, were the other offspring
of this marriage. The career of the parents was brief
and, perhaps, unhappy. They were, at least, poor,
and were sometimes in want. The father, though with
a natural inclination for the stage, had no success as
an actor, and the burden consequently fell upon the
XIX
MEMOIR,
mother. She became the leading actress at the Fed-
eral Street Theatre; and, as she was commended for
her industry and good sense, as well as for her ability,
and seems to have sustained with credit her tragic
parts and to have been especially attractive in lighter
impersonations, it may be concluded that she made the
most of her native talents and her opportunities.
She was also praised for her moral qualities and do-
mestic virtues. But success did not companion merit in
her case; and in the summer after Edgar's birth the
family left the city, with grateful memories on her part,
as is shown by the lines of her writing in which she
bade her son love Boston, the place of his birth, and
where his mother found her best and most sympathetic
friends.” It is not known when her husband died.
Mrs. Poe joined her old friends of the Southern cir-
cuit, and after the birth of her third child, Rosalie,
she fell into a decline. Early in the winter, in 1811,
at Richmond, the family became objects of charity; the
actors played twice for their benefit, addressing their
card of advertisement “To the Humane;” and, on De-
cember 8, the mother died, leaving the three young
children destitute. William was sent to his father’s
kindred in Baltimore; Rosalie was received into the
family of Mrs. MacKenzie, and Edgar into that of
Mrs. Allan, both of Richmond.
The change of life and prospect thus secured for
Edgar was so great that it might seem worthy of some
good fairy. The child of the poor players, before
whom, notwithstanding his mother’s devotion, there
could have been for his youthful years only the neces-
sary circumstances of a continual struggle with pov-
erty in the midst of a wandering life, was given a place
privileged with fortune, education, and social breeding,
where he should grow to manhood. Mrs. Allan, who
XX
MEMOIR
was a woman of twenty-five years, showed him, while
she lived, true affection; and his precocity and beauty
as a child won upon the unwilling heart of her hus-
band so that he soon took pride in the boy to whom
he had given his name. Mr. John Allan was by birth
a Scotchman, and by trade a tobacco merchant, and
had already acquired wealth and social position in
Richmond. He was, it would appear, of a somewhat
hard nature, even cold, perhaps, in affection; but he
was not unjust or sparing, in his treatment of the
adopted child. Edgar was brought up as a son of
the house. He was early sent to a private school,
kept by an old-fashioned dame. When six years old,
he could read, draw, and dance; he had a talent
for declamation, and is remembered standing between
the doors of some Richmond drawing-room and re-
citing from the “Lay of the Last Minstrel ” to a large
company, in a sweet voice and with clear enunciation.
It is related also that Mr. Allan taught the boy to
stand up in a chair at dessert, and pledge the health of
the company, which he did with roguish grace. He
wore dark curls, and had brilliant eyes; and those who
remembered him in Richmond or at the White Sul-
phur Springs, where the family passed the summers,
spoke of the pretty figure he made, with his pony and
dogs and his vivacious ways.
In the summer of 1815, Mr. Allan took his family
abroad for a long stay; and he placed Edgar at the
Manor House School, at Stoke Newington, near Lon-
don, under Dr. Bransby; but the homelessness of such
a life was relieved by weekly Sunday visits which the
child made to the Allans, who lived at no great dis-
tance, and by the vacations, which he spent with
them in traveling, thus seeing, according to his own
statement, nearly all parts of the United Kingdom.
XXI
MEMOIR
These five years of English school-days have left
little record of themselves, though in later life he
sketched the outward aspects of the house and
grounds, and drew a portrait of the head-master.
He was inducted into the manly sports, as a matter of
course, and began to be athletic; he learned to speak
French and construe easy Latin, and obtained a
knowledge of history and literature said to have been
beyond his years; and he showed the scholarly spirit
which is noticeable in every account of his youth.
Dr. Bransby appears to have remembered most clearly
the extravagant amount of his pocket-money. “I
liked the boy,” he said; “poor fellow, his parents
spoiled him.” English school-life, in early years, al-
ways seems a kind of orphanage; but such as it was,
the boy had, perhaps, less to complain of than others.
In August, 1820, the Allans returned to Richmond,
where they resided during Poe’s later schooldays in
North Fifth Street till their removal in 1825 to the es-
tate on the corner of Fifth and Main streets. Here Poe
could have lived but a few months, and the place first
mentioned must be regarded as his Richmond home.
He was immediately put to school again with
Master Joseph H. Clarke, an Irishman from Trinity
College, Dublin. He continued his French and clas-
sical studies, and acquired proficiency in capping
Latin verses and composing English rhymes. He
had already shown his poetic instinct, and the master
recalled a manuscript volume of verses, addressed to
the little girls of Richmond, which Mr. Allan sub-
mitted to his judgment with a view to publication;
but it is not unlikely that the description of the con-
tents is inaccurate. The lad was a leader of the school
in debates, verse-contests, and athletic games, and
made an impression upon his mates both by his
XXII
MEMOIR
character and attainments. At the age of fifteen, he
began his military career as lieutenant of the Rich-
mond Junior Volunteers, – as appears from commu-
nications, signed with his name and rank, from that
youthful body of soldiers to the Governor and Coun-
cil, which still exist in the Executive Archives of
Virginia. It was just before this incident that Master
Clarke gave way to Master William Burk, and was
addressed, on his leave-taking, by the young poet in
an English ode.
A younger member of the school, Mr. Andrew John-
ston, describes the traits of Poe, in these school days,
more distinctly: —
“Poe was a much more advanced scholar than any
of us; but there was no other class for him — that
being the highest —and he had nothing to do, or but
little, to keep his headship of the class. I dare say
he liked it well, for he was fond of desultory reading,
and even then wrote verses, very clever for a boy of
his years, and sometimes satirical. We all recog-
nized and admired his great and varied talents, and
were proud of him as the most distinguished school-
boy of the town. At that time, Poe was slight in
person and figure, but well made, active, sinewy,
and graceful. In athletic exercises he was foremost:
especially, he was the best, the most daring, and
most enduring swimmer that I ever saw in the water.
When about sixteen years old, he performed his well-
known feat of swimming from Richmond to Warwick,
a distance of five or six miles. He was accompanied
by two boats, and it took him several hours to
accomplish the task, the tide changing during the
time. In dress he was neat but not foppish. His
disposition was amiable, and his manners pleasant
and courteous.”
xxiii
MEMOIR
Colonel John Preston, also a younger schoolfellow,
adds that, notwithstanding, Poe was not the master-
spirit or favorite among the boys, partly because he
was “self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious,
and, though of generous impulses, not steadily kind or
even amiable,” and partly because his mates remem-
bered that he was born of the players and dependent
on Mr. Allan’s bounty. In these reminiscences, his
ardent temperament, which in anger was furious, and
the habitual reserve of his nature, together with his
ambitious talent and its intellectual and poetic bent,
are most prominent. He stood somewhat aloof from
all, fond of admiration, but jealous of his place; if he
loved any, it was Sully, a nephew of the artist, and also
with a touch of the sensibilities of genius. No one
seemed to be intimate with him. Impetuous, self-
willed, defiant, proud of his powers, and fond of their
successful display, he does not appear to have been
unamiable or morose, though he was resentful and
probably lonely.
A single romantic episode of the time, which, how-
ever, should not be allowed to cast too heavy a shadow
upon his home, where he received probably more affec-
tionate care than he was aware of, is related by Mrs.
Whitman, to whom he told it: —
“While at the academy in Richmond, he one day
accompanied a schoolmate to his home, where he saw
for the first time Mrs. H S , the mother of his
young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
his hand and spoke some gentle and gracious words of
welcome, which so penetrated the sensitive heart of the
orphan boy as to deprive him of the power of speech,
and for a time almost of consciousness itself. He
returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one
hope in life — to hear again the sweet and gracious
XXIV
MEMOIR,
words that had made the desolate world so beautiful
to him, and filled his lonely heart with the oppression
of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the con-
fidant of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one
redeeming influence that saved and guided him in the
earlier days of his turbulent and passionate youth.
After the visitation of strange and peculiar sorrows she
died, and for months after her decease it was his habit
to visit nightly the cemetery where the object of his
boyish idolatry lay entombed. The thought of her —
sleeping there in her loneliness — filled his heart with
a profound, incommunicable sorrow. When the nights
were very dreary and cold, when the autumnal rains
fell and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves,
he lingered longest and came away most regretfully.”
This is the earliest of the Lenore legends. The
lady, Mrs. Jane Stith Stanard, died April 28, 1824, at
the age of thirty-one years. It was, perhaps, in this
experience of death, when the boy was fifteen years
of age, that the spirit of brooding over the grave first
fell upon him. The peculiar melancholy of Poe, in
presence of the death of woman, cannot be traced
further to an original motive; and it is reasonable to
believe that something, embalmed in this romantic
memory, occurred in his heart and life, and vitally
awakened his imagination.
This event belongs in the last year of his school
life. He studied another year under excellent tutors,
and on Feb. 14, 1826, he matriculated at the Univer-
sity of Virginia, entering the schools of ancient and
modern languages. He remained until December 15,
when the session closed; and he obtained distinc-
tion in his final examinations in Latin and French.
He had also attended classes in Greek, Spanish, and
Italian, and his scholarship was well spoken of by his
XXV
MEMOIR,
teachers. In his relations with the University authori-
ties he had a clear record. His private life was that
of a student with a careless reputation. He joined
with others in the amusements natural to the time.
He was more inclined to gambling than drinking,
but exhibited in both diversions a peculiar reckless-
ness, indicative of an excitable temperament rather
than of pleasure in his cups or the cards. “Poe’s
passion for strong drink,” says one of his fellow-
students, “was as marked and as peculiar as that
for cards. It was not the taste of the beverage
that influenced him; without a sip or smack of the
mouth he would seize a full glass, without sugar or
water, and send it home at a single gulp. This fre-
quently used him up; but, if not, he rarely returned
to the charge.” He is said to have lost caste with
the more aristocratic of his mates by his card-playing.
One student remembered hearing him express regret
for his extravagance and waste of money during the
session, just as he was about to leave for Richmond.
He was known to all, however, for other tastes. He
had decorated his room, No. 13 West Range, with
large charcoal sketches copied from an illustrated
edition of Byron, and here he would relate to his
companions some tale, or declaim some poem, of his
invention. He remained solitary and reserved, and
found pleasure in tramping amid the wild scenes of
the neighboring country. His spirit had declared
itself, both in character and talent; and when Mr.
Allan came down to inquire into affairs, toward the
close of the session, he found the youth of seventeen
with a mind and resolution of his own, and with
qualities so blended in him that his right guardian-
ship might have taxed a far wiser hand and a more
delicate and tender touch. Mr. Allan flatly refused
XXVI
MEMOIR,
to honor the youth's gambling debts, amounting to
twenty-five hundred dollars; and, on his return to
Richmond, placed him in the counting-room, doubt-
less meaning that he should follow a commercial
career. It was, perhaps, only an added irritation to
find that the young lady, Miss Sarah Elmira Royster,
who was the first mistress of his affections, and had
been the object of his sketches, letters, and verse, was
married to another.
Poe resolved on flight and an adventurous course.
Whatever his original plan may have been, he is
next found in Boston, where he enlisted as a private
in the army of the United States, May 26, 1827,
under the name of Edgar A. Perry. He was eigh-
teen, but he gave his age as twenty-two; he stated
that he was by occupation a clerk; and the record
adds that he had gray eyes, brown hair, and a fair
complexion, and was five feet eight inches in height. He
was assigned to Battery H, of the First Artillery, then
on duty in the harbor at Fort Independence, and
there he spent the summer. He had also made a
venture in literature, and published towards August his
first work, “Tamerlane and other Poems, by a Bos-
tonian,” — a small thin pamphlet, issued from the press
by Calvin F. S. Thomas, a poor youth of nineteen, who
had just set up a job printing-office, and who seems to
have begun and ended his career as a publisher with
this then insignificant but now famous little book.
The edition was obscure, and was noticed only by
advertisements of its receipt in two leading maga-
zines. There were nine short poems, besides “Tam-
erlane,” in the pamphlet, but they were too crude to
make any impression. The author probably conducted
the affair under an assumed name, as the printer seems
never to have identified him as the poet of later years.
XXVII
MEMOIR,
In the fall, Poe was transferred with the Battery to
Fort Moultrie, Charleston, S. C., and a year after-
wards to Fortress Monroe, Wa. He was company clerk
and assistant in the commissariat department, and on
Jan. 1, 1829, was promoted for merit to be Sergeant-
Major. Official reports show that he discharged his
duties satisfactorily, and won the regard of his superi-
ors, who, when the occasion arose, interested themselves
to aid him in regaining his proper position in life.
At what time and in what way he made his situation
known to the Allans has not been told; but, at the
beginning of the year 1829, Mrs. Allan was lying on
her death-bed, and she is said to have asked to see
him. Leave of absence was granted him, but he did
not arrive in Richmond until after her death, which
occurred on February 28. He succeeded in effecting
a reconciliation with Mr. Allan, to the extent of the
latter’s engaging to provide a substitute for him in
the army, and to place him, if possible, in West Point.
On April 15, Poe was thus discharged, on the recom-
mendation of his colonel, and with letters from his
officers in which his good character and conduct are
vouched for, and his freedom from habits of intoxi-
cation is specially mentioned. Mr. Allan wasted little
time in following up the plan agreed upon, and se-
cured additional letters from the Speaker of the
House, the Representative of the Congressional dis-
trict, and Major John Campbell, while he himself,
under date of May 6, also addressed the Secretary of
War, asking for the appointment of Poe as a cadet
at West Point. One passage of this letter shows
plainly how different was Mr. Allan’s attitude from
that of a man who had received a son back into his
home and meant to make him heir, as Poe evidently
hoped he would do; it is, moreover, characteristic of
xxviii
MEMOIR
the man. “Frankly, Sir,” he says, “do I declare that
he is no relation to me whatever; that I have many [in]
whom I have taken an active interest to promote theirs;
with no other feeling than that, every man is my care, if
he be in distress. For myself I ask nothing, but I do
request your kindness to aid this youth in the promotion
of his future prospects.” All these letters Poe pre-
sented to the Secretary in person, at Washington.
In thus preparing for a military career, Poe had
not forgotten his literary hopes. He now began that
course of appeal to distinguished men to recognize
and advise him, which he continued through life. On
the day when Mr. Allan was penning the words which
classed Poe as an object of his common charity,
William Wirt was also writing a letter in which he
advised the young poet to seek some less old-fashioned
critic than himself to comment on the poem that
had been sent for his perusal. This poem was prob-
ably “Al Aaraaf,” the manuscript of which Poe
also showed to William Gwynn, a Baltimore editor,
who said it was “indicative of a tendency to any-
thing but the business of matter-of-fact life.” Poe
had stopped at Baltimore, and resided there for some
months, making the acquaintance of his blood relations
and awaiting his appointment. He apparently had
some undefined business relations with Mr. Gwynn, in
whose office his relative, Neilson Poe, was employed.
In September, John Neal’s paper, “The Yankee,”
published at Boston, contained a reply to “E. A. P. of
Baltimore,” which shows that Poe had also sought
that editor’s poetical advice; and in December the
same paper published a letter from Poe in which
he takes what had been said to him with good grace,
and appeals youthfully but sincerely for recognition as
a brother-poet. He states that he is about to publish
xxix
MEMOIR
a volume, and at the close of the year it was issued at
Baltimore. This was “Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and
Minor Poems,” and bore the author’s name. It con-
tained a revised form of “Tamerlane,” and also of
some of the short pieces of his earlier book, and what
new poems he had composed in the last two years.
He sent it to his friends, and went at the same time
to Richmond. Mr. Allan was preparing to marry a
second wife, and the effort to provide for Poe by a
cadetship was renewed. He was now twenty-one, and
therefore ineligible; but Senator Ellis of Mississippi, a
younger brother of Mr. Allan’s partner, recommended
him on the representations, he said, of others, and the
letter was acted upon at once. On March 31, Mr.
Allan, as guardian, gave his consent to the arrange-
ment, and Poe bound himself to serve the United
States for five years. He returned to Baltimore, where
he cultivated literature by making the acquaintance of
a new editor, N. C. Brooks, and getting a poem ac-
cepted for an annual; and on July 1, 1830, he entered
the Military Academy at West Point, settling at No. 28
South Barracks. He entered his age as nineteen
years and five months, but he seemed so old that the
cadets reported that he had obtained “an appoint-
ment for his son, and the boy having died the father
had substituted himself in his place.”
The impressions he made on his classmates were
various. One, who roomed with him, remembered his
restless spirit and the harshness of his literary criti-
cism; others knew him best by the satirical squibs he
made upon the officers of the Academy; but, though
his consumption of brandy and his share in the slight
escapades of the barracks are mentioned, he incurred
no grave censure until the very end. His life at the
University and in the army had taken him out of the
XXX
MEMOIR.
school-boy world; and while it would have been con-
venient to seem younger, he was really older than his
years, and was becoming mature in mind through his
literary genius. The description of him at this time,
by another classmate, Allan B. Magruder, is the most
complete and truthful:—
“He was very shy and reserved in his intercourse
with his fellow-cadets — his associates being confined
almost exclusively to Virginians. He was an accom-
plished French scholar, and had a wonderful aptitude
for mathematics, so that he had no difficulty in pre-
paring his recitations in his class and in obtaining
the highest marks in these departments. He was a
devourer of books, but his great fault was his neglect
of, and apparent contempt for, military duties. His
wayward and capricious temper made him at times
utterly oblivious or indifferent to the ordinary routine
of roll-call, drills, and guard duties. These habits
subjected him often to arrest and punishment, and
effectually prevented his learning or discharging the
duties of a soldier.”
Poe soon made up his mind to leave the service.
Mr. Allan had been married, Oct. 5, 1830, to Miss
Paterson, a lady of thirty; and the dis-adopted son
realized the difference that this made in his prospects,
if indeed he really continued to expect anything in
that quarter. At all events, his desire for a military
career, if it was ever genuine, had died out; probably
it had been only a ground of compromise with Mr.
Allan, and now he was tired of barrack-life again, and
ready to risk his chances once more. Poe took his
measures accordingly. Pending an adjourned court-
martial which would meet on Jan. 28, 1831, he neglected
all duties for the two weeks preceding, and was cited
to appear on that day to answer charges specifying
XXXI
MEMOIR.
his remissness and also direct disobedience, on two
ocasions, to the orders of the officer of the day. He
pleaded guilty, except to the charge of absence from
parade, roll-call, and guard duty, which was one easily
determined from the record; and he was adjudged
guilty and sentenced to dismissal, the execution being
deferred until March 6, in order that his pay might
meet his debts to the Academy; and, on March 7, the
sentence having been duly approved by the Secretary
of War, he left the Academy, having twelve cents to
his credit. He had already arranged to publish, with
the subscriptions of the cadets, a new edition of his
poems, and he may have occupied himself with this
business for a short time in New York. The book,
entitled simply “Poems,” with the author’s name and
dated 1831, duly appeared in that city, with a dedica-
tion to the cadets and a list of contents disappointing
to those who had anticipated seeing a collection of his
local squibs. It was made up of revised versions of
old, together with some new poems. This was the last
incident connected with his military life, and he now
again struck out for himself.
He settled at Baltimore, and sought employment of
Mr. Gwynn, the editor, and, later, as a school-teacher,
but without success. Whether the annuity which he
had received from Mr. Allan was now continued is
uncertain; but the birth of a son, who would inherit
the Allan name, and with it the fortune to which Poe
had looked forward as his own, must have made his
position serious in his own eyes. He lived in a solitary
way with his father’s widowed sister, Mrs. Clemm, and
her only surviving child, Virginia; and such reminis-
cences as remain of the years that elapsed till Mr.
Allan’s death show that his circumstances were those
of poverty and his associates few. Among the latter
xxxii *
MEMOIR,
was one who has given an account of a flirtation with
herself and am offer of marriage, which ended in the
lover’s throwing at her feet a cowhide with which he
had chastised her uncle, who opposed the match and
had written him a disagreeable letter. She relates
that for the period of a year, during which she saw
him constantly, he was sober except on one occasion,
and it was his conduct on that occasion which termi-
nated the courtship. His life, with these diversions,
was one of waiting for better times.
The first turn in Poe's fortunes took place on Oct.
12, 1833, when “The Saturday Visiter’” — a weekly
literary paper of the city — announced that a prize of
one hundred dollars, which had been offered for the
best tale sent in to it, had been awarded to him. The
judges in this contest were Dr. James H. Miller, J. H.
B. Latrobe, and John P. Kennedy, and the successful
tale was the “MS. Found in a Bottle.” It was not
written for the occasion, but was one of several, en-
titled “Tales of the Folio Club,” bound in a small
quarto volume, and written in the beautiful chirography
of all Poe’s manuscripts, but with especial care. A
second prize, for the best poem, would also have been
awarded to him, for “The Coliseum,” had he not
gained the first. This incident secured him the atten-
tion of these gentlemen; and of them, Kennedy in par-
ticular took interest in the writer and served him with
such kindness that Poe declared he was “indebted to
him for life itself.” Meanwhile, the editor of the
paper, L. A. Wilmer, became Poe’s companion in
walks and conversation, and saw few signs of bad
habits in him; but this acquaintance was soon broken
off by Wilmer's departure from the city, and no perma-
nent improvement seems to have been made in Poe's
circumstances.
xxxiii
MEMOIR.
The expression of deep gratitude to Kennedy, quoted
above, probably refers to events just subsequent to the
death of Mr. Allan, which occurred March 27, 1834.
Poe was aware of his illness, and went to Richmond
to seek a last interview, and perhaps to make a
last appeal. He was not recognized by Mrs. Allan;
and, on being told that her husband was forbidden to
see any one, he pushed by her and went directly to
Mr. Allan’s chamber. On his entrance, Mr. Allan
raised the cane which he used to walk with, and,
threatening to strike him if he came within reach,
ordered him out. Poe obeyed the command. Upon
what grounds Mr. Allan’s conduct rested for justifica-
tion, other than such as have been stated, remains un-
divulged. Poe must have learned without surprise
that nothing was left him by will. Six months later,
he wrote to Kennedy with regard to the “Tales of the
Folio Club,” which he had sent to Carey and Lea of
Philadelphia, and the tone indicates that this was the
first time that he had directly mentioned his poverty:
“I have a favor to beg of you which I thought it
better to ask in writing, because, sincerely, I had not
courage to ask it in person. I am indeed too well
aware that I have no claim whatever to your attention,
and that even the manner of my introduction to your
notice was at the best equivocal. Since the day you
first saw me, my situation in life has altered materially.
At that time I looked forward to the inheritance of a
large fortune, and, in the mean time, was in receipt of
an annuity for my support. This was allowed me by
a gentleman of Virginia (Mr. John Allan) who adopted
me at the age of two years (both my parents being
dead), and who, until lately, always treated me with
the affection of a father. But a second marriage on
his part, and I dare say many follies on my own, at
xxxiv.
MEMOIR
length ended in a quarrel between us. He is now
dead, and has left me nothing. I am thrown entirely
upon my own resources, with no profession and very
few friends. Worse than all this, I am at length pen-
niless. Indeed, no circumstances less urgent would
have induced me to risk your friendship by troubling
you with my distresses. But I could not help think-
ing that if my situation was stated — as you could
state it — to Cary and Lea, they might be led to aid
me with a small sum in consideration of my manuscript
now in their hands. This would relieve my immediate
wants, and I could then look forward more confidently
to better days. At all events receive the assurance
of my gratitude for what you have already done.”
In consequence of Kennedy’s kind offices, the Phila-
delphia publishers arranged to print one of the tales
in an annual, edited by Miss Leslie, and sent fifteen
dollars to be given to Poe. A few months later in
March, 1835, he reached the lowest point of his for-
tunes, and, humiliated by being obliged to decline an in-
vitation from Kennedy to dine with him, because of his
“ personal appearance,” he asked for a loan of twenty
dollars, with which to make himself presentable. On
this, Kennedy took up his cause still more warmly, gave
him what he needed, and treated him as a personal
friend, while at the same time he advised him to seek
employment of T. W. White, who had just established
“The Southern Literary Messenger,” and himself cor-
dially recommended him. From this time his affairs
began to mend.
Poe soon made himself useful to Mr. White, and
showed great and intelligent interest in the new maga-
zine. He sent reviews and tales, and also advice. In
May, he had a severe attack of illness, and was some-
what incapacitated, but recovered, and worked to such
XXXV
MEMOIR,
good purpose that Mr. White invited him to come to
Richmond and assist him in the office. He accepted
the offer with expressions of gratitude for the oppor-
tunity of employment, however humble and little it
might be; and in the summer he returned to the city,
which had so long been his home, to reside.
While still at Baltimore, Poe had become deeply
attached to Mrs. Clemm, who had taken motherly
care of him, and to her daughter, Virginia, who was
even now hardly more than a child. The three wished
to remain together and continue to make one home;
and it was arranged that Mrs. Clemm and Virginia
should follow him to Richmond, with the understand-
ing that he should marry Virginia. She was only
thirteen years old, and he was twenty-six; and, on
the engagement being made known to their relatives,
Neilson Poe, who stood in the same degree of cousin-
hood to both parties, offered to take Virginia into his
home and care for her until she should be eighteen,
when, if she wished, she should be free to marry her
cousin Edgar. He violently remonstrated, and return-
ing to Baltimore, took out a marriage license, Sep-
tember 22, and is said to have been then married to
her at Old Christ Church by the Rev. John Johns,
and to have returned at once to Richmond. This is
alleged on the authority of Mrs. Clemm; and though
in the absence of any entry in the church records,
which were badly kept, and of the return of the offi-
ciating clergyman to the civil authorities, there is
room for doubt, it is improbable that Mrs. Clemm was
mistaken in her recollection. Some collateral circum-
stances must, however, be taken into the account.
By this time, whatever may have been the cause,
Poe had contracted a habit of intoxication, which ren-
dered him incapable during its indulgence, and left
- xxxvi
MEMOIR
him, on his return to soberness, a wretched penitent.
It was this which principally threatened his prosperity,
after joining with Mr. White in the management of
the magazine, — a business for which he had great
aptitude, and to which he was through life devoted.
Whether Mr. White was warned by Kennedy, who
probably knew the facts, or was left to his own experi-
ence, within a few weeks after Poe came to Richmond
he learned all there was to know in respect to this
defect in his assistant. The first outbreak was, per-
haps, induced by anxiety in regard to the promised
marriage; and it may have been only this latter
trouble which occasioned the extraordinary appeal to
Kennedy, which, in view of Poe's brightened circum-
stances, seems so inexplicable, and has always had a
significant place in his memoir. This letter was dated
Sept. 11, 1835, and is as follows: —
“I received a letter yesterday from Dr. Miller, in
which he tells me you are in town. I hasten, there-
fore, to write you, and express by letter what I have
always found it impossible to express orally — my
deep sense of gratitude for your frequent and ineffec-
tual assistance and kindness. Through your influence
Mr. White has been induced to employ me in assist-
ing him with the editorial duties of his magazine
at a salary of five hundred and twenty dollars per
annum. The situation is agreeable to me for many
reasons, – but alas! it appears to me that nothing
can now give me pleasure or the slightest gratifi-
cation. Excuse me, my dear sir, if in this letter you
find much incoherency. My feelings at this moment
are pitiable, indeed. I am suffering under a depres-
sion of spirits, such as I have never felt before. I
have struggled in vain against the influence of this
melancholy; you will believe me, when I say that
xxxvii
MEMOIR.
I am still miserable in spite of the great improve-
ment in my circumstances. I say you will believe
me, and for this simple reason, that a man who is
writing for effect does not write thus. My heart is
open before you — if it be worth reading, read it.
I am wretched, and know not why. Console me, –
for you can. But let it be quickly, or it will be too
late. Write me immediately. Convince me that
it is worth one’s while — that it is at all necessary
to live, and you will prove yourself indeed my friend.
Persuade me to do what is right. I do mean this.
I do not mean that you should consider what I now
write you a jest. Oh, pity me! for I feel that my
words are incoherent; but I will recover myself.
You will not fail to see that I am suffering under
a depression of spirits which will ruin me should
it be long continued. Write me then, and quickly —
urge me to do what is right. Your words will have
more weight with me than the words of others, for
you were my friend when no one else was. Fail not
as you value your peace of mind hereafter.”
A postscript to this letter gives some messages from
Mr. White, in the ordinary style, and contains the infor-
mation that he is willing to print the “Tales of the
Folio Club” for Poe, if the Philadelphia firm, Carey
and Lea, will permit the use of their name as publishers.
Mr. Kennedy replied on September 19, as follows:
“I am sorry to see you in such plight as your
letter shows you in. It is strange that just at this
time, when everybody is praising you, and when
fortune is beginning to smile upon your hitherto
wretched circumstances, you should be invaded by
these blue devils. It belongs, however, to your age
and temper to be thus buffeted — but be assured
it only wants a little resolution to master the adver-
xxxviii -
MEMOIR,
sary forever. You will doubtless do well henceforth
in literature, and add to your comforts, as well as
to your reputation, which it gives me great pleasure
to assure you is everywhere rising in popular esteem.”
He added some suggestions for literary work, charged
himself with the correspondence in respect to the
“Tales,” and ended with a request that Poe would
write to him frequently.
Three days later, as has been seen, Poe was in
Baltimore, and took out the marriage license. He
did not, however, return at once to Richmond, as,
one week later, Mr. White addressed him the follow-
ing letter from that city under date of September 29:
“Would that it were in my power to unbosom my-
self to you in language such as I could on the present
occasion wish myself master of. I cannot do it —
and therefore must be content to speak to you in my
plain way. That you are sincere in all your promises
I firmly believe. But, Edgar, when you once again
tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolve
would fall through, and that you would again sip the
juice, even till it stole away your senses. Rely on
your own strength, and you are gone! Look to your
Maker for help, and you are safe! How much I re-
gretted parting with you is unknown to any one on
this earth except myself. I was attached to you —
and am still — and willingly would I say return, if
I did not dread the hour of separation very shortly
again. -
“If you could make yourself contented to take up
your quarters in my family or in any other private
family where liquor is not used, I should think there
were hopes of you. But if you go to a tavern, or to
any other place where it is used at table, you are not
safe. I speak from experience.
xxxix
MEMOIR
“You have fine talents, Edgar — and you ought to
have them respected as well as yourself. Learn to
respect yourself, and you will very soon find that you
are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle, and
bottle-companions, forever! Tell me if you can and
will do so, and let me hear that it is your fixed pur-
pose never to yield to temptation. If you should
come to Richmond again, and again should be an
assistant in my office, it must be especially understood
by us that all engagements on my part would be dis-
solved, the moment you get drunk. No man is safe
that drinks before breakfast. No man can do so and
attend to business properly.”
Such are the circumstances which surrounded the
first marriage of Poe to his young cousin, if it in fact
then took place. In a few weeks Mrs. Clemm and
Virginia arrived in Richmond, and the little family
was again united. It was proposed that Mrs. Clemm
should keep a boarding-house, and Poe endeavored
with some success to borrow from their relatives to
make up the necessary capital. He was married to
his cousin publicly on May 16, 1836, at the house
where they all lived, by the Rev. Amasa Converse, a
Presbyterian minister. The oath taken by Poe’s
surety, Thomas Cleland, was that “Virginia E. Clemm
is of the full age of twenty-one years.” Her mother
was present, and gave her consent freely. The bride
was, in fact, just under fourteen. It was now proposed
that Mrs. Clemm should rent a house from Mr.
White, and board his family as well as her own, but
the scheme was abandoned. These plans, however,
had occasioned considerable expense, and in June Poe
applied to Mr. Kennedy for a loan of one hundred
dollars to meet a note, which he said was his only
debt.
xl
MEMOIR,
Poe's worldly situation was now satisfactory to him-
self, and his letters were bright with the hopes in-
spired by his success. As early as January 22 of this
year, he had written to Kennedy with much gratitude
as follows: —
“Although I have never yet acknowledged the re-
ceipt of your letter of advice some months ago, it was
not without great influence upon me. I have since
then fought the enemy manfully, and am now in every
respect comfortable and happy. I know you will be
pleased to hear this. My health is better than for
years past, my mind is fully occupied, my pecuniary
difficulties have vanished. I have a fair prospect of
future success — in a word, all is right. I shall never
forget to whom all this happiness is, in a great degree,
to be attributed. I know that without your timely aid
I should have sunk under my trials. Mr. White is
very liberal, and besides my salary of five hundred
and twenty dollars pays me liberally for extra work,
so that I receive nearly eight hundred dollars. Next
year, that is, at the commencement of the second vol-
ume, I am to get one thousand dollars. Besides this,
I receive from publishers nearly all new publications.
My friends in Richmond have received me with open
arms, and my reputation is extending — especially in
the South. Contrast all this with those circumstances
of absolute despair in which you found me, and you
will see how great reason I have to be grateful to
God — and to yourself.”
To this Kennedy replied with his usual kindly
cordiality: —
“Your letter assures me that you have entirely con-
quered your late despondency. I am rejoiced at this.
You have a pleasant and prosperous career before
you, if you subdue this brooding and boding inclina-
xli
MEMOIR,
tion of your mind. Be cheerful; rise early, work
methodically — I mean at appointed hours. Take
regular recreation every day. Frequent the best
company only. Be rigidly temperate both in body
and mind—and I will insure you at a moderate pre-
mium all the success and comfort you want.”
Poe had every reason to regard his future with con-
fident eyes. He had made a striking editorial success.
His tales won him repute as an imaginative and bizarre
writer; and his criticisms, vigorous, pointed, and down-
right, woke the echo, north and south, wherever books
and magazines made their way in the reading of the
land. He became popular as a story-writer and hated
as a critic, and was at least known in all quarters. The
magazine rapidly increased its circulation; and friends,
such as Beverly Tucker of Virginia, and James K.
Paulding of New York, were ready with praise and also
with wise counsel for the young newcomer, who was so
free with his lance. His reputation as a fearless critic
overshadowed his merit as a story-writer and poet, and
yet, except upon occasions, he was not so savage as he
was thought. Sometimes his contempt was shown by the
very lightness of his stroke. He was, too, in these first
days, just, according to his canons, if at times insolently
just. There can be no doubt that he meant what he
said, and had neither fear nor favor, though naturally
desirous to make the most of the authors of the South
in their competition with their countrymen of the more
fortunate parallels to the northward. He was exposed
to some retaliation in interested New York journals,
and the Harpers declined, as Carey and Lea had done,
to publish his tales, which Paulding had sent to them
on his behalf; but such incidents were not reverses,
hardly even delays, in themselves: he might well wait
and feel secure, since he had made the country listen, had
xlii
MEMOIR,
carried his magazine on a flood-tide, and was full of
new inventions; and then, all at once, he failed.
In the first number of the “Messenger” for 1837, it
was announced that Poe's connection with the maga-
zine would cease with that issue. The explanation was
truly given by Kennedy, his best friend, - “he was
irregular, eccentric, and querulous, and soon gave up
his place.” The words are transparent. The extant
correspondence shows that Mr. White felt justified in
his course, and followed it with as much kindness as the
circumstances permitted. Poe, who had begun the
“Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” left it unfinished,
and went to New York, where he is said to have been
invited to contribute to the “New York Review,” for
which he did write one article with some assistance from
Dr. Charles Anthon, of Columbia College. He arrived
in the city at some time before June, 1837, and settled
at 1.13% Carmine Street. Of his life in the city little is
known beyond the fact that Mrs. Clemm kept boarders,
one of whom, William Gowans, has borne testimony to
Poe’s soberness and courtesy during eight months of
association with him. In midsummer of 1838, the
“Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym * was published by
the Harpers, and achieved the honors of piracy in
England. Immediately on its issue, Poe removed to
Philadelphia, where he continued to reside for nearly
six years. -
He was now a hackwriter for the booksellers,
magazines, and annuals; but the ambition to own a
magazine was his dominant motive from this time to
the end of his life. He contributed one of his most
famous tales, “Ligeia,” and, later, one of his best
poems, “The Haunted Palace,” to the “American
Museum ” of Baltimore. He also wrote for the Bal-
timore Book,” an annual, the “Pittsburgh Examiner,”
ºxliii
MEMOIR,
a short-lived publication, and the “United States
Military Magazine,” a subscription publication. His
first comparatively important work was “The Con-
chologist’s First Book,” issued in 1839, which drew
upon him the charge of plagiarism. The fact appears
to be that Poe was selected to father a cheaper form of
Wyatt’s “Conchology,” which the Harpers, who were
Wyatt's publishers, had declined to have made, suffi-
ciently altered to escape a suit under the copyright
laws, and which Wyatt himself offered for sale after his
lectures. The “Introduction ” is a paraphrase of
Brown’s “Text-Book” on the same subject, unless both
Brown and Poe were indebted to one textual source, a
most unnecessary hypothesis; and the remainder is op-
enly from Wyatt and Cuvier. The affair appears,
therefore, to have been in the main a case of collusion
between Wyatt and Poe to outwit the Harpers. It was
possibly this incident, and not anything connected
directly with the publication of “Arthur Gordon
Pym,” to which the Harpers referred at a later time,
when they declined to publish Poe’s collected tales on
the ground of some difficulty they had experienced with
the author. Poe was also accredited with a share in a
similar book, a translation and digest of Le Monnier’s
“Natural History,” published under Wyatt's name; in
noticing it, he said he spoke “from personal knowledge
and the closest inspection and collation,” but further
than that his part in it is unknown. In 1839, also, he
established relations with the newspaper press of Phila-
delphia, in which he printed some light tales. In these
ways he made himself acquainted in the city, and seems
to have soon become a familiar figure to its writers and
editors.
In the spring of 1839, he made some offer to William
E. Burton, the comedian, who was also editor and
xliv
MEMOIR
owner of the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” now in its second
year. On May 10, Burton replied:—
“I have given your proposal a fair consideration.
I wish to form some such engagement as that which
you have proposed, and know of no one more likely to
suit my views than yourself. The expenses of the maga-
zine are already wofully heavy; more so than my circu-
lation warrants. I am certain that my expenditure ex-
ceeds that of any publication now extant, including the
monthlies which are double in price. Competition is
high — new claimants are daily rising. I am therefore
compelled to give expensive plates, thicker paper, and
better printing than my antagonists, or allow them to
win the goal. My contributors cost me something
handsome, and the losses upon credit, exchange, etc.,
are becoming frequent and serious. I mention this list
of difficulties as some slight reason why I do not close
with your offer, which is indubitably liberal, without
any delay.
“Shall we say ten dollars per week for the remain-
ing portion of this year? Should we remain together,
which I see no reason to negative, your proposition shall
be in force for 1840. A month’s notice to be given on
either side previous to a separation. Two hours a day,
except occasionally, will, I believe, be sufficient for all
required, except in the production of any article of your
own. At all events you could easily find time for any
other light avocation — supposing that you did not
exercise your talents in behalf of any publication in-
terfering with the prospects of the ‘Gentleman’s Maga-
zine.' I shall dine at home to-day at three. If you will
cut your mutton with me, good. If not, write or see me
at your leisure.”
This arrangement was accepted, and in July Poe's
name appeared as associate editor of that periodical.
xlv.
MEMOIR
During the remainder of the year, the work done by
him exclusively for Burton, except numerous reviews
of light weight, was but little, but a considerable
amount of his other writings was reprinted. Of the
original compositions, the only piece that need be men-
tioned was “The Fall of the House of Usher; ” “Wil-
liam Wilson’” had appeared in the “Gift” for 1840,
and all of his stories, now twenty-five in number, were
included in “Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque,”
issued in two volumes by Lea and Blanchard at the close
of the year, under date of 1840, and widely and favor-
ably noticed. In the first half of the next year, his
criticism in the magazine showed greater strength, and
he contributed to it anonymously “Julius Rodman.”
Some difficulty arose between the editors, of a nature
that must be gathered from the following letter of
Burton: —
“I am sorry you have thought it necessary to send
me such a letter. Your troubles have given a morbid
tone to your feelings which it is your duty to discour-
age. I myself have been as severely handled by the
world as you can possibly have been, but my suffer-
ings have not tinged my mind with melancholy, nor
jaundiced my views of society. You must rouse your
energies, and if care assail you, conquer it. I will
gladly overlook the past. I hope you will as easily
fulfil your pledges for the future. We shall agree very
well, though I cannot permit the magazine to be made a
vehicle for the sort of severity which you think ‘so
successful with the mob.” I am truly much less anxious
about making a monthly “sensation ” than I am upon
the point of fairness. You must, my dear sir, get rid
of your avowed ill-feelings toward your brother authors.
You see I speak plainly; I cannot do otherwise upon
such a subject. You say the people love havoc. I
xlvi
MEMOIR.
think they love justice. I think you yourself would not
have written the article on Dawes, in a more healthy
state of mind. I am not trammelled by any vulgar con-
sideration of expediency; I would rather lose money
than by such undue severity wound the feelings of a
kind-hearted and honorable man. And I am satisfied
that Dawes has something of the true fire in him. I re-
gretted your word-catching spirit. But I wander from
my design. I accept your proposition to re-commence
your interrupted avocations upon the magazine. Let
us meet as if we had not exchanged letters. Use more
exercise, write when feelings prompt, and be assured of
my friendship. You will soon regain a healthy activity
of mind, and laugh at your past vagaries.”
In June, 1840, the engagement with Burton came to
a sudden end. The immediate occasion is assigned by
Mr. Rosenbach, a companion of Poe. He says that
Burton, having an engagement to play in New York,
left the magazine in the associate editor’s hands, and
on returning found that nothing had been done, and he
continues: —
“Burton immediately sought my father at his house,
and it was about midnight when he found him. He
came in a carriage with a large bundle of manuscripts,
from which they made some selection. They worked
until morning, when they sent me with copy to the
printer, Charles Alexander, in Franklin Place, Chestnut
Street. Alexander hunted up some extra compositors,
and by dint of hard work and hurried proof-reading,
the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ appeared as usual. Poe
was discharged for his negligence.”
But there is no reason to believe that Poe ever cared
very much to serve Burton faithfully. His mind was
filled with the project of a magazine of his own, and the
present engagement was a mere stop-gap. He wrote to
xlvii
MEMOIR,
Philip Pendleton Cooke, nearly nine months before, on
Sept. 21, 1839, “As soon as Fate allows, I will have
a magazine of my own, and will endeavor to kick up a
dust.” The idea was never absent from his mind, and as
he knew that Burton was seeking a purchaser, he may
have felt fewer scruples. He always spoke of Burton
with contempt. On the other hand, Burton referred pub-
licly, in print, to “the infirmities” of his colleague,
which had caused him “much annoyance.” The testi-
mony of Mr. Alexander, the printer, in a letter to T.
C. Clarke, Oct. 20, 1850, is explicit, but it avoids the
point, while not concealing the situation: —
“The absence of the principal editor on professional
duties left the matter frequently in the hands of Mr.
Poe, whose unfortunate failing may have occasioned
some disappointment in the preparation of a particular
article expected from him, but never interfering with
the regular publication of the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine,”
as its monthly issue was never interrupted upon any
occasion, either from Mr. Poe’s deficiency, or from any
other cause, during my publication of it, embracing the
whole time of Mr. Poe’s connection with it. That Mr.
Poe had faults seriously detriméntal to his own interests,
none, of course, will deny. They were, unfortunately,
too well known in the literary circles of Philadelphia,
were there any disposition to conceal them. But he
alone was the sufferer, and not those who received the
benefit of his preéminent talents, however irregular his
habits or uncertain his contributions may occasionally
have been.”
Poe gave his own account of the matter in a letter
to Dr. Snodgrass, of Baltimore, April 1, 1841: —
“You are a physician, and I presume no physician
can have difficulty in detecting the drunkard at a glance.
You are, moreover, a literary man, well read in morals.
xlviii
MEMOIR,
You will never be brought to believe that I could write
what I daily write, as I write it, were I as this villain
would induce those who know me not, to believe. In
fine, I pledge you, before God, the solemn word of a gen-
tleman, that I am temperate even to rigor. From the
hour in which I first saw this basest of calumniators to
the hour in which I retired from his office in uncon-
trollable disgust at his chicanery, arrogance, igno-
rance, and brutality, nothing stronger than water ever
passed my lips.
“It is, however, due to candor that I inform you
upon what foundation he has erected his slanders. At
no period of my life was I ever what men call intemper-
ate. I never was in the habit of intoxication. I never
drunk drams, etc. But, for a brief period, while I re-
sided in Richmond, and edited the ‘Messenger,” I cer-
tainly did give way, at long intervals, to the temptation
held out on all sides by the spirit of Southern convivi-
ality. My sensitive temperament could not stand an
excitement which was an every-day matter to my com-
panions. In short, it sometimes happened that I was
completely intoxicated. For some days after each ex-
cess I was invariably confined to bed. But it is now
quite four years since I have abandoned every kind of
alcoholic drink — four yeafs, with the exception of a
single deviation, which occurred shortly after my
leaving Burton, and when I was induced to resort to the
occasional use of cider with the hope of relieving a ner-
vous attack.”
During the four years which, at the date of this
letter, had elapsed since Poe left Richmond, he made
an effort to refrain from intoxication, and he wrote to
several friends that he had succeeded. James E. Heath,
referring to some suspicions that Poe entertained of his
old employer, Mr. White, had written from Richmond,
xlix
MEMOIR.
Sept. 12, 1839, congratulating him on this change, and
giving him encouragement of a kind he never really
lacked in his literary work: —
“I have had a conversation with White since the re-
ceipt of your letter, and took the liberty to hint to him
your convictions of an unfriendly feeling manifested on
his part towards you. I am happy to inform you that
he disclaims the existence of any unkind feeling; on the
contrary, professes that your prosperity and happiness
would yield him pleasure. He is not aware of having
spoken or written anything with a design to injure you,
or anything more in censure or disparagement than
what he has said to you in person, when you resided
here. I am inclined to think that you entirely mistake
the man if you suppose that a particle of malignity
lurks in his composition. My long acquaintance with
him justifies me in saying that I have known few men
more disposed to cherish kindly and benevolent feelings
towards their fellowmen than himself. He informs me
that he will with pleasure admit a notice of the ‘Gentle-
man’s Magazine” in the ‘Messenger,” and if possible in
the October number. . . .
“It gives me sincere pleasure to understand that your
own good sense and the influence of high and noble
motives have enabled you to overcome a seductive and
dangerous besetment, which too often prostrates the
wisest and best by its fatal grasp. The cultivation of
such high intellectual powers as you possess cannot fail
to earn for you a solid reputation in the literary world.
In the department of criticism especially, I know few
who can claim to be your superior in this country.
Your dissecting-knife if vigorously employed would
serve to rid us of much of that silly trash and sickly
sentimentality with which puerile and conceited authors
and gain-seeking booksellers are continually poisoning
1
MEMOIR.
our intellectual food. I hope in relation to all such you
will continue to wield your mace without “fear, favor,
or affection.’”
At the time of this letter, however, and eighteen
months before the declaration to Dr. Snodgrass, Poe
had begun to fall back into old ways. Unfortunately,
as Mr. Alexander says, his faults were too well known.
The testimony to them is abundant; and it is plain that
there was no time, after the first year of his residence in
Philadelphia, when he had not the reputation among
those who profess to have been his boon companions, of
frequenting drinking-places and becoming intoxicated
in all companies. The habit may have been strength-
ened by his continued disappointments, and it became
marked as years went on ; but the evidence to its ex-
istence and character from the time of his association
with Burton is continuous. Poe afterwards assigned his
failure to the year 1842, and it may not have seemed to
himself that he was in any danger until that time. The
illness of his wife, he said, drove him to despair.
He first gave this explanation in a letter to George W.
Eveleth, Jan. 4, 1848, who had asked him to hint at
“the terrible event,” to which he had already publicly
referred in a New York paper, as the cause of his ex-
cesses. Mr. Eveleth published the passage in a Portland
paper soon after Poe’s death: —
“Yes, I can do more than hint. This “evil” was the
greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife,
whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I
took leave of her forever, and underwent all the agonies
of her death. She recovered partially, and I again
hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke again.
I went through precisely the same scene. . . . Then
again — again — and even once again, at varying inter-
li
MEMOIR
vals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death —
and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more
dearly and clung to her life with more desperate per-
tinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — nervous
in a very unusal degree. I became insane, with long
intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of abso-
lute unconsciousness I drank – God only knows how
often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies
referred the insanity to the drink rather than the drink
to the insanity.”
The particular cause of the extraordinary effect of
these excesses was the fact that Poe was also addicted
to the use of opium. At this time, however, 1840, the
whole trouble was in its early stages.
On leaving Burton, Poe at once gave his attention to
his own project, “The Penn Magazine,” which was an-
nounced to appear on Jan. 1, 1841, and prospectuses
were sent to his friends, and advertisements solicited.
Meanwhile, he began his articles upon “Cryptogra-
phy,” which were a sensation of the hour, in Alexander’s
“Weekly Messenger; ” and when, in October, Burton
sold out to George R. Graham, who now founded
“Graham's Magazine,” Poe maintained terms with the
new proprietor, and being obliged, for several reasons,
to postpone his own project, he took the editorship of
the new periodical, as was publicly announced, Feb. 20,
1841. His first success in this position was the tale of
“The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” which appeared in
the number for April, 1841, the first of his editing.
He had been led to this new ratiocinative vein, perhaps,
by his studies in cryptography, which he had kept up;
and he continued to work it, becoming thereby the
father of the modern detective novel. He contributed
criticism and verse, new and old, to the magazine, and
helped to make it the successful venture that it rapidly
lii
MEMOIR
became. It rose to a circulation of forty thousand,
but its conduct was never satisfactory to Poe.
He had by no means abandoned his own plan. “The
“Penn,” I hope, is only “scotched, not killed,’” he wrote
to Dr. Snodgrass in April, and added that it “would
unquestionably be resumed hereafter.” He was hope-
ful of persuading Graham to join him in the enterprise.
In the early summer, he wrote to Longfellow, Cooper,
Kennedy, and others, inviting their co-operation. He
continually disapproved Graham’s methods, and this
discontent with his situation was a constant element in
his correspondence. He had made a new and faithful
friend in Frederick May Thomas, a forgotten author
who held a position under the Government, at Washing-
ton; and through him he now endeavored to obtain an
appointment in the Custom House at Philadelphia, by
means of Robert Tyler, the son of the President.
Thomas gave him all the assistance in his power, and
his old friend Kennedy was also interested in the plan,
but nothing was accomplished. His connection with
“Graham’s ” ceased on April 1, 1842, and he was
succeeded within a month by Rufus W. Griswold.
There was no breach between him and his employer.
“I shall continue,” he wrote to Thomas, May 25,
“to contribute occasionally. My reason for resigning
was disgust with the namby-pamby character of the
magazine, – a character which it was impossible to
eradicate. I allude to the contemptible pictures, fash-
ion-plates, music, and love-tales. The salary, moreover,
did not pay me for the labor which I was forced to be-
stow. With Graham, who is really very gentlemanly,
although an exceedingly weak man, I had no misunder-
standing.” To another correspondent, Daniel Bryan,
he wrote, July 6, “I have no quarrel with either Mr.
Graham or Mr. Griswold, although I hold neither in
liii
MEMOIR,
especial respect. I have much aversion to communicate
with them in any way.” The only account given by
Graham is that Poe, coming back to the office after
an unusual absence, found Griswold in his chair, and
at once left, and showed no disposition to return.
The latter portion of the letter to Mr. Bryan, referred
to above, contains a sufficiently clear explanation of
the situation: —
“I am making earnest, although secret exertions to
resume my project of the “Penn Magazine,” and have
every confidence that I shall succeed in issuing the first
number on the first of January. You may remember
that it was my original design to issue it on the first of
January, 1841. I was induced to abandon the project
at that period by the representations of Mr. Graham.
He said that if I would join him as a salaried editor, giv-
ing up for the time my own scheme, he himself would
unite with me at the expiration of six months, or cer-
tainly at the end of a year. As Mr. Graham was a man
of capital and I had no money, I thought it most
prudent to fall in with his views. The result has proved
his want of faith and my own folly. In fact I was con-
tinually laboring against myself. Every exertion made
by myself for the benefit of ‘Graham’s,” by rendering
that magazine a greater source of profit, rendered its
owner at the same time less willing to keep his word with
me. At the time of our bargain (a verbal one) he had
six thousand subscribers; when I left him, he had more
than forty thousand. It is no wonder that he has been
tempted to leave me in the lurch.
“I had nearly one thousand subscribers with which
to have started the * Penn,” and, with these as a be-
ginning, it would have been my own fault, had I failed.
There may be still three or four hundred who will stand
by me of the old list, and in the interval between this
liv
MEMOIR,
period and the first of January, I will use every
endeavor to procure others. I feel that now is the time
to strike. The delay, after all, will do me no injury.
My conduct of ‘Graham’s ’ has rendered me better and
(I hope) more favorably known than before. I am
anxious above all things to render the journal one in
which the true, in contradistinction to the merely facti.
tious genius of the country, shall be represented. I
shall yield nothing to great names, nor to the circum-
stances of position. I shall make war to the knife
against the New England assumption of “all the
decency and all the talent” which has been so disgust-
ingly manifested in the Rev. Rufus W. Griswold's
“Poets and Poetry of America.’” A.
In accordance with the views here described, it was
publicly announced in the New York “Mirror,” on July
30, 1842, that Poe would revive the projected “Penn; ”
and he wrote to various correspondents that he hoped
to issue the first number the following January.
During the remainder of the year, he contributed to
“Graham’s ” and Snowden’s “Lady’s Companion,”
sent a story to the “Boston Miscellany,” from which
Lowell recovered it for his own “Pioneer,” and sought
more vigorously the place in the Custom House only
to his own vexation and disappointment. His experi-
ence, which he related to Thomas, is characteristic:
“Your letter of the 14th gave me new hope — only
to be dashed to the ground. On the day of its receipt,
some of the papers announced four removals and ap-
pointments. Among the latter I observed the name
—“Pogue.” Upon inquiry among those behind the
curtain, I soon found that no such person as —
“Pogue” had any expectation of an appointment, and
that the name was a misprint or rather a misunder-
standing of the reporters, who had heard my own name
ly
MEMOIR,
spoken of at the Custom House. I waited two days,
without calling on Mr. Smith, as he had twice told me
that “he would send for me, when he wished to swear
me in.” To-day, however, hearing nothing from him, I
called. I asked him if he had no good news for me yet.
He replied, ‘No, I am instructed to make no more re-
movals.” At this, being much astonished, I mentioned
that I had heard, through a friend, from Mr. Rob Tyler,
that he was requested to appoint me. At these words
he said roughly — “From whom did you say?’ I re-
plied, from Mr. Robert Tyler. I wish you could have
seen the scoundrel, - for scoundrel, my dear Thomas,
in your private ear, he is, – “From Robert Tylerſ'
says he – “Hem! I have received orders from Presi-
dent Tyler to make no more appointments, and shall
make none.’ Immediately afterward, he acknowledged
that he had made one appointment since these instruc-
tions.
“Mr. Smith has excited the thorough disgust of
every Tyler man here. He is a whig of the worst
stamp, and will appoint none but whigs if he can pos-
sibly avoid it. People here laugh at the idea of his
being a Tyler man. He is notoriously not such. As
for me, he has treated me most shamefully. In my case,
there was no need of any political shuffling or lying.
I proffered my willingness to postpone my claims to
those of political claimants, but he told me, upon my
first interview after the election, that if I would call
on the fourth day he would swear me in. I called and
he was not at home. On the next day I called again and
saw him, when he told me that he would send a mes-
senger for me when ready: this without even inquiring
my place of residence, showing that he had, from the
first, no design of appointing me. Well, I waited nearly
a month, when, finding nearly all the appointments
lvi
MEMOIR,
made, I again called. He did not even ask me to be
seated — scarcely spoke — muttered the words “I will
send for you, Mr. Poe’ I- and that was all. My next
and last interview was to-day — as I have just de-
scribed. The whole manner of the man, from the first,
convinced me that he would not appoint me if he could
help it. Hence the uneasiness I expressed to you when
here. Now, my dear Thomas, this insult is not to me,
so much as to your friend Mr. Robert Tyler, who was
so kind as to promise, and who requested, my appoint-
ment.
“It seems to me that the only way to serve me now
is to lay the matter once again before Mr. Tyler, and,
if possible through him, to procure a few lines from
the President, directing Mr. Smith to give me the
place. With these credentials he would scarcely again
refuse. But I leave all to your better judgment.
“You can have no idea of the low ruffians and
boobies — men, too, without a shadow of political in-
fluence or caste — who have received office over my
head. If Smith had the feelings of a gentleman, he
would have perceived that, from the very character of
my claim, - by which I mean my want of claim, - he
should have made my appointment an early one. It
was a gratuitous favor intended me by Mr. Rob Tyler,
and he (Smith) has done his best to deprive this favor
of all its grace by delay. I could have forgiven all but
the innumerable and altogether unnecessary falsehoods
with which he insulted my common sense day after day.
“I would write more, my dear Thomas, but my heart
is too heavy. You have felt the misery of hope deferred,
and will feel for me.”
Early in 1843 he had secured a partner, Thomas C.
Clarke, owner of the “Saturday Museum,” who under-
took to join with him in the venture of the new maga-
lvii
MEMOIR
zine, which, however, was to be known as the “Stylus.”
The terms of the agreement are given in a letter of Poe
to Thomas, Feb. 25, 1843: —
“I have managed at last to secure, I think, the great
object — a partner possessing ample capital, and, at
the same time, so little self-esteem as to allow me entire
control of the editorial conduct. He gives me, also, a
half interest, and is to furnish funds for all the business
operations — I agreeing to supply, for the first year,
the literary matter. This will puzzle me no little, but
I must do my best — write as much as possible myself,
under my own name and pseudonyms, and hope for the
casual aid of my friends, until the first stage of infancy
is surpassed. The articles of copartnership have been
signed and sealed for some weeks, and I should have
written you before, informing you of my good luck, but
that I was in hope of sending you, at the same time, a
specimen-sheet. Some little delay has occurred in get-
ting it out on account of paper. In the mean time, all
arrangements are progressing with spirit.”
With this letter Poe also sent an advance copy of
the “Saturday Museum,” for March 4, which con-
tained the prospectus, and also a life of Poe by H. W.
Hirst, one of his Philadelphia acquaintances, which pro-
fessed to be based on information derived from Mr.
White, of the old “Messenger,” and Thomas, but in
fact furnished by Poe. It was a tissue of misstatement
and untruth, and concluded with a reprint of nearly
all his poems, except the juvenile pieces, and a publica-
tion of extracts from private letters in which he had
received the praise of literary men, and in some in-
stances the passages were garbled. In furtherance both
of the magazine and of Poe’s application for office under
the Government, he went early in March to Washington;
and the visit became a spree, in consequence of which
lviii
MEMOIR,
he lost whatever chance he may have had for an ap-
pointment, and feared lest his partner, who was hastily
informed of his illness, should take some alarm. On his
return, he found Clarke undisturbed, and he wrote to
Richmond offering to buy the list of the old “Mes-
senger,” if it was for sale. By June, however, the
“Stylus ” was abandoned, with Poe's usual complaints
of “the imbecility or rather idiocy of my partner.”
Clarke stated that he had no quarrel with Poe, and that,
the money advanced by him having been expended, Poe
left with him a story as security for the amount.
In the summer Poe published “The Gold-Bug,” in
the “Dollar Newspaper,” winning thereby a prize of
one hundred dollars. He also contributed to news-
papers and annuals as well as to “Graham’s.” In
the fall one number of an edition of his “Tales,” in
parts, was issued. On November 25, he lectured in
Philadelphia on “The Poets and Poetry of America; ”
but he is said to have made an earlier appearance on
the platform, in Baltimore, during the summer. In
this lecture he openly attacked Griswold, in that kind
of criticism which he so well understood, and which he
had anonymously practised on the same person earlier
in the year in the columns of the “Saturday Museum.”
He was already on record in the “Boston Miscellany ”
in a favorable notice of the collection made by Griswold,
which he had offered to write, and had been paid for by
him. Griswold had just retired from “Graham’s,” and
it is possible that Poe’s connection with that magazine
became closer, inasmuch as many of the reviews of the
winter of 1843 are from his hand. In March, 1844, he
published a very laudatory notice of Horne’s “Orion,”
and by this means secured a European connection.
During the visit of Dickens to this country in 1842, Poe
had made his acquaintance, having arrested his atten-
lix
MEMOIR,
tion by an earlier review in which he foretold the plot of
“Barnaby Rudge,” and had charged him with the office
of securing a publisher for his tales in London; but
Dickens was unsuccessful in the efforts he made to that
end. Horne now became a similar intermediary; but he,
too, was unable to get what Poe sent him – “The Spec-
tacles " — into any magazine in England. The cor-
respondence, however, continued in a friendly spirit,
and was a means of introduction to Mrs. Browning,
then Miss Barrett and a friend of Horne.
Poe’s literary reputation was now fairly established,
notwithstanding his failure to maintain himself by his
pen, or to place himself in a secure editorial position.
His poetic genius only was not recognized; but he had
not published a volume of poems since he came to ma-
turity, and the collection appended to Hirst’s life of
him could naturally have little effect. As a critic, he
had more than held his own, and easily outranked any
other writer of reviews, in the opinion both of his fellow-
authors and of the public. His favor was courted and
his judgment valued, though he was known to err both
in severity and commendation when personal feeling en-
tered into his writing, as it often did. As a writer of
stories, he could cite the words of many of the leading
men of his craft in his favor. Tucker, Kennedy, Pauld-
ing, Heath, Irving, Willis, Lowell, Hawthorne, Longfel-
low, and a host of minor writers in the press, make up
the list of well-wishers and appreciative readers; and
although his collection of tales, made in 1839, had not
succeeded, it had been well noticed at the time, and now
the vogue of “The Gold-Bug,” “The Murders in the
Rue Morgue,” and other later stories had spread his
name and given him true popularity. As an editor,
the ease with which he obtained positions and made
new engagements, and the success of the two maga-
lx
MEMOIR,
zines he had been most closely connected with, – the
“Messenger” and “Graham’s,” – spoke for his abil-
ity; and the conduct of such enterprises he looked on
as his special vocation and ambition. He cultivated
his reputation, too, by seeking public notice in every
part of the country, through his numerous correspond-
ents, and by serving them in return for their good
offices. He had made a practice of sending his best
work to literary men of eminence, from the beginning,
and he was always ready to take pains to make him-
self known favorably, and to use all methods of affect-
ing public opinion and curiosity. He had succeeeded
by his genius, and been helped by his own manage-
ment of his reputation; he met on all sides with the
kindest reception, and never had to complain of a lack
of appreciation; and several of the elder writers had
added to this recognition, which he deserved, their
friendship and counsel in private life, seeking to
strengthen him in his efforts to retrieve the past and
secure the future. It was not on the literary side that
he failed in Philadelphia, nor was it from lack of good-
will among authors or lukewarmness among friends;
material and moral support, as well as literary recog-
nition, had been given to him freely; but notwithstand-
ing he was soon to find it necessary to leave the city.
The external events of Poe’s troubled career in Phil-
adelphia, from 1838 to 1844, are covered by what has
been related. In person, he is described uniformly as
quiet and gentlemanly in manner when he was sober.
Mr. Alexander speaks of the “uniform gentleness of
disposition and kindness of heart,” which distinguished
him; Clarke characterizes him as “a genial, generous
friend, invariably kind and gentlemanly to all; ” Gra-
ham, also, bears testimony to this phase of his nature.
F. O. C. Darley, the artist, who was engaged to illus-
lxi -
MEMOIR,
trate the “Stylus ” in 1843, draws a more definite
picture: —
“He impressed me as a refined and very gentlemanly
man; exceedingly neat in his person; interesting always,
from the intellectual character of his mind, which ap-
peared to me to be tinged with sadness. His manner
was quiet and reserved; he rarely smiled. I remember
his reading his ‘Gold-Bug' and ‘Black Cat” to me be-
fore they were published. The form of his manuscript
was peculiar; he wrote on half-sheets of note-paper,
which he pasted together at the ends, making one con-
tinuous piece, which he rolled up tightly. As he read,
he dropped it upon the floor. It was very neatly writ-
ten, and without corrections, apparently.”
On the other hand, during this period, Poe had pub-
licly exposed himself to those reports to which his old
acquaintance, Wilmer, referred, when he wrote to Mr.
Tomlin, in words which Poe violently resented: “Poor
fellow, he is not a teetotaler by any means, and I fear
he is going headlong to destruction, moral, physical,
and intellectual.” His appearance and actions, when
he was not sober, gave occasion for that different im-
pression of his personality, which it has been hard to
reconcile with the recollections of his more considerate
associates. In 1841, while he was still with Burton,
Mr. Rosenbach says that Poe then spent much leisure
time with Hirst, Scott, and himself in a certain drink-
ing-place, and at evening in the lobbies of the theatres,
from which they adjourned to restaurants. In 1843,
Mr. Rosenbach returned to Philadelphia after an ab-
sence, and noticed “signs of continued dissipation,”
and in 1844 the state of affairs had grown worse. It
is not unnatural that this phase of Poe’s reputation
should have been more notorious and lasting than that
which those who were most humane in their judgment
lxii
MEMOIR
have recalled. Poe’s use of opium, it is to be remem-
bered, aggravated the case, and the spells of illness, to
which he was subject, were severe; but, throughout,
however he may have been known publicly to those who
were only friends by chance, he had, at least, a home in
which he was fondly and patiently cared for; and of
this home some glimpses remain.
Mrs. Clemm, a vigorous woman of fifty, was the head
of the family, and took care of its affairs. The house,
No. 234 North Seventh Street, above Spring Garden,
was a cottage surrounded by vines and ornamented in
winter with flowers. Mayne Reid speaks of it as “a
lean-to, of three rooms (there may have been a garret
with a closet) of painted-plank construction, supported
against the gable of the more pretentious dwelling.”
It is not certain that his abode was unchanged, but it
was always the same sort of humble home, which, when
not boarding, he usually occupied. In 1842, Virginia,
who had remained a delicate and child-like wife, rup-
tured a blood-vessel, as has been already incidentally
stated, and from that time her health was always the
cause of great anxiety, aggravated by the poverty and
misfortunes of their life. The reminiscences of her
given by A. B. Harris are most vivid: —
“She hardly looked more than fourteen, fair, soft,
and graceful and girlish. Every one who saw her was
won by her. Poe was very proud and very fond of her,
and used to delight in the round, child-like face and
plump little figure, which he contrasted with himself,
so thin and half-melancholy looking, and she in turn
idolized him. She had a voice of wonderful sweetness,
and was an exquisite singer, and in some of their more
prosperous days, when they were living in a pretty little
rose-covered cottage on the outskirts of Philadelphia,
she had her harp and piano. . . . She could not bear
lxiii
MEMOIR,
the slightest exposure, and needed the utmost care; and
all those conveniences as to apartment and surround-
ings which are so important in the case of an invalid
were almost matters of life and death to her. And yet
the room where she lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe,
except as she was fanned, was a little place with the
ceiling so low over the narrow bed that her head al-
most touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr.
Poe was so sensitive and irritable; “quick as steel and
flint,” said one who knew him in those days. And he
would not allow a word about the danger of her dying;
the mention of it drove him wild.”
Griswold describes the home from his own observa-
tion: — .
“When once he sent for me to visit him, during a
period of illness caused by protracted and anxious
watching at the side of his sick wife, I was impressed
by the singular neatness and the air of refinement in
his home. It was in a small house, in one of the pleasant
and silent neighborhoods far from the centre of the
town, and though slightly and cheaply furnished every-
thing in it was so tasteful and so fitly disposed that it
seemed altogether suitable for a man of genius. For
'this and for most of the comforts he enjoyed, in his
brightest as in his darkest years, he was chiefly indebted
to his mother-in-law, who loved him with more than
maternal devotion and constancy.”
Mayne Reid completes the picture with a charac-
terization of Mrs. Clemm : —
“She was the ever-vigilant guardian of the home,
watching it against the silent but continuous sap of
necessity, that appeared every day to be approaching
closer and nearer. She was the sole servant, keeping
everything clean; the sole messenger, doing the er-
rands, making pilgrimages between the poet and his
lxiv
MEMOIR,
publishers, frequently bringing back such chilling re-
sponses as ‘The article not accepted,” or “The check
not to be given until such and such a day,” — often
too late for his necessities. And she was also the mes-
senger to the market; from it bringing back not ‘the
delicacies of the season,’ but only such commodities as
were called for by the dire exigencies of hunger.”
It was evidently a house of poverty, and in it Poe
was cared for with complete devotion. His material
circumstances, which brightened from time to time, con-
tinually gave way to periods of want, small borrowings,
and even destitution; more than once the family had
been relieved by the charity of friends; and now there
was less and less hope of change, – it was plain that
Poe had come to the end in this city. He had run him-
self out.
The decision to remove to New York was taken in
the spring of 1844. Poe went on, with his wife, and
sent back a letter to Mrs. Clemm on April 7, which dis-
closes with painful distinctness the customary straits
of the household:—
“MY DEAR MUDDIE, - We have just this minute
done breakfast, and I now sit down to write you about
everything. I can’t pay for the letter, because the
post-office won’t be open to-day. In the first place
we arrived safe at Walnut Street wharf. The driver
wanted to make me pay a dollar, but I would nºt. Then
I had to pay a boy a levy to put the trunk in the bag-
gage-car. In the mean time I took Sis [Virginia] in
the Depôt Hotel. It was only a quarter past six and
we had to wait till seven. We saw the ‘Ledger’ and
* Times” — nothing in either — a few words of no ac-
count in the “Chronicle.” We started in good spirits,
but did not get here until nearly three o’clock. We
went in the cars to Amboy, about forty miles from New
lxv
MEMOIR
York, and then took the steamboat the rest of the way.
Sissy coughed none at all. When we got to the wharf
it was raining hard. I left her on board the boat, after
putting the trunks in the ladies’ cabin, and set off to
buy an umbrella and look for a boarding-house. I met a
man selling umbrellas, and bought one for twenty-five
cents. Then I went up Greenwich Street, and soon
found a boarding-house. It is just before you get to
Cedar Street, on the west side going up — the left-hand
side. It has brown stone steps, with a porch with brown
pillars. “Morrison’ is the name on the door. I made
a bargain in a few minutes and then got a hack and
went for Sis. I was not gone more than half an hour,
and she was quite astonished to see me back so soon.
She did n’t expect me for an hour. There were two
other ladies waiting on board — so she was n’t very
lonely. When we got to the house we had to wait
about half an hour before the room was ready. The
house is old and looks buggy. [The letter is cut here for
the signature on the other side.] The cheapest board I
ever knew, taking into consideration the central situa-
tion and the living. I wish Kate [Catterina, the cat]
could see it — she would faint. Last night, for supper,
we had the nicest tea you ever drank, strong and hot —
wheat bread and rye bread — cheese — tea-cakes (ele-
gant), a great dish (two dishes) of elegant ham, and
two of cold veal, piled up like a mountain and large
slices — three dishes of the cakes and everything in
the greatest profusion. No fear of starving here. The
landlady seemed as if she could n’t press us enough, and
we were at home directly. Her husband is living with her
— a fat, good-natured old soul. There are eight or ten
boarders — two or three of them ladies — two servants.
For breakfast we had excellent-flavored coffee, hot and
strong — not very clear and no great deal of cream —
lxvi.
MEMOIR
veal cutlets, elegant ham and eggs and nice bread and
butter. I never sat down to a more plentiful or a
nicer breakfast. I wish you could have seen the eggs —
and the great dishes of meat. I ate the first hearty
breakfast I have eaten since I left our little home. Sis
is delighted, and we are both in excellent spirits. She
has coughed hardly any and had no night sweat. She
is now busy mending my pants which I tore against
a nail. I went out last night and bought a skein of silk,
a skein of thread, two buttons, a pair of slippers, and
a tin pan for the stove. The fire kept in all night. We
have now got four dollars and a half left. To-morrow
I am going to try and borrow three dollars, so that I
may have a fortnight to go upon. I feel in excellent
spirits, and have n’t drank a drop — so that I hope soon
to get out of trouble. The very instant I scrape to-
gether enough money I will send it on. You can’t im–
agine how much we both do miss you. Sissy had a
hearty cry last night, because you and Catterina
were n’t here. We are resolved to get two rooms the
first moment we can. In the mean time it is impossible
we could be more comfortable or more at home than we
are. It looks as if it were going to clear up now. Be
sure and go to the post-office and have my letters for-
warded. As soon as I write Lowell’s article, I will send
it to you, and get you to get the money from Graham.
Give our best love to C .”
Poe first signalized his presence in the city by pub-
lishing the “Balloon Hoax * in the “Sun * on April 13.
He applied to Dr. Anthon, who had previously be-
friended him, to use his influence with the Harpers to
induce them to publish his collected tales, which he
had revised and prepared for the press, and at the same
time he gave new expression to his great ambition to
found a magazine of his own; he said that he regarded
lxvii
MEMOIR,
the publication of his tales as incidental to this other
ultimate purpose and a means of assisting its realiza-
tion. The nature of his ambition and its grounds, which
was always a common subject in his correspondence, is
here best expressed, and the passage serves in lieu of
all his prospectuses, of which the number was many.
“Before quitting the ‘Messenger’ I saw, or fancied
I saw, through a long and dim vista, the brilliant field
for ambition which a magazine of bold and noble aims
presented to him who should successfully establish it
in America. I perceived that the country, from its
very constitution, could not fail of affording in a few
years a larger proportionate amount of readers than
any upon the earth. I perceived that the whole ener-
getic, busy spirit of the age tended wholly to magazine
literature — to the curt, the terse, the well-timed, and
the readily diffused, in preference to the old forms of
the verbose and ponderous and the inaccessible. I knew
from personal experience that lying perdu among the
innumerable plantations in our vast Southern and
Western countries were a host of well-educated men
peculiarly devoid of prejudice, who would gladly lend
their influence to a really vigorous journal, provided
the right means were taken of bringing it fairly within
the very limited scope of their observation.
“Now, I knew, it is true, that some scores of journals
had failed (for, indeed, I looked upon the best success
of the best of them as failure), but then I easily traced
the causes of their failure in the impotency of their con-
ductors, who made no scruple of basing their rules of
action altogether upon what had been customarily done
instead of what was now before them to do, in the
greatly changed and constantly changing condition of
things. -
“In short, I could see no real reason why a maga-
lxviii
MEMOIR,
zine, if worthy the name, could not be made to circulate
among twenty thousand subscribers, embracing the best
intellect and education of the land. This was a thought
which stimulated my fancy and my ambition. The in-
fluence of such a journal would be vast indeed, and I
dreamed of honestly employing that influence in the
sacred cause of the beautiful, the just, and the true.
“Even in a pecuniary view, the object was a magnifi-
cent one. The journal I proposed would be a large
octavo of one hundred and twenty-eight pages, printed
with bold type, single column, on the finest paper; and
disdaining everything of what is termed ‘embellish-
ment * with the exception of an occasional portrait of
a literary man, or some well-engraved wood-design in
obvious illustration of the text. Of such a journal I
had cautiously estimated the expenses. Could I cir-
culate twenty thousand copies at five dollars, the cost
would be about thirty thousand dollars, estimating all
contingencies at the highest rate. There would be a
balance of seventy thousand dollars per annum.
“But not to trust too implicitly to a priori reason-
ings, and at the same time to make myself thoroughly
master of all details which might avail me concerning
the mere business of publication, I entered a few steps
into the field of experiment. I joined the ‘Messenger,”
as you know, which was then in its second year with
seven hundred subscribers, and the general outcry was
that because a magazine had never succeeded south of
the Potomac, therefore a magazine never could succeed.
Yet, in spite of this, and in despite of the wretched
taste of its proprietor, which hampered and controlled
me at all points, I increased the circulation in fifteen
months to five thousand five hundred subscribers paying
an annual profit of ten thousand dollars when I left it.
This number was never exceeded by the journal, which
lxix
MEMOIR,
rapidly went down, and may now be said to be extinct.
Of ‘Graham's Magazine’ you have no doubt heard. It
had been in existence under the name of the ‘Casket”
for eight years when I became its editor, with a sub-
scription list of about five thousand. In about eighteen
months afterward, its circulation amounted to no less
than fifty thousand— astonishing as this may appear.
At this period I left it. It is now two years since, and
the number of subscribers is now not more than twenty-
five thousand — but possibly very much less. In three
years it will be extinct. The nature of this journal,
however, was such that even its fifty thousand sub-
scribers could not make it very profitable to its pro-
prietor. Its price was three dollars, but not only were
its expenses immense owing to the employment of ab-
surd steel plates and other extravagances, which tell
not at all, but recourse was had to innumerable agents,
who received it at a discount of no less than fifty per
cent, and whose frequent dishonesty occasioned enor-
mous loss. But if fifty thousand can be obtained for
a three-dollar magazine among a class of readers who
really read little, why may not fifty thousand be pro-
cured for a five-dollar journal among the true and per-
manent readers of the land?
“Holding steadily in view my ultimate purpose, –
to found a magazine of my own, or in which at least I
might have a proprietary right, — it has been my con-
stant endeavor in the mean time, not so much to estab-
lish a reputation great in itself as one of that particu-
lar character which should best further my special ob-
jects, and draw attention to my exertions as editor of
a magazine. Thus T have written no books, and have
been so far essentially a magazinist [illegible] bearing,
not only willingly but cheerfully, sad poverty and the
thousand consequent contumelies and other ills which
lxx
MEMOIR,
the condition of the mere magazinist entails upon him
in America, where, more than in any other region upon
the face of the globe, to be poor is to be despised.
“The one great difficulty resulting from this course
is, unless the journalist collects his various articles he
is liable to be grossly misconceived and misjudged by
men of whose good opinion he would be proud, but
who see, perhaps, only a paper here and there, by
accident — often only, one of his mere extravaganzas,
written to supply a particular demand. He loses, too,
whatever merit may be his due on the score of versa-
tility — a point which can only be estimated by col-
lection of his various articles in volume form and all
together. This is indeed a serious difficulty — to seek
a remedy for which is my object in writing you this
letter.
“Setting aside, for the present, my criticisms, poems,
and miscellanies (sufficiently numerous), my tales, a
great number of which might be termed fantasy pieces,
are in number sixty-six. They would make, perhaps,
five of the ordinary novel-volumes. I have them pre-
pared in every respect for the press; but, alas, I have
no money, nor that influence which would enable me to
get a publisher — although I seek no pecuniary remu-
neration. My sole immediate object is the furtherance
of my ultimate one. I believe that if I could get my
tales fairly before the public, and thus have an oppor-
tunity of eliciting foreign as well as native opinion re-
specting them, I should by their means be in a far more
advantageous position than at present in regard to the
establishment of a magazine. In a word, I believe that
the publication of the work would lead forthwith either
directly through my own exertion, or indirectly with
the aid of a publisher, to the establishment of the
journal I hold in view.
lxxi
MEMOIR,
“It is very true that I have no claims upon your at-
tention, not even that of personal acquaintance. But
I have reached a crisis of my life in which I sadly
stand in need of aid, and without being able to say
why, -unless it is that I so earnestly desire your
friendship, — I have always felt a half-hope that, if I
appealed to you, you would prove my friend. I know
that you have unbounded influence with the Harpers,
and I know that if you would exert it in my behalf
you could procure me the publication I desire.”
Dr. Anthon used his good offices, but without effect,
owing to some “complaints * which the Harpers had
against Poe in their previous experience of him.
Meanwhile, Lowell having undertaken to write Poe’s
biography for “Graham’s,” the correspondence which
grew out of this continued the friendly relations which
had begun with the issue of the short-lived “Pioneer.”
Poe now proposed to Lowell a coöperative author’s as-
sociation to float his projected magazine, but the scheme
was too wild for consideration. In another letter, July
2, 1844, he described his temperament:
“I am excessively slothful and wonderfully indus-
trious — by fits. There are epochs when any kind of
mental exercise is torture, and when nothing yields me
pleasure but solitary communion with the “mountains
and the woods,” — the “altars ” of Byron. I have thus
rambled and dreamed away whole months, and awake,
at last, to a sort of mania for composition. Then I
scribble all day, and read all night, so long as the
disease endures. . . .
“I am not ambitious — unless negatively. I now and
then feel stirred up to excel a fool, merely because I
hate to let a fool imagine that he may excel me. Be-
yond this I feel nothing of ambition. I really perceive
that vanity about which most men merely prate, – the
lxxii
MEMOIR,
vanity of the human or temporal life. I live continu-
ally in a revery of the future. I have no faith in human
perfectibility. I think that human exertion will have
no appreciable effect upon humanity. . . .
“You speak of “an estimate of my life,” — and, from
what I have already said, you will see that I have
none to give. I have been too deeply conscious of the
mutability and evanescence of temporal things to give
any continuous effort to anything — to be consistent
in anything. My life has been whim — impulse — pas-
sion — a longing for solitude — a scorn of all things
present in an earnest desire for the future.
“I am profoundly excited by music, and by some
poems, – those of Tennyson especially, - whom, with
Keats, Shelley, Coleridge (occasionally), and a few
others of like thought and expression, I regard as the
sole poets.”
Poe was now poor, but well, and had recovered reso-
lution enough to maintain him, in his new surround-
ings, against his principal weakness. “Thank God!”
he wrote to Thomas, on Sept. 8, 1844, “Richard (whom
you know) is himself again. Tell Dow so; but he won’t
believe it. I am working at a variety of things (all of
which you shall behold in the end) — and with an ardor
of which I did not believe myself capable.” Among the
new plans were a “Critical History of American Litera-
ture,” and, doubtless, his studies in mesmerism and
materialistic metaphysics, which were the ground of
some later tales, as well as of “Eureka.”
In the fall Mrs. Clemm made an application on his
behalf to N. P. Willis, then editor of the “Mirror,”
and he was given a place as assistant in the office.
Early in October, his hand can be easily traced in the
critical department. He contributed also to “Godey’s,”
the “Democratic Review,” and his old magazine, the
lxxiii
MEMOIR,
“Southern Literary Messenger; ” and he appears to
have at least begun some newspaper correspondence.
On Jan. 29, 1845, the “Mirror” published, by anticipa-
tion, from the February “American Review,” and with
a commendatory notice by Willis, “The Raven.” The
poem is said to have been offered in Philadelphia a year
before, and to have been then rejected by Graham,
Godey, and McMichael, in conclave, who could only
send fifteen dollars in charity to the starving poet, in-
stead of publishing these famous verses. The poem was
at once reprinted far and wide, and made Poe the
literary hero of the hour. The same month Lowell’s
sketch of him appeared in “Graham’s.” It would seem
that Poe again had a clear prospect of success; and, as
his tales now became known in Paris and London, and
the recognition of foreigners was added to the praise
which from the first he had received in his own land,
contemporary fame was secure. In the course of the
year a selection of his tales, edited by Duyckinck, was
published by Wiley and Putnam, and soon after his
collected poems by the same firm; and the notices of
these books were as favorable as an author could desire.
He had, however, still to lead his own life from day
to day. He lectured in New York, on February 28,
upon American Poetry, very acceptably, for he had elo-
cutionary skill and an interesting personality to enlist
the curiosity and sympathy of his audience. Willis
sketches him, on this occasion, characteristically:
“He becomes a desk, - his beautiful head showing
like a statuary embodiment of Discrimination; his ac-
cent drops like a knife through water, and his style is
so much purer and clearer than the pulpit commonly
gets or requires that the effect of what he says, besides
other things, pampers the ear.”
He was now contributing to the “Broadway Jour-
lxxiv.
MEMOIR,
nal,” — a weekly just launched by Charles F. Briggs,
to whom he was introduced by a letter from Lowell;
and in March, 1845, he became a co-editor with a third
of the profits for his salary. He had left the “Mir-
ror,” and what was known as the “Longfellow War ’’
— an attack on Longfellow for alleged plagiarism —
was carried over from its columns to those of the new
“Journal,” which he utilized also to reprint a consider-
able portion of his tales and poems. His name was
now in all the magazines, probably because they took
the opportunity of his sudden notoriety to empty their
pigeon-holes of what articles by him they had on hand,
and, besides, were willing to take what more he could
provide from his own.
Briggs had been favorably impressed by Poe, and
wrote to Lowell warning him not to believe too im-
plicitly what was reported of Poe by enemies, of whom
there were possibly many, besides Griswold, who was
named. Briggs, however, changed his views. At the
end of the half-year, there was trouble between him and
his publisher, Mr. Bisco, of whom he meant to buy the
“Journal,” and at the same time leave Poe out. “I
shall haul down Poe’s name,” he wrote: “ he has latterly
got into his old habits, and I fear will injure him-
self irretrievably.” Briggs failed in this negotiation.
“Poe,” he says, “got into a drunken spree and con-
ceived an idea that I had not treated him well, for which
he had no other grounds than my having loaned him
money, and persuaded Bisco to carry on the ‘Journal’
himself.” It appears that after a period of sobriety,
lasting from the time of his coming to New York to the
publication of the “Raven” and his leaving the “Mir-
ror,” Poe had, in fact, again fallen into his former
ways; and his actions when intoxicated were of such a
character that they could not escape notoriety. He
lxxv.
MEMOIR
now spoke of Briggs in the contemptuous way which he
was accustomed to use toward those with whom, after
a period of friendliness, he had broken; and Briggs, on
his part, drew his colleague’s character in unsparing
lines. Poe’s conversation is clearly reflected in the fol-
lowing, addressed to Lowell:
“You have formed a correct estimate of Poe’s char-
acterless character. I have never met a person so utterly
deficient of high motive. He cannot conceive of any-
body’s doing anything, except for his own personal ad-
vantage; and he says, with perfect sincerity, and entire
unconsciousness of the exposition which it makes of
his own mind and heart, that he looks upon all re-
formers as madmen; and it is for this reason that he
is so great an egoist. He cannot conceive why the world
should not feel an interest in whatever interests him,
because he feels no interest himself in what does not
personally concern him. Therefore, he attributes all
the favor which Longfellow, yourself, or anybody else
receives from the world as an evidence of the ignorance
of the world, and the lack of that favor in himself he
attributes to the world’s malignity. It is too absurd
for belief, but he really thinks that Longfellow owes his
fame mainly to the ideas which he has borrowed from
his (Poe’s) writings in the “Southern Literary Messen-
ger.” His presumption is beyond the liveliest imagina-
tion. He has no reverence for Homer, Shakespeare, or
Milton, but thinks that ‘Orion’ is the greatest poem in
the language. He has too much prudence to put his
opinions into print, — or, rather, he can find nobody
impudent enough to print them, - but he shows himself
in his private converse. The Bible, he says, is all rig-
marole.”
Poe’s failure, however, was, as before, a progressive
one. He had been very industrious in the preceding
lxxvi
MEMOIR
winter, and he kept up his labors, apparently, well into
the summer. But with all this, he made no money.
If Briggs found himself a creditor without hope of re-
payment, it was what all of Poe’s associates had ex-
perienced. A letter to Thomas shows the continued
poverty of the family, and illustrates incidentally the
minor point. It is dated May 4, 1845: —
“The fact is, that being seized of late with a fit of
industry, I put so many irons in the fire all at once
that I have been quite unable to get them out. For
the last three or four months I have been working four-
teen or fifteen hours a day, - hard at it all the time, —
and so, whenever I took pen in hand to write, I found
that I was neglecting something that would be attended
to. I never knew what it was to be a slave before.
“And yet, Thomas, I have made no money. I am
as poor now as ever I was in my life — except in hope,
which is by no means bankable. I have taken a third
pecuniary interest in the “Broadway Journal,” and for
everything I have written for it have been, of course,
so much out of pocket. In the end, however, it will pay
me well — at least the prospects are good. Say to Dow
for me that there never has been a chance for my re-
paying him, without putting myself to greater incon-
venience than he himself would have wished to subject
me to, had he known the state of the case. Nor am I
able to pay him now. The Devil himself was never so
poor. Say to Dow, also, that I am sorry he has taken
to dunning in his old age — it is a diabolical practice,
altogether unworthy ‘a gentleman and a scholar’ — to
say nothing of the editor of the ‘Madisonian.” I
wonder how he would like me to write him a series of
letters, – say one a week, - giving him the literary
gossip of New York, or something of more general char-
acter. I would furnish him such a series for whatever
lxxvii -
MEMOIR,
he could afford to give me. If he agrees to this arrange-
ment, ask him to state the length and character of the
letters — how often — and how much he can give me.
Remember me kindly to him, and tell him I believe that
dunning is his one sin — although at the same time, I
do think it is the unpardonable sin against the Holy
Ghost spoken of in the Scriptures.”
The “Broadway Journal * remained in Poe’s hands
as sole editor, until October. He then bought the paper
of Bisco for a note of fifty dollars, indorsed by Horace
Greeley, which, on becoming due, was paid by the in-
dorser. He also endeavored to raise loans of the same
amount from Griswold, with whom he was reconciled,
his cousin, George Poe, and his old friend Kennedy, and
must have exhausted all his resources for borrowing
in the effort to retain control and keep the “Journal”
in existence. Meanwhile, in October, he went to Boston
and read a poem before the Lyceum, following Caleb
Cushing, who made an address. It was his youthful
production, “Al Aaraaf.” The incident occasioned
much unfavorable comment, and Poe declared in his
“Journal * that he did not think it necessary to give
an original poem for the price paid, and had meant to
play a trick on “an audience of transcendentalists; ”
and he added, “Over a bottle of champagne that night,
we confessed to Messrs. Cushing, Whipple, Hudson,
Field, and a few other natives who swear not altogether
by the frog-pond — we confessed, we say, the soft im-
peachment of the hoax.” The fact was that he had
nothing else to read. In New York he continued to fill
the columns of the “Journal” with his old productions;
and, the end of the year approaching and the financial
resources being altogether exhausted, the paper died,
the last number being published Jan. 3, 1846; but Poe’s
valedictory was contained in the previous issue. Poe’s
lxxviii
MEMOIR.
literary work for the next year consisted of a few
papers in “Graham’s,” and of critical contributions
to “Godey's,” which began in November, 1845, and
finally took the shape of “The Literati,” under which
title they continued from May to November, 1846.
These critical articles upon his contemporaries in
the same city did him no service, and were ill-advised.
They were weak on both sides, both in friendship and
in emnity. The censorious spirit had grown upon him,
and his reluctance to admit excellences in any but the
mediocre, with a few exceptions, was marked. The
papers showed an unamiable character, and fell in only
too readily with his depreciation of Longfellow and
others, to make for him a reputation for ill-nature. In
fact, personal feeling entered into his critical writing,
in the later time, to a degree that makes it a part of the
autobiography of the man. The inexpediency of these
articles, however, was pointed out to him, and other
advice given, by Simms, in a letter, July 30, 1846,
which again illustrates the attitude of the literary men
of his country toward him: —
“I note with regret the very desponding character
of your last letter. I surely need not tell you how
deeply and sincerely I deplore the misfortunes which
attend you — the more so as I see no process for your
relief and extrication, but such as must result from your
own decision and resolve. No friend can well help you
in the struggle which is before you. Money, no doubt,
can be procured; but this is not altogether what you
require. Sympathy may soothe the hurts of self-esteem,
and make a man temporarily forgetful of his assail-
ants; but in what degree will this avail, and for how
long, in the protracted warfare of twenty or thirty
years? You are still a very young man, and one too
largely and too variously endowed not to entertain the
lxxix
MEMOIR.
conviction as your friends entertain it — of a long and
manful struggle with, and a final victory over, for-
tune. But this warfare the world requires you to carry
on with your own unassisted powers. It is only in
your manly resolution to use these powers, after a
legitimate fashion, that it will countenance your claims
to its regards and sympathy; and I need n’t tell you
how rigid and exacting it has ever been in the case of
the poetical genius, or indeed, the genius of any order.
Suffer me to tell you frankly, taking the privileges of
a true friend, that you are now perhaps in the most
perilous period of your career — just in that position
— just at that time of life — when a false step becomes
a capital error — when a single leading mistake is fatal
in its consequences. You are no longer a boy. “At
thirty wise or never.’ You must subdue your impulses;
and, in particular, let me exhort you to discard all
associations with men, whatever their talents, whom you
cannot esteem as men. Pardon me for presuming thus
to counsel one whose great natural and acquired re-
sources should make him rather the teacher of others.
But I obey a law of my own nature, and it is because of
my sympathies that I speak. Do not suppose yourself
abandoned by the worthy and honorable among your
friends. They will be glad to give you welcome if you
will suffer them. They will rejoice — I know their
feelings and hear their language — to countenance
your return to that community — that moral province
in society — of which, let me say to you respectfully
and regretfully, you have been, according to all re-
ports, but too heedlessly, and perhaps too scornfully,
indifferent. Remain in obscurity for a while. You
have a young wife, – I am told a suffering and an
interesting one, – let me entreat you to cherish her,
and to cast away those pleasures which are not worthy
lxxx
MEMOIR,
of your mind, and to trample those temptations under
foot which degrade your person, and make it familiar
to the mouth of vulgar jest. You may [do] all this by
a little circumspection. It is still within your power.
Your resources from literature are probably much
greater than mine. I am sure they are quite as great.
You can increase them so that they shall be ample
for all your legitimate desires; but you must learn the
worldling’s lesson of prudence — a lesson, let me add,
which the literary world has but too frequently and
unwisely disparaged. It may seem to you very im-
pertinent — in most cases it is impertinent — that he
who gives nothing else should presume to give coun-
sel. But one gives that which he can most spare, and
you must not esteem me indifferent to a condition
which I can in no other way assist. I have never
been regardless of your genius, even when I knew
nothing of your person. It is some years since I
counselled Mr. Godey to obtain the contributions of
your pen. He will tell you this. I hear that you
reproach him. But how can you expect a magazine
proprietor to encourage contributions which embroil
him with all his neighbors. These broils do you no
good — vex your temper, destroy your peace of mind,
and hurt your reputation. You have abundant re-
sources upon which to draw, even were there no Grub
Street in Gotham. Change your tactics, and begin a
new series of papers with your publisher. The printed
matter which I send you might be quoted by Godey, and
might be ascribed to me. But, surely, I need not say
to you that, to a Southern man, the annoyance of being
mixed up in a squabble with persons whom he does not
know, and does not care to know, - and from whom no
Alexandrine process of cutting loose would be per-
mitted by society, - would be an intolerable griev-
lxxxi
MEMOIR
ance. I submit to frequent injuries and misrepresenta-
tions, content — though annoyed by the [illegible]
that the viper should amuse himself upon the file, at
the expense of his own teeth. As a man, as a writer, I
shall always be solicitous of your reputation and suc-
cess. You have but to resolve on taking and asserting
your position, equally in the social and the literary
world, and your way is clear, your path is easy, and you
will find true friends enough to sympathize in your
triumphs.”
“The Literati’” continued to appear until November,
and Poe did no other work. He was still thinking of the
“Stylus:” and he had persuaded Philip Pendleton
Cooke, who had continued one of the most appreciative
of his readers, to undertake a new life of him of the
sort that Lowell had done three years before, but per-
haps on a different scale. It does not appear that
anything resulted from the plan.
A new phase of Poe’s biography emerges in the period
of which the other incidents have now been detailed, –
his relations with the literary women of the New York
coterie. He attended, occasionally with his wife, the
receptions of Dr. Dewey, James Lawson, and Mrs.
Botta, then Miss Lynch, and was a noticeable, though
usually silent figure. He formed intimate relations, in
particular, with Mrs. Osgood, – a poetess of the time,
to whom he had requested an introduction from Willis,
making a desire to hear her judgment of “The Raven’”
an excuse. He had already warmly praised her verses
in his writings and lectures. She described the first in-
terview herself: —
“I shall never forget the morning when I was sum-
moned to the drawing-room by Mr. Willis to receive
him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark
eyes flashing with the electric light of feeling and of
lxxxii
MEMOIR
thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blending of sweet-
ness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he
greeted me calmly, gravely, almost coldly, yet with so
marked an earnestness that I could not help being
deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his
death we were friends; although we met only during
the first year of our acquaintance.”
They exchanged verses, Poe having recourse to some
earlier lines addressed to a much younger favorite of
ten years before; and Mrs. Osgood soon became inti-
mate at 85 Amity Street, where the Poes then lived.
She gives the picture of this home: —
“It was in his own simple yet poetical home that to
me the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its most
beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately
docile and wayward as a petted child, for his young,
gentle, and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had,
even in the midst of his most harassing literary duties,
a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courte-
ous attention. At his desk beneath the romantic picture
of his loved and lost Lenore, he would sit, hour after
hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing,
in an exquisitely clear chirography and with almost
superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts — the
* rare and radiant fancies' — as they flashed through
his wonderful and ever-wakeful brain. I recollect,
one morning, toward the close of his residence in this
city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted.
Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing
invitation to come to them; and I, who never could
resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his
society far more in his own home than elsewhere,
hastened to Amity Street. I found him just complet-
ing his series of papers entitled ‘The Literati of New
York.’ “See,” said he, displaying in laughing triumph
lxxxiii
MEMOIR,
several little rolls of narrow paper (he always wrote
thus for the press), “I am going to show you by the
difference of length in these the different degrees of
estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In
each of these one of you is rolled up and fully dis-
cussed. Come, Virginia, help me!’ And one by one
they unfolded them. At last they came to one which
seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one
corner of the room with one end, and her husband to
the opposite with the other. “And whose lengthened
sweetness long drawn out is that?” said I. “Hear
her l’ he cried. “Just as if her little vain heart did n’t
tell her it ’s herself | * *
This friendship continued, she says, with “many
little poetical episodes in which the impassioned ro-
mance of his temperament impelled him to indulge,”
but much to the pleasure of Mrs. Poe, who thought Mrs.
Osgood’s influence over him good, and he did promise
her not to use stimulants. At Virginia’s request, a
correspondence between Poe and Mrs. Osgood sprang
up; and, unfortunately, one letter having been seen
by Mrs. Ellet, also a poetess, it was decided that all
ought to be demanded back by Mrs. Osgood. She sent
a delegation headed by Margaret Fuller to recover
them, and they were at once surrendered by Poe, who
used some language in regard to Mrs. Ellet which
involved him in gossip and scandal and trouble. The
incident was one of the most unpleasant, and is more
fully unfolded in unpublished letters of the women
concerned. Mrs. Osgood did not see him after this
episode. She complained bitterly to Griswold of the
affair, and said that after her first introduction she
had gone “to Albany and Providence to avoid him; ”
and she continues, “he followed me to each of those
places and wrote to me, imploring me to love him,
lxxxiv.
MEMOIR,
many a letter which I did not reply to, until his wife
added her entreaties to his, and said that I might save
him from infamy and her from death by showing an
affectionate interest in him.” Such is her account of
the course of this friendship, which has been told more
in detail by her brother-in-law; but, notwithstand-
ing, she wrote on her death-bed defending Poe’s mem-
ory:
“I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, gen-
erous, well bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sen-
sitive and delicately nurtured woman, there was a
peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, grace-
ful, and almost tender reverence with which he invari-
ably approached all women who won his respect. It
was this which first commanded and always retained
my regard for him.”
The next unfortunate episode of this time arose from
the publication of “The Literati’’ in “Godey’s.” The
paper devoted to Thomas Dunn English was savage
in the extreme; and the victim replied by publishing in
the “Mirror” of June 23, 1846, which had passed out
of the hands of Willis, an attack of equal virulence on
Poe, but it touched his life, not his books. Poe was
furious, and responded in a “Reply ” which Godey
declined for the magazine, but got published in the
Philadelphia “Spirit of the Times,” July 10, thereby
bringing on himself a bad-tempered letter from the
author. Poe brought a suit for libel, and won it, being
adjudged damages in the sum of two hundred and
twenty-five dollars, with costs to the defendant, Feb. 17,
1847. No witnesses appeared to justify the charges.
Before this affair was brought to its conclusion, the
bitterest period of Poe’s life had begun. In the spring
of 1846, he had moved out to Fordham, a little village
in the environs of the city, and rented there a small
cottage. The house was pleasantly situated, with
lxxxv
MEMOIR,
cherry-trees about it, but was of the humblest descrip-
tion, and contained in all but three small rooms and a
kind of closet. It was furnished with only the neces-
sary articles, and a few keepsakes, among them pres-
entation copies of the works of Mrs. Browning, to
whom Poe had dedicated his poems, and from whom he
had received the kindest acknowledgments. Here, early
in 1846, he fell ill, and from this time his health was
fairly broken. His habits were the cause of this over-
throw of an originally strong constitution. His wife,
too, who was even now but twenty-five years old, was
plainly doomed to an early death. As the year grew
old, affairs became worse, and finally in the winter it
came to destitution. Mrs. Gove, hearing of this, visi-
ted the family, and found the dying wife with only
sheets and a coverlet on the bed, and wrapped in her
husband’s coat. She applied to Mrs. Maria Louise
Shew, who immediately relieved the necessities of the
family, and raised a subscription of sixty dollars. Poe
roused his faculties, and accomplished some little work,
and the magazines again printed his name. In Decem-
ber, a public appeal was made in the “Express * : —
“We regret to learn that Edgar A. Poe and his wife
are both dangerously ill with the consumption, and that
the hand of misfortune lies heavy upon their temporal
affairs. We are sorry to mention the fact that they
are so far reduced as to be barely able to obtain the
necessaries of life. This is indeed a hard lot, and we
hope that the friends and admirers of Mr. Poe will
come promptly to his assistance in his bitterest hour
of need.”
Willis also made an appeal in his own paper, the
“Home Journal,” and he added to it his impression of
both Poe’s good and evil genius: —
“Mr. Poe lives out of the city, and we cannot ascer-
lxxxvi
MEMOIR,
tain before this goes to press how far this report of his
extreme necessity is true. We received yesterday a
letter from an anonymous hand, mentioning the para-
graph in question, expressing high admiration for Poe’s
genius, and enclosing a sum of money with a request
that we would forward it to him. We think it very
possible that this and other aid may be timely and wel-
come, though we know that on Mr. Poe’s recovery from
former illnesses, he has been deeply mortified and dis-
tressed by the discovery that his friends had been called
upon for assistance. . . . In connection with this public
mention of Mr. Poe’s personal matters, perhaps it will
not be thought inopportune, if we put on its proper
footing a public impression which does him injustice.
We have not seen nor corresponded with Mr. Poe for
two years, and we hazard this delicate service without
his leave, of course, and simply because we have seen
him suffer from the lack of such vindication, when his
name has been brought injuriously before the public,
and have then wished for some such occasion to speak
for him. We refer to conduct and language charged
against him, which, were he at the time in sane mind,
were an undeniable forfeiture of character and good
feeling. To blame, in some degree, still, perhaps he is
But let charity for the failings of human nature judge
of the degree. Mr. Poe was engaged with us in the
editorship of a daily paper, we think, for about six
months. A more considerate, quiet, talented, and gen-
tlemanlike associate than he was for the whole of that
time, we could not have wished. Not liking the un-
student-like necessity of coming every day into the city,
however, he left us, by his own wish alone, and it was
one day soon after that we first saw him in the state to
which we refer. He came into our office with his usual
gait and manner, and, with no symptom of ordinary
lxxxvii
MEMOIR,
intoxication, he talked like a man insane. Perfectly
self-possessed in all other respects, his brain and tongue
were evidently beyond his control. We learned after-
wards that the least stimulus — a single glass of wine
— would produce this effect upon Mr. Poe, and that
rarely as these instances of easy aberration of caution
and mind occurred, he was liable to them, and while
under their influence, voluble and personally self-pos-
sessed, but neither sane nor responsible. Now Mr. Poe
very possibly may not be willing to consent to even this
admission of any infirmity. He has little or no memory
of them afterwards, we understand. But public opinion
unqualifiedly holds him blamable for what he has said
and done under such excitements; and while a call is
made in a public paper for aid, it looks like doing him a
timely service to, at least, partially exonerate him.”
Willis sent this in a note to Poe, Dec. 21, 1846: —
“The enclosed speaks for itself — the letter, that is
to say. Have I done right or wrong in the enclosed
editorial? It was a kind of thing I could only do with-
out asking you, and you may eaſpress anger about it
if you like in print. It will have a good bearing, I think,
on your law case. Please write me whether you are
suffering or not, and, if so, let us do something sys-
tematically for you.”
Poe in reply wrote an open letter to Willis, December
30: —
“MY DEAR WILLIs, - The paragraph which has
been put in circulation respecting my wife’s illness, my
own, my poverty, etc., is now lying before me; together
with the beautiful lines by Mrs. Locke and those by
Mrs. —, to which the paragraph has given rise, as
well as your kind and manly comments in the “Home
Journal.” -
“The motive of the paragraph I leave to the con-
lxxxviii
MEMOIR.
science of him or her who wrote it or suggested it.
Since the thing is done, however, and since the concerns
of my family are thus pitilessly thrust before the public,
I perceive no mode of escape from a public statement of
what is true and what is erroneous in the report alluded
to.
“That my wife is ill, then, is true; and you may
imagine with what feelings I add that this illness, hope-
less from the first, has been heightened and precipitated
by the reception, at two different periods, of anonymous
letters — one enclosing the paragraph now in question;
the other, those published calumnies of Messrs. 3.
for which I yet hope to find redress in a court of justice.
“Of the facts, that I myself have been long and dan-
gerously ill, and that my illness has been a well-under-
stood thing among my brethren of the press, the best
evidence is afforded by the innumerable paragraphs of
personal and of literary abuse with which I have been
latterly assailed. This matter, however, will remedy it-
self. At the very first blush of my new prosperity, the
gentlemen who toadied me in the old will recollect them-
selves and toady me again. You, who know me, will
comprehend that I speak of these things only as having
served, in a measure, to lighten the gloom of unhappi-
ness, by a gentle and not unpleasant sentiment of
mingled pity, merriment, and contempt.
“That, as the inevitable consequence of so long an ill-
ness, I have been in want of money, it would be folly in
me to deny — but that I have ever materially suffered
from privation, beyond the extent of my capacity for
suffering, is not altogether true. That I am “without
friends' is a gross calumny, which I am sure you never
could have believed, and which a thousand noble-hearted
men would have good right never to forgive me for per-
mitting to pass unnoticed and undenied. Even in the
lxxxix
MEMOIR.
city of New York I could have no difficulty in naming a
hundred persons, to each of whom — when the hour for
speaking had arrived — I could and would have applied
for aid, and with unbounded confidence, and with abso-
lutely no sense of humiliation.
“I do not think, my dear Willis, that there is any
need of my saying more. I am getting better, and may
add — if it be any comfort to my enemies — that I have
little fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great
deal to do; and I have made up my mind not to die till
it is done.”
Poe acknowledged later in a letter to Mrs. Locke,
who sent him the verses referred to, that in composing
this letter, “a natural pride impelled him to shrink from
public charity even at the cost of truth in denying those
necessities which were but too real.” They were real,
but they were relieved. The worst was to come. On
January 29, he wrote to Mrs. Shew, imploring her to
come and see his wife for the last time. On the next day,
Virginia died.
Poe continued to be ill; and money was again raised
by subscription in New York to provide for him. Mrs.
Shew saw him frequently, and for somewhat more than a
year charged herself with his welfare, attending to the
health of both his mind and body. In March, he ad-
dressed some lines to her in the “Home Journal,” and
in December, “Ulalume * was published in the “Ameri-
can Review.” In the intervening months, Poe appears
to have done no literary work except “Eureka.” He
lived in great retirement, at the Fordham Cottage, with
Mrs. Clemm, and spent much time in solitary rambling
and brooding; but at the end of the year he returned to
the world. The “Stylus,” which he had never aban-
doned, was again put in train by means of a new pros-
pectus; and, with a view to obtaining funds to start the
XC
MEMOIR,
magazine, he lectured in the rooms of the Society
Library, Feb. 3, 1847, upon the “Cosmogony of the
Universe.” Willis assisted him by an advertisement, and
he had an audience of about sixty persons, to whom he
spoke for two hours and a half. The lecture consisted
of an abstract of “Eureka,” and was noticed by the
press with favor. He at once published the book
through Putnam, who remembered the excitement of
Poe in offering it, his intense earnestness in declaring
its importance, and his prophecy that an edition of fifty
thousand copies would only be a beginning. In this
earlier part of the year, he seems to have composed
“The Bells.” In June, Mrs. Shew decided to break off
her acquaintance with him, finding that it was impracti-
cable to maintain it on familiar terms; and in a charac-
teristic letter he accepted the fact, while expressing
gratitude and devotion to her.
In her place, three other women now entered into his
life. Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman, a poetess of Provi-
dence, forty-five years of age and a widow, had for some
time been, like Mrs. Osgood, an object of his admiration,
but he had never met her. Some lines, addressed to him
and originally written by her for a valentine party in
New York, had been published in March in the “Home
Journal,” and to these he replied by the lines “To
Helen º’ published in November in the “Union Maga-
zine.” He had sent a copy of them, without his name,
to her as early as June; and, on receiving no acknowl-
edgment, he wrote a letter to a mutual acquaintance, a
lady then in Providence, to obtain some information
about her, and the correspondent gave the letter to Mrs.
Whitman, who still made no sign. She was well aware
that her praise was a marked topic of Poe’s conversation
in quarters where she would be likely to hear of this ad-
miration. In July he lectured in Lowell, Massachusetts,
XCl
MEMOIR
and there met the second of the three women who were
now influential in his life, a married lady, known in his
poems and biography as “Annie.” On returning to
New York, he went to Richmond, in pursuit of his plan
to obtain subscribers for the “Stylus,” and raise money
by lecturing. There he met the third woman, Mrs.
Shelton, who, under her maiden name, Sarah Elmira
Royster, had been the object of his first youthful at-
tentions, as has been related, and was now a widow. He
was on the point of proposing marriage to her when he
received from Mrs. Whitman two stanzas of a poem,
“A Night in August,” unsigned, and sent, she says, in
“ playful acknowledgment * of his own anonymous
verses. He returned to New York, and then went to
Providence, bearing a letter of introduction, and pre-
sented himself to Mrs. Whitman, passed two evenings
with her, and asked her to marry him. She was deterred
from accepting the offer by what she had heard of his
character; and a correspondence now sprang up be-
tween them, consisting on his part of contrition for ex-
cesses which he could not deny, and of appeals to her in
his hopelessness, while he also warned her against plac-
ing confidence in all that his enemies said of him. Late
in October he again called on her, as he was passing
through Providence on his way to Lowell, and urged his
suit. He spent some days with his new friend, “Annie,”
at Westford, near Lowell, making rapid progress in his
devotion to her, and, on receiving an indecisive reply
from Mrs. Whitman, wrote, engaging to call upon the
latter on November 4. Poe’s account of subsequent
events, as told in a letter to “Annie’” November 16, is
that he had no memory of what took place after leaving
Lowell until he reached Providence; that he was in a
state of despair and tormented by the “Demon ’’ all the
night, and that the next morning he procured two
XCII
MEMOIR,
ounces of laudanum, went back to Boston, wrote a let-
ter to her telling where to find him and imploring her to
come and see him on his death-bed, as she had promised,
took half the laudanum, lost his reason before he could
post the letter, and was “saved ” by a friend, who, as
Poe appeared sane after rejecting the laudanum, al-
lowed him to return to Providence. He had left Lowell
on November 2, and he appeared in Providence at Mrs.
Whitman’s on the morning of November 7, but she re-
fused to see him on account of his having broken his en-
gagement to call three days before, in consequence of his
intoxication in Boston; but, after a while, she consented
to receive him in the afternoon. He spent that and the
following day in pleading, in answer to which she showed
him one or more letters which she had received in regard
to him, and he went away abruptly saying that they
would meet, if at all, as strangers. He spent the night
in intoxication, and returned in a delirious condition
the next day, was received by her mother, who spent two
hours with him while his “appeals rang through the
house,” and finally by herself, whom he “hailed as an
angel sent to save him from perdition,” and at last,
growing more composed, was given in charge of Dr.
Oakie and Mr. Pabodie, who cared for him until he re-
covered. She now consented to a conditional engage-
ment; and, after giving her a pledge of abstinence, he
departed for New York, and reached home November
14, in a state, says Mrs. Clemm, “hardly recognizable.”
Two days later, he wrote the letter to “Annie,” describ-
ing his experience after leaving her house, and proposed
to take a cottage for himself and Mrs. Clemm near her,
at Westford, and meanwhile begged her to come on to
Fordham and visit him. He had not, however, forgotten
the “Stylus,” and also wrote to a brother of the first
xciii
MEMOIR,
Mrs. Allan in Richmond, asking a loan of two hundred
dollars to assist him in this old project.
On December 20, Poe left Fordham to lecture in
Providence. On the way to the station he called on
Mrs. Hewitt, another of the New York coterie of
poetesses. She related the incident in a letter to Mrs.
Whitman, Oct. 2, 1850: —
“As Mr. Poe arose to leave, he said, ‘I am going
to Providence this afternoon.” “I hear you are about to
be married,” I replied. He stood with the knob of the
parlor door in his hand, and, as I said this, drew him-
self up, with a look of great reserve, and replied, “That
marriage will never take place!” “But,” I persisted, “it
is said you are already published.” Still standing like a
statue with a rigid face, he repeated, “It will never take
place.” These were his words, and this was all.”
He lectured in Providence the same evening, and re-
mained in the city, urging his suit. He was drinking at
the bar of the hotel during his stay, and on the second
day called on Mrs. Whitman in a state of partial in-
toxication, for which the next day he apologized. This
was on Saturday. The ceremony was appointed for
Monday. On the morning of that day, he again drank
at the bar, and Mrs. Whitman, being informed of it,
broke off the engagement. He called, with no sign of in-
toxication, and was received by her in silence. She put
some papers, intrusted to her by him, into his hands,
drenched her handkerchief with ether, and threw herself
on a sofa, hoping for unconsciousness. He knelt beside
her, begging but “one word.” “What can I say?”
“Say that you love me, Helen.” “I love you.” These
were her last words to him, and he went away. Such is
her own account. He wrote to “Annie,” Jan. 11, 1849,
that a great burden was taken off his heart, and that he
had fully made up his mind to break the engagement;
xciv
MEMOIR,
two weeks later he enclosed his last letter to Mrs. Whit-
man in one to “Annie,” and bade her read, and then seal
it with wax, and post it from Boston.
He had, in the midst of these affairs, resumed his
connection with the magazines; and “Godey's,” the
“Messenger,” the “American Review,” “Sartain’s,”
and the “Flag of our Union,” a Boston paper, re-
ceived his contributions. He was again seriously ill
in the spring of the year, and wrote despairing letters
to “Annie,” in whose sympathy he found most con-
solation. He visited her again in May, and on return-
ing to New York, determined to go South, to lecture
and obtain support for the “Stylus,” concerning which
he was now negotiating with Mr. Patterson of St. Louis.
He was aware of the state of his health, and requested
Griswold, with whom he had maintained friendly re-
lations for some years, and whose capacity for the work
in hand he knew, to collect his works, and he charged
Willis with the duty of writing his biography. He
also asked Mrs. Lewis, another poetess of New York,
with whom he had a relation of the sort already suffi-
ciently illustrated, to write his life. He had interested
himself of late warmly in obtaining notice of her poems,
and wrote to Griswold, June 28, that if the latter would
introduce what he had himself written of her in the new
edition of the “Female Poets of America,” he would re-
ciprocate the favor “when, where, and as you please.”
It is but just to add that Mrs. Lewis, at whose house
he spent the next day, was not aware of these intentions.
On June 30, he bade good-by to Mrs. Clemm, who went
with him to the steamboat. He stopped at Philadel-
phia, where he had an attack of delirium, and on his
recovery went to Richmond, where he spent the sum-
mer. He was well received by his friends, lectured
with great success, and was generally in good spirits.
XCV
MEMOIR.
Twice he suffered his usual severe illness, and was
warned by the attendant physician, Dr. Carter, that a
third indulgence would probably prove fatal; and he
received the remonstrance with tears and contrition,
and renewed resolution.
The narrative of these last days has already been
condensed by the present writer in a passage that may,
perhaps, best be reprinted:—
“He stayed at the Madison Tavern, a once fashion-
able but then decayed hotel, and he visited much among
his acquaintances, by whom he was well received, and,
indeed, lionized. At Duncan’s Lodge, especially, the
residence of the Mackenzies, who had adopted his sister
Rosalie, he was made at home; and at Robert Sully’s,
the artist whom he had befriended in his early school-
days, and at Mrs. Talley’s, he passed many of those
hours which he said were the happiest he had known
for years. To Miss Susan Archer Talley, now Mrs.
Weiss, who then looked on Poe with the romantic in-
terest of a young poetess as well as with a woman’s
sympathy with sadness so confessed as his, is due the
most life-like and detailed portrait of him that exists.
Erect in stature, cold, impassive, almost haughty in
manner, soberly and fastidiously clad in black, to a
stranger’s eye he wore a look of distinction rather
than beauty; on nearer approach one was more struck
by the strongly marked head, with the broad brow,
the black curly hair brushed back, the pallid, care-
worn, and in repose the somewhat haggard features,
while beneath the concealment of a short black mus-
tache one saw the slight habitual contraction of the
mouth and occasionally the quick, almost imperceptible
curl of the upper lip in scorn — a sneer, it is said, that
was easily excited; but the physical fascination of the
man was felt, at last, to lie in his eyes, large, jet-black,
XCVI
MEMOIR,
with a steel-gray iris, clear as crystal, restless, ever
expanding and contracting as, responsive with intel-
ligence and emotion, they bent their full, open, steady,
unshrinking gaze from under the long black lashes
that shaded them. On meeting his friends Poe’s face
would brighten with pleasure, his features lost the worn
look and his reserve its coldness; to men he was cordial,
to women he showed a deference that seems always to
have suggested a reminiscence of chivalry; and in soci-
ety with the young he forgot his melancholy, listened
with amusement, or joined in their repartees with evi-
dent pleasure, though he would soon leave them for a
seat in the portico, or a walk in the grounds with a
single friend. To the eyes of his young girlish friend
he seemed invariably cheerful, and often even playful
in mood. Once only was he noticeably cast down; it
was when visiting the old deserted Mayo place, called
The Hermitage, where he used to go frequently in his
youth, and the scene was so picturesque that it is
worth giving at length: —
“‘On reaching the place our party separated, and
Poe and myself strolled slowly about the grounds. I
observed that he was unusually silent and preoccupied,
and, attributing it to the influence of memories asso-
ciated with the place, forbore to interrupt him. He
passed slowly by the mossy bench called the “lovers’
seat,” beneath two aged trees, and remarked, as we
turned toward the garden, “There used to be white
violets here.” Searching amid the tangled wilderness
of shrubs, we found a few late blossoms, some of which
he placed carefully between the leaves of a note-book.
Entering the deserted house, he passed from room to
room with a grave, abstracted look, and removed his
hat, as if involuntarily, on entering the saloon, where
in old times many a brilliant company had assembled.
XCVII
MEMOIR.
Seated in one of the deep windows, over which now grew
masses of ivy, his memory must have borne him back
to former scenes, for he repeated the familiar lines of
Moore: —
“I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,”
and paused, with the first expression of real sadness
that I had ever seen on his face. The light of the
setting sun shone through the drooping ivy-boughs
into the ghostly room; and the tattered and mildewed
paper-hangings, with their faded tracery of rose-gar-
lands, waved fitfully in the autumn breeze. An inex-
pressibly eerie feeling came over me, which I can even
now recall, and as I stood there, my old childish idea
of the poet as a spirit of mingled light and darkness
recurred strongly to my imagination.’”
He spent much of his time with Mrs. Shelton, and
finally asked her to marry him, and was, it must be
believed from the correspondence, accepted. She was
older than he, a plain woman, and wealthy. Poe got
the wedding ring, and after his death she wore mourn-
ing for him. At the last moment, he still wavered
when he thought of “Annie,” who was evidently the
nearest to him of all, except Mrs. Clemm, - but that
was impossible. He was in doubt whether to have Mrs.
Clemm come on to Richmond, or to go himself and
bring her. He decided on the latter course, and on
Sunday, as is conjectured, September 30, or else on
the following day, he left his friends in Richmond, and
went on the boat sober and cheerful. After reaching
Baltimore, it is said that he took the train to Phila-
delphia, but was brought back, being in the wrong car,
from Havre de Grace in a state of stupor. it is also
xcviii
MEMOIR.
said that he dined with some old military friends, be-
came intoxicated, and was captured by politicians, who
kept him stupefied, and made him vote at several booths
on Wednesday, election day. All that is known is that,
being then partially intoxicated, he called upon his
friend, Dr. Brooks, on an afternoon, and, not finding
him, went away; and that on Wednesday, October 3,
about noon, he was recognized at a rum shop used as
a voting-place, — Ryan’s Fourth Ward Polls, — and
on his saying that he was acquainted with Dr. Snod-
grass, word was sent to that gentleman, who had him
taken to the Washington Hospital. He was admitted
at five o’clock, and word was sent to his relatives, who
attended to his needs. He remained, except for a brief
interval, in delirium; and on Sunday, Oct. 7, 1849,
at about five o’clock in the morning, he died. The
funeral was taken charge of by his relatives, and took
place the next day. Five persons, including the officiat-
ing minister, followed his body to the grave.
G. E. W.
xcix
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
THE reader who chanced in youth to come upon
one of Poe’s finer stories is not likely to have for-
gotten its impression on his unjaded sense of mys-
tery and beauty. Nor are there many who in mature
years, and in this heyday of the short story, first be-
come acquainted with the “Tales of the Grotesque
and Arabesque,” but must realize the power of their
conjuring charm. Taken together they are the full-
est exhibit of their author’s genius, if not the high-
est; and if the highest is to be seen in his poetry,
which fairly may be debated, the prose tales with their
greater volume and diversity lose nothing in compari-
SOIſle
Poe is often, and correctly enough, termed a ro-
mancer. Certainly he was a writer of ornate, yet vision-
bred and illusive, legends of some dreamland of his
own, and not a novelist observing our everyday world.
His rarest tales have the quality of pure romance, and
otherwise his inventive prose is concerned with incident
and adventure rather than with the portrayal of human
character. This of course, since he was a poet, and
few of the breed are novelists. The personages of
their fiction are servitors required for its mechanism,
and seldom individualized within their respective types.
Now and then a novelist, — Thackeray, for instance,
— has written delightful minor poetry, out of the
music and humor and intellectuality of a rich nature.
Those who have done more are exceptions, of the uni-
versal cast. Poets with the novelist’s gift are for the
most part dramatists, using the dramatic form at times
C1L1
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
when the spirit of the stage is not at odds with that of
literature. As for the narrative-poets, it is only a
Chaucer or a Browning whose men and women are
much more than illuminated figures. Hugo is strong
in poetry, fiction, and drama, but his prose stories for
the most part were created of romance aforethought.
Other French poets of the time have shown artistic
deftness equally in lyrical verse and in prose, and to
these Poe is more nearly related. His note is his own,
yet the modelling of his work allies him still more
closely to these writers, who also have been devoted,
like him, to the conte, or short story, and exquisite in its
production. It will be remembered that as a lyrist he
thought the expression “a long poem ’’ was a misnomer,
and that a poem, like any other work of art, must be
enjoyed as a whole and at one sitting. In prose, cor-
relatively, and aware of his own forte, he limited his best
efforts to the short tale. Hawthorne went no farther,
in his tentative period; but Hawthorne, while he seem-
ingly lacked the ear and impulse for lyrical expression,
passed on to the creation of extended romances, –
even to fictions which, though very ideal, partook some-
what of the cast of the true novel. His best short
stories, such as “The Birthmark,” “The Artist of the
Beautiful,” “Young Goodman Brown,” “Rappaccini’s
Daughter,” and the Province House series, all thor-
oughly romantic whether legendary or otherwise, rival
those of Poe, yet differ from them in the moral purpose
of their allegory. There is no such purpose, overt or
covert, in more than three or four of Poe’s, but an
artistic passion vibrates throughout their design.
Probably one must go back to the German romanti-
cism for something of his method, but the distinction
is plain that he was a romancer and not a romanticist.
This could not be said if he had written nothing but
CIV
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
the tales which are as ideal as those of Tieck, the
colloquies more subtle than Herder’s and with the
Platonic flavor of Berkeley’s “Alciphron,” and a
treatise like “Eureka,” — of which a germ appears
in a single phrase of Novalis. But his romance is of
the mixed type. He entered the range of the long
story, though no more as a romanticist than as a
novelist; simply as a narrator of fanciful adventure,
and with no literary purpose other than, like De Foe,
to hold the reader by the verisimilitude of actual ex-
perience. This is as near as he came to naturalism,
while in his longer and shorter pieces of this kind his
imagination suddenly gives out, and he is unable to
make a finish, or to dispose of his actors. He resorts
to melodrama, and the climax is lurid, phantasmal,
and ruinously out of keeping.
All this stamps him as a poet, sent back in a rather
forlorn condition, after excursions in the visible world,
to his own uncharted domain, and not able readily to
find the entrance-gate. Whether at home or wander-
ing, however, he always has one force in reserve, –
a mental power which some might think abnormal in a
singing poet and child of the imagination. Yet a ratio-
cinative gift befits the poet who is both seer and maker.
To be an artist first and always requires a turn
for induction and analysis. Poe was quite within the
liberties, constructing his tales of ratiocination and
pseudo-science, although the poet may be concealed
from one reading these alone. To avert such a mis-
chance, the author of “The Purloined Letter’ is at
pains to show the reader that the poet and mathe-
matician often are one, – that the poet-artist must be
a mathematician with the analytic gift. This is in a
sense as true as that the man of science is aided by
imagination to rise from step to step of discovery.
CV
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
The variety and amount of his poetry both increase
if we accept the highly sublimated “Romances of
Death * as poems in their way, just as we recognize
in the design of other stories that everything is ordered
by an artist bent on psychological effect. The open-
ing group, indeed, if put forth by a modern writer,
might be christened “Pastels,” or “Impressions,” or
“Petits Poèmes en Prose.” The inevitableness with
which all the tales of real quality have crystallized
themselves, in the present edition, into a few distinct
groups, affords some ground for wonder that they now
are permitted to do so for the first time. The two
divisions in this volume notably accord with the fitness
of things. They are composed of the prose-poems
just mentioned, and of his scenic and dramatic ro-
mances. Each group as a whole seems a work in it-
self, symphonic through the co-relation of its parts.
“Shadow,” — that introvarious euphony, that ominous
music of some immemorial Eld, neither of Greece nor
of Chaldaea nor of Egypt, but intensely wrought from
the boding and the magic of them all, - and “Silence,”
that demonic fable of the prehistoric Libyan waste,
— these marvellous discourses well may form the pre-
lude and epilogue of the opening series, itself sub-
divided into mundane and supramundane conceptions,
fantasies of Death in Life and of Life after Death.
The tone is unique, melodious, fateful, the chant of
some mystic ritual, to the artifice of which the soul
is quickly attuned. The successive numbers are each
perfect in its way, and the way, however romantic,
is like nothing else in our own literature. The com-
plaint as to its monotone is a form of the demand that
one man of talent shall be like the others, and proceed
from short to extended masterpieces after the wonted
process. Many people, like children, wish the game.
CVI
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
always to be played in the same way. Let us take an
artist as he is, and for what he is. It was the felicity
of Poe to give us the psychology, the drama, the awe
and mystery, of “The Fall of the House of Usher ”
and “Ligeia,” and the strange melody and perfume
and color of “Eleonora.” His resources of imagina-
tion and construction are at their full in these bits of
absolute art. “Usher ” is developed with a method
cognate to that of Browning’s “Childe Roland,” and
proceeds as relentlessly, yet with beauteous episodes,
to the sullen end. In “Ligeia,” “Morella,” “Bere-
nice,” and the rest, the characters are nothing: the
high-born ecstatic dames and maidens move through
stately halls, or linger in the gardens of mist-haunted
vales; they are “such as one in pictures sees,” and
come from very far away. Poe would not have known
what to do with less impalpable characters. He was so
constituted that a portrait on the wall, the mere sug-
gestion of a being that had been, incited his passion
and fantasy more than the imagining of a being still
in life, — that is, in the eerie life of his legend. He
pursued, by choice, the very shadow of a shade. All,
so far as it belongs to any time or place, is mediaeval,
and thus again in the spirit of romance. It was
Preraphaelite, in a sense, before the “brotherhood *
achieved a name; for their cult, whatever its artistic
crusade, was a cry out of the heart of feudalism, -
that shattered progeny of Uther, lying as if in death,
yet ever dreaming its dream.
With reference to Poe and the German romanti-
cism, it is to be noted that friendly critics taxed him
with “Germanism and gloom.” To this he rejoined
that “terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.” He
defied them to recognize in the Tales “that species of
pseudo-horror which we are taught to call Germanic,
CW11
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
for no better reason than that some of the secondary
names of German literature have become identified
with its folly.” He was in the main right as to the
collection of 1840, unless the climax of “Berenice”
brings that tale within the province under ban. Never-
theless, there is pseudo-horror to be found in certain
of his pieces, and enough of Ernst Hoffmann’s method
to suggest that the brilliant author of the “Fantasie-
stücke,” whether a secondary name or not, was one of
Poe’s early teachers. Hoffmann’s romance, like Poe's,
was of the mixed type, a departure from pure roman-
ticism, and in the “Weird Tales’’ there is perhaps
more of everyday concern than in the “Tales of the
Grotesque and Arabesque.” His most eccentric legends
abound in German naïveté and domesticity. He drew
charming mortal heroines. His Seraphinas, Annunci-
atas, Antonias, are the warm and breathing dames and
donnas, while Poe’s Eleonoras, Ligeias, and Morellas
are the tapestry-figures, of mansions to which the
younger romancer held his title by succession. Still,
while Hoffmann was wholly of the Waterland, and Poe
a misfitted American, if the one had died before the
other’s birth, instead of thirteen years later, there
would be a chance for a pretty fancy in behalf of the
doctrine of metempsychosis — which both these writers
utilized. -
Among authors of the penumbral cast, from Hoff-
mann to Leopardi, Baudelaire, and the monodist of
“The City of Dreadful Night,” — men whose records
show that it is wise to confine the fever of romance
to one’s written page, – the temperaments and lives,
even the features, of Hoffman and Poe seem to be
most nearly of the same type. Hoffmann was the
more answerable for a disordered life, since he had
the three arts of music, drawing, and letters, at his
CVIII
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
command, and could turn his hand to anything. He
was often successful, and knew the good and bad of
adulation, but the one thing he could not bear was
success. Poe was equal to neither fortune. Both
writers evaded prolonged effort, and brooded on the
same themes — such as insanity, catalepsy, somnam-
bulism, the Doppelgänger tradition, metempsychosis,
conscience, terror, the weight of destiny and doom.
Art was their common religion; but Poe regarded it
the more seriously. Both — and in this they follow
Tieck — exalted Music as the supernal art.
A reader of Hoffmann finds certain properties of the
“House of Usher ” and “Metzengerstein’” in “Das
Majorat; ” in the ancestral castle of a noble family,
on a wild and remote estate near the Baltic Sea, –
the interior, where the moon shines through oriel
windows upon tapestry and carven furniture and
wainscoting, — the uncanny scratchings against a
bricked-up door, – the old Freiherr foreseeing the hour
of his death, – the ominous conflagration, — the turret
falling of its own decay into a chasm at its base.
But Poe opposes a truer ideality to Hoffman’s verisi-
militude. “Das Fräulein von Scudéri’” contains a
suggestion of his analytic method, which, however, in
the quest for the assassin of the Rue Morgue throws
both sentiment and legendary quite aside. “The
Assignation ” derives from Hoffmann’s “Doge und
Dogeresse,” and the tableau with the Marchesa is a
radiantly poetic variation upon the balcony scene in
the earlier tale. Hoffmann’s spell was unquestionable,
and not without its hold on the Puritan author of
“The House of the Seven Gables.” Poe and Haw-
thorne have been called the last of the romancers,
yet each was under the law of his environment. We
have it in the swallow’s song,
cix
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
“That bright and fierce and fickle is the South
And dark and true and tender is the North.”
Poe certainly had the Southern and cavalier tempera-
ment, through all his wanderings, but Hawthorne, with
more than Southern pride, had ethics and endurance
bred in the bone.
Doubtless Poe himself felt that he was at his highest
mark in the empyreal studies, – those which relate to
absolute and spiritual existence. His Monos and Una,
Eiros and Charmion, are disembodied shades, or, rather,
points of sheer intelligence, whose thoughts or lines of
light flash symbols which the poet translates into mortal
tones not wholly wanting the celestial charm. After
these discourses, the tales of Old-World Romance bring
us back to mortal passion and deed; at least, their
tragedy does not borrow from the supramortal, except
in “The Masque of the Red Death * and “Metzenger-
stein.” The seven legends, each with the note of its own
time and country, unite with a certain prismatic or
diatonic effect. Each probably came from some trace
discovered in its author’s reading; the “Red Death,”
it may be, from the introduction of a corpse at the
revels, as chronicled by a noble of the Regency. “The
Pit and the Pendulum,” an inferior piece, is reminiscent
of more than one English story, but noteworthy for its
analysis of sensation after torture. More splendor and
abandon and terror are compressed within the briefest
of masterpieces, “The Masque of the Red Death,”
than would furbish forth the whole of “Wathek’’ save
its final chapter. “The Cask of Amontillado’’ paints
with a few strokes all that has been conceived of Roman
pride and vengeance. The man who gave us these, and
withal the intense color and sentiment of “The As-
signation,” was an artist indeed.
CX
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
The Tales of Conscience, with the extraordinary
confession of William Wilson at their head, show that
the artist was a psychologist as well, although his
insight was applied almost solely to the morbid proc-
esses of remorse and guilty fear. As we turn to his
other stories, classified in the following volumes, it
appears that some injustice has been done to his ver-
satility, plainly owing to the monotone of his poems
in verse and prose. The man is to be envied for his
working hours, if pitied for his struggles and dis-
traught career. He enjoyed the play of his mind as
thoroughly as an athlete putting his thews to the test
for the delight of action. This dreamer figures as
the most alert of journalists in the banter and extrava-
gance of minor pieces; he is an adept at laborious
hoaxes and queerly elaborate imaginings of scientific
experiment. We find him, most of all, pluming him-
self upon the intricate trail-hunting for which he de-
veloped such a bent in his creation, — by “The Pur-
loined Letter,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,”
and “The Mystery of Marie Rogét,” — of the far too
vital school of police fiction. At the other extreme,
and when most in earnest, he fails — as who indeed
must not? — to solve the secret of the Absolute. Yet,
considered neither as sound physics nor as metaphy-
sics, how suggestive all this mass of fiction and spec-
ulation . The writings in which he becomes tedious,
and often seems to labor, are tales of preposterous
adventure, notably that of “Arthur Gordon Pym.”
This was not a very early work. As his juvenile
efforts were poetic, so his second published tale was
“Berenice,” which has the qualities of his mature
romance. After the “MS. Found in a Bottle,” his
first tale of incredible experiences seems to have been
“Hans Pfaall.” Despite the reflection of Irving's
CX1
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
mock-style at the beginning and end of this piece, it
has enough vraisemblance to hold the reader thor-
oughly, and the author carries his assumptions — as
unwarrantable as those of Locke’s “Moon Hoax,”
which he criticises roundly — by inventing incidents
that divert attention at the critical moments of his
sleight of hand. This is one of his neat processes
in other work of the kind. Of his sea-tales the best
that can be said is that they are not far out as respects
the navigation and handling of old-time sailing craft,
and indicate some touch of seamanship, or else a rare
assimilation of matters then common in “narratives *
of voyages, shipwreck, and perils of the deep. He
understood a sail-boat when he wrote “Pym,” and
had plenty of the square-rigger’s lingo at his tongue’s
end. One can imagine an eager, quick-witted boy
on his early Atlantic passages, taking in enough of
the
“ — mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea,”
to serve him cleverly in after-life. Yet “Pym" is
wearisome from its length and for the overworked trick
of minute detail. On the other hand, such a study as
“The Man of the Crowd’’ reveals the true faculty of
observation, — the same faculty which, exercised in
newspaper-service, has had much to do with the rise
and advance of a modern school of fiction. As an
adroit narrative, of interest to young and old, with
novel adventure and perfect convergence to the chief
incident, “The Gold-bug” displays a fine combination
of romantic and realistic methods. But for impressive
maintenance of tone, and the absolute plausibility of
both a theory and an intensely dramatic conception, —
the two suggested by a curious law of physics, – “A
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
Descent into the Maelström * is the nonpareil among
the adventurous wonder-tales. There is scarcely a word
of it without value, and it is finished to perfection.
As to the detective-stories, “The Purloined Letter,”
though the shortest, is by far the most effective and
most worth the attention of a select reader.
For this versatility, partly due to a weakness for im-
pressing others with his many-sidedness, the vouchers
are essays in the different classes of his work, - and
with no great discrimination in favor of any one of
them, - from the beginning of his fertile period to
its untimely end. He took zest in turning from one
field to another. And, in truth, the question of op-
posing methods in art resolves itself to this, – that
romance or realism, or any other Inode of the day,
will not fail of its intent, if there is power behind it.
The variety of Poe’s output was increased also by the
conditions of his life. Admit, if you choose, Baude-
laire's claim that this country was “only a vast prison
which he traversed with the feverish agitation of a be-
ing made to breathe in a rarer world,” and that his
“inner life . . . was but a ceaseless effort to escape
the influence of this antipathetic atmosphere.” Then
it must be owned that the situation enforced a profes-
sional activity, and in more directions than one. It
often may have dulled his nobler mood, but it gave us
some of the pieces that attracted most attention here
and abroad, and that excited the peculiar interest in
the man and his writings which time seems only to
prolong.
A still remaining group of sketches, the aesthetic,
remind us that his creed was formulated early and
unchanged in after years. With Shelley he vowed he
would dedicate his powers to Beauty. Trusting his
own perceptions, in art as elsewhere, he gave his fancy
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
play, and designed like a poet in scorn of the con-
ditioned artificer. Baudelaire found in him “un amour
insatiable du Beau, qui avait pris la puissance d’une
passion morbide.” At that time, the Anglo-American
sense of the beautiful was put at fault by training amid
styles, in all objects of use or ornament, which were
uncouth and depressing. Poe, divided between appre-
ciation of the antique and his appetite for the riches
of the oriental and mediaeval, - at once a Jew, a
Grecian, and a Goth, – betook himself, by way of es-
cape from the prevailing ugliness, to decoration and
architecture en Espagne. In one direction he had seen
what could be done. England excelled in the promotion
of out-door beauty, and he knew her landscape-garden-
ing. He also knew the available beauty of nature in
our own land, and it is charmingly inwrought with some
of his tales. Downing had begun to excite at least
an elementary concern in America for rural and land-
scape architecture. Poe’s imagination, if he had been
the Downing or Olmsted of his time, would have bank-
rupted the lordliest client. “The Domain of Arn-
heim * is an enchanting dream of what might be at-
tempted by a new-world Kubla Khan. Its invoker
could be elaborately simple, too, as in the restraint of
“Landor’s Cottage; ” yet it is hard to see, with Baude-
laire, that he had “une dèlicatesse exquise de sens
qu'une note fausse torturait,” — for his taste was not
pure; his sense of perfection, his “finesse de goût,”
yielded when his oriental Jinnee made him free of bar-
baric pearl and gold. The element of strangeness, on
which he laid so much stress, is not essential to the
highest art, and the grotesque and the bizarre are at
most but secondary resources. He perhaps realized
his own composite temperament, and the indefiniteness
of his knowledge and ideas; yet if it had not been for
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
early malcontents, such as Poe, the renascense of taste
would have been longer deferred. As it was, he enjoyed
his stage-use of light, gems, fabrics, censers, and every-
thing which constituted, to use his own term, the
“decora’’ of his fiction. To be just, he gave evidence
of something more than an uncritical lust for color
and furnishings in the Old-World stories, in “Ligeia,”
and elsewhere. The incongruous magnificence lauded in
“The Assignation ” is offset, in the “Philosophy of
Furniture,” by a scheme of quiet harmony, for which
he used merely the few values that he understood, in-
cluding the rays of the “astral, not solar,” lamp. His
frequent delight in sheer luxuriousness differs from
that of the author of “Lothair; ” it does not suggest
the parvenu, but is primitive and childlike, – or, it
may be, akin to that aerial castle-building which gives
pathos to Hogarth’s picture of “The Distressed Poet,”
lost to the squalor about him, and careless of the dun
at his garret-door, as he bends over the manuscript of
“Riches: A Poem.”
Throughout the narrative-writings learned references
and quotations are thrown in determinedly, bringing to
mind the story of a more recent author, who, when
asked by a lady if he had read the Book of Mormon,
replied, - “Madam | I have read all books.” A re-
viewer is forced to observe credentials for scholarship
so obviously tendered. It was the fashion to precede
tales and chapters with mottoes “out of the every-
where.” Poe went far beyond this. Even so light and
graceful a sketch as “The Island of the Fay,” preluded
by a Latin excerpt from Servius, begins by citing Mar-
montel, and within the first four pages refers besides
to Balzac, Zimmerman, and Pomponius Mela. In nearly
all his skits and pot-boilers he delighted thus to stuff
his readers and rivals. His irregular nomadic life had
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
made it unlikely that he should be a scholar, in the
cloistral sense of the word, but he managed to make
a good second to Bulwer, for instance, in putting on the
air of one. Although Mrs. Browning, with a woman’s
way of turning off his kindly criticism of her own
Tégligements, wrote to Horne that “Mr. Poe . . . sits
somewhat loosely, probably, upon his classics,” he had
more knowledge of books ancient and modern than
most of his compeers south of New England. Where
and how did he pick it up? The self-training of genius
is always a marvel; and as for that of a working man-
of-letters, none but those of the craft may comprehend
it. Somehow they do manage to get hold, in youth,
of the essential books, and usually of the same books
in about the same order, with excursions right and left
dependent on chance or specific attraction.
Poe was trained in good classical schools, even to
the knack of Latin verse-making, seemingly unpracti-
cal, yet out of which so much has come, over and over
again, for law and statesmanship and letters. He
learned something of Greek, as well, and of French a
great deal more. Think of what Greek did for Shelley,
and for how few years he was really drilled in it. Poe
had five years at Stoke Newington, and as many in a
Latin school at Richmond; then private tutors, and a
year at the learned University of Virginia, where he
at least caught the atmosphere — and to some extent
demoralized it. We are told of his regular attendance
upon the classes in Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and
Italian; but even if he had been studious, as well as
facile, we might easily believe that “he did not acquire
a critical knowledge of these languages.” Then, after
three years of strange experiences, he endured eight
months at West Point, where he demonstrated his gift
for mathematics. All in all, an imperfect training for
CXVI
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
an exact scholar, but not a bad series of chances for a
genius. After this came the practical facility of the
hack-journalist, often inaccurate, but with an instinc-
tively memorized equipment, a reference-knowledge of
quite enough for his needs. It must be borne in mind
that he did settle down to support his household by
newspaper work in that meagre time. Bread-winning
meant industry, but he had to write his finer tales as
best he could. If there had been the present literary
“market,” he possibly would have stayed at home and
out of temptation, and have kept his product at the
upper standard. This was, after all, his idea of hap-
piness, and again and again he tried to realize it, but
as often in vain.
It is clear that he made the utmost of his acquire-
ments, and often utilized them for the professional
bear-baiting in which he took delight. Nothing could
be more cynical than the summary of his own devices,
in the paper “How to write a Blackwood Article.”
His sarcastic instructions include “piquant expres-
sions,” for “there is no passing muster,” he says,
“without Spanish, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek; ”
above all, “nothing makes so fine a show as your
Greek.” As for current melodramatic topics, he
satirizes “The Dead Alive,” the “Confessions of an
Opium Eater,” and “The Man in the Bell.” But he
was of the company, and could not have selected more
typical examples of a vein which it was his habit to
work. Even that burlesque strain, “A Predicament,”
seems to reappear, made serious by a change of tempo,
in “The Pit and the Pendulum.”
Like some other magazine-writers, he was on the
hunt for themes. The realists can have themes every-
where at hand, yet we find even them, with Zola at the
front, journeying in observation-cars and promising a
CXVII
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
good report of their travels. Poe’s reading helped him
to keep the wolf from the door. His random extrav-
aganzas, among which “Four Beasts in One * is a
good selection, — with material suited to an Ebers,
and its echo of the fifteenth idyl of Theocritus, – re-
veal his literary foraging. Some of them read almost
like translations; for instance, that picturesque whim-
sey, “The Duc de L’Omelette.” Nevertheless, one
obtains an impression from examination of these off-
hand and very unequal miscellanies that the satirist
had a better equipment than many critics, noting his
lapses, have credited him with possessing. His matter,
now for the first time awarded a patient editing, often
was mangled in the slovenly newspapers and magazines
where it originally appeared, and after his death was
transferred with scarcely any revision to the pages
of his collected “Works.” It is but fair to say that
after a fresh scrutiny of his text and citations, with
allowance for the printer’s errors, and still more for the
author’s too frequent haste, indifference, and physical
set-backs, his bookish resources, such as they were,
seem to have been cleverly put to use.
The poet-recounter could always fall back upon his
resolving imagination. There is no evidence that he
visited the countries where the scenes of his “Old-
World Romance are laid, but he captured the spirit
of each until infused with it. In instinct for tone,
he stands at the head. Following him up in other
directions, we recognize his brain-power, the energy
of a strong engine often in need of a steady driver.
He was full of speculation, light and serious by turns,
concerning the possibilities of science, and had the
fine curiosity, if not the temper and habit, of a savant.
Nothing of knowledge was alien to him; he had at least
a capricious passion for intellectual truth, and a pro-
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
phetic turn of his own. If there is any less basis for his
postulate, in “Mesmeric Revelation,” of spirit-matter
than for our later theories, it would be difficult to
prove it. The “magnetic * fetch, both absorbing and
repulsive, entitled “The Facts in the Case of M.
Waldemar,” almost finds an antitype — whether the
outcome of science or of imposture – in a tragedy just
reported from Vienna, the utterances and startling
death of a young woman under the experiments of
Neukomm, the hypnotist. In mechanics, too, Poe’s
hoaxes are suggestive, and the airship which he sent
across the Atlantic is the prototype of “La France ’’
and of the speedier vessel now building on the same
model. His respect for abstruse mathematical laws
was intuitive, and he had that development of the
head, in the region which the bump-guessing gentry
allot to causality, which seems the cranial type of
chess-players, mathematicians, and logicans. One won-
ders how he would have applied the analysis, set forth
in his rationale of coin-matching, to our national
game of poker, and whether — if the game had been in
vogue at Charlottesville, in his University days, instead
of games depending more upon chances of the cards —
his record would have been one of losses; and again,
whether, if the American Stock and Corn Exchanges
then had been, as now, the national promoters of
speculation, he would have been free, like Voltaire, to
devote his higher thoughts to literature, while finding
in the law of fluctuations a Fortunatus’s purse. But
temperament counts for even more than brain-power,
in such matters. Besides, on ”Change, and doubtless
on the turf, the master-spirits see to it that the
“ calculus of probabilities,” on which Poe lays so much
stress, – however surely it may tell in the long run, –
is arbitrarily suspended until their designs are carried
CXIX
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
out. Meanwhile we find that any problem, large or
small, excited Poe’s analysis and ratiocination. He
had an eye for details, and predicted the era of tall
buildings in New York, forty years before the elevator-
period. In social and political matters he was an
ingrained Tory, and made various forecasts of troubles,
under our system, curiously apt in view of modern
strikes and rebellions. Foreign writers had done the
same, but his ideas seem to be the outcome of his own
reflection. In fine, the Tales confront us with no mean
intellect, and its possessor could not fail to have
opinions that were sincere, whatsoever his conduct of
life and expression. Absorbed in his work, the best of
the man sometimes came out. We also may admire his
stand for the dignity of his profession and of the
imaginative gift. It is to his lasting credit that, no
matter from what motive, he spoke up proudly and
bravely for the quality of the poet’s mind; that he be-
lieved the greater faculty includes the less and that the
best bard is the wisest, scouting, by the mouth of his
favorite Dupin, the Philistine vulgarism that one is
more likely to be a fool or a weakling because he is a
poet.
Nowadays a literary style is often most in evidence
through the effort to make it appear unstudied. Poe’s
mastery, like Ruskin’s, is that of sheer intensity,
poetic eloquence, and word-painting, in brilliant pas-
sages such as the iridescent and cumulative finale of
“Arnheim.” But of style in the modern sense, with
its outlawry of stock words and phrases, adroit rather
than instinctive grace and consonance, and the main-
tenance of a grade once taken, he was not a master,
nor was there any master in his day. Just as little
did he achieve Lowell’s “exquisite something called
Style, which, like the grace of perfect breeding, every-
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
where pervasive and nowhere emphatic, makes itself felt
by the skill with which it effaces itself, and masters us
at last with a sense of indefinable completeness.” To
Lowell’s afterthought he did attain, – to the expres-
sion of genius found “at last in style, which is the
establishment of a perfect mutual understanding be-
tween the worker and his material; ” since, flamboyant,
and accentual to the point of scansion, as the poet-
romancer’s expression sometimes became, it answered
his exact purpose, and was in the manner natural to
one nurtured amid the debris of the Georgian period,
and listening there to the cadences of Coleridge and De
Quincey. Our young writers, chancing upon estrays
from the minor romances of a time so far removed, find
them as queer as the crippled odds and ends in a
country garret; yet even those are fragments of an
ensemble worth as much to its own generation as our
modern household equipage to a critical possessor.
Poe’s genius, then, with further characteristics derived
from German rhapsody and French art, did express it-
self in such wise that it is exceptional to mistake a bit
of his work for that of another writer; yet its in-
dividuality is not so much a style as a method, and not
so much a method as a manner. The force of nature
sustains it in the rhetorical flights which it would now
be bad form to essay. Then, too, we find as many
shades of manner as we have found divisions of his
work: passages in the tone of old chronicles, much like
that inevitably struck by the translator of renaissance
poetry — by Rossetti, for instance, in his version of
the Vita Nuova; others echoing the hymnic voice of
eld; while the romance-tales, almost for the first time
in English, profit by the dramatic method and the
exquisite condensation which made the French conte,
even in Poe’s day, artistically so far superior to the
CXXI
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
prolix German Erzählung. Yet the legend in “The
Oval Portrait” is the counterpart in manner of one in
Longfellow’s “Hyperion,” and therefore Germanesque.
Again, the grave and elevated tone of the celestial
dialogues is half-caught from the stateliest English
prose, – the prose of the philosophical divines. All
these constituents, several or blended, are well adapted
to Poe’s use; our refinement and indifferentism would
not serve instead. Entering his wonderland, one must
forego the Dervish’s ointment of disillusion, so invidious
to the wizard and fatal to the delight obtainable from his
enchantment.
Some of the Tales of Conscience are in the manner
of Hawthorne, and the two romancers certainly ran
neck-and-neck for a time. “The Man of the Crowd "
seems written in the Salem custom-house; and any-
one reading Hawthorne’s farce, “Mrs. Bullfrog,” might
believe it to be one of Poe’s extravaganzas. Poe's
simple narrative style accords with the requirements,
the language being journalistic and contemporary. In
the hoaxes — the supercheries littéraires — and in his
work as a hack feuilletonist, he strikes an irritating
note of banter, that of a mental habit often percepti-
ble in the critical sketches yet to come, which is
peculiarly his own by so much as “the style is the
man.” He was quite as susceptible to influence as any
of the victims whom he chastened. He caught the
trick of De Quincey, in declamatory interpolations such
as — “Then — let us bow down, Charmion, before the
excessive majesty of the Great God!” and, in “The
Black Cat,”—“But may God shield and deliver me
from the fangs of the Arch Fiend!” The opening pages
of “William Wilson’’ may almost be called a De
Quincey gambit, and it is curious to read the para-
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
graph ending with the words, “Oh, gigantic paradox,
too utterly monstrous for solution | *
As a foil to the perfection of a few tales, his every-
day looseness can be exasperating. He loads his nar-
ratives with enough of “however,” “in fact,” “it
should be added,” “to be sure,” and the like, to in-
crease their length appreciably, yet seems unconscious
of this special vice. His discursive and ingenious mode
of thought drove him to an absurd over-use of the
parenthesis, and to such dependence upon the dash, in
punctuation, that in self-justification he planned a
discourse upon its utility. Between his own mono-
mania and the usage in his day, the task of a logical
repunctuation of his literary remains is most try-
ing, still more indispensable. His vocabulary was
meagre; pet words and phrases constantly recur, and
many do service alike in his verse and prose. This is
the more strange, considering his frequently incom-
parable artistic skill; as in the finely abrupt openings,
and climacteric endings, of the “Maelström,” “Red
Death,” “Amontillado,” and Inquisition stories, and
in sentences which intensify crises to which he has
been leading. Such are the words in “Hans Pfaall ”:
“The moon — the moon itself in all its glory — lay
beneath me, and at my feet; ” and such, in the Roman
tale, is that last cry of the immured Fortunato, -
“For the love of God, Montresor!” The recounter
was not wanting, then, in phases of dramatic power,
— in those requisite for a playwright of the higher
melodrama; but of distinct impersonation and the
subtler processes of the human will he had less com-
mand, chiefly from his lack of the objective insight.
Character did not seize upon his interest, except wheny
marked by traits which he felt to be his own. The
most dramatic contrasts, the irony of life, seemed to
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
escape him; his protagonists are obviously in the
rapids, themselves foreboding the end. There is noth-
ing in the Tales to compare with the death of Brown-
ing’s Prefect, stabbed as he lifts the arras, declaring
that “for the first time” no ominous draught saluted
him.
The element of human passion, so essential to dra-
matic force, is also absent, save in its minor chords of
sorrow and despair. There are few notes of earthly
love; the dreamer’s Eros is all head and wings, as
if etherealized from the sculptured genius of a tomb;
his ecstasy is that of the nympholept seeking an
evasive being of whom he has glimpses by moonlight,
starlight, even fenlight, but never by noonday. Lured
as he was by such an ideal, there is not the slightest
trace, throughout his conceptions, of the sensuality,
even of the sensuousness, upon which so many of the
French writers expend their most artistic gifts of sug-
gestion and charm. Gautier, a kinsman in all else than
this, well might characterize his tales as “d’une chastité
virginale et séraphique.” As for mortal love, it may
be that the poet had found contentment; but his
spiritual and intellectual desire looked among the stars.
The true dramatic faculty, again, is inclusive, light-
ing its web of life with laughter, though it moistens it
with blood and tears. Poe, with his intolerance of dul-
ness and cant, had a keen sense of the absurd, yet was
no more of a humorist than any autocrat who tweaks
the ears of a blunderer, or any harlequin that twists
himself awry and makes droll faces. Even in his wit
there is nothing mellow, and not much spontaneity,
while his forced humor is of the sort denominated grim,
or else grotesque, impish, gargoylean. The strain of
banter in his minor pieces seems the effort of one essay-
ing the humorist’s art until the practice of it should
CXXIV
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
make him humorous. If there is any quality that, in
Dogberry’s phrase, must come by nature, it is humor,
and next to that, wit. Poe’s frequent awkwardness in
the display of either was predicable of his self-engrossed
temperament.
The revelation of that temperament in these enthral-
ling and often piteous stories lends force to the saying
that absolute impersonality is almost unknown in art.
This will hardly be disputed, concerning any form
of art, when applied to the difficulty of effacing one’s
natural style otherwise than by a passing effort. But
the saying is meant to apply more broadly; in the case
of a writer, for example, to avow that his traits and
something of his experience are deducible even from
works which are professedly impersonal. There could
be few more pertinent cases in illustration than that
of Poe, though he had written nothing but the tales
composed with purely artistic intent; for in writing
those he supplied a notable addition to the list of men
of genius whose morbid anatomy needs no other dem-
onstrator than its vivid self-revelation. Their author
was a being of extreme physical and spiritual sensi-
bility, proudly reliant upon his mental force, and terri-
bly cognizant of his infirmities; so intent upon the one
and the other as to bound a world by his own horizon.
The insight that goes beyond self-experience requires
an altruism which he did not possess. His conscious-
ness of power underlies the easy assumption of mas-
tery which characterizes his ideality and ratiocination.
More notable, and painfully so in view of his career,
is the indirect confession of his weaknesses, struggles,
defeat. There was a spell on this froward child of
art and song, no less than the egoism of a nature
demanding that nothing of itself should be forgotten
— bidding the world to know it as it was or as its
CXXV
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
possessor thought it to be. There was less of posing
in his case than we have learned to expect from men
of romantic genius; his pride, contempt, and caprice,
as well as his sufferings, were inherent and genuine.
Evidently he was the victim of a neurotic malaise,
intensified by frequent excesses, and the theory is
credible that he owed to feverish crises some of his most
striking notes and fantasies. Such things do come to
artists in the watches of the night, in the abnormal
tension following excess; but so also come remorse,
terror, nervous anguish, the feeling of Nemesis and
despair. With all of these Poe was only too familiar.
The fear of the old man suddenly awakened, in “The
Tell-Tale Heart,” he well had known. The alcoholic
and narcotic horrors of “The Black Cat,” the
“Ragged Mountains,” and other tales, were the Alas-
tors of a doleful land where gloomed his own valley of
the shadow. It often has been noted that “William
Wilson * contains a memoir of his childhood; but
there, too, the darker side of his spiritual portrait is
given. Yet in that tale the hapless author did himself
a wrong. With all his recklessness, he was neither
vicious nor criminal, and he never succeeded or wished
to succeed in putting down his conscience. That stayed
by him to the bitter end, and perhaps the end was
speedier for its companionship.
As a romancer, then, no less than as a poet, he was
his own protagonist, and, indeed, his use of himself as
a study breaks out everywhere in trivial matters of
allusion. Self-delineation is evident in the portraits
of Legrand, Landor, Dupin, and more ominously in
those of Usher and the lover of the Marchesa Aphrodite.
He plainly ascribes to heredity many of his gifts and
failings, and not without a certain aristocratic pride
in both. Over all in significance, we find the master-
cxxvi
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
key to his temper and conduct in the adroit analysis
of “The Imp of the Perverse.” The self-torturing
wilfulness that seized him at his most courageous and
ennobling moments, just as it seizes upon a fair woman
or a petted child, was beyond his power to exorcise.
To that force prompting us to act “for the reason
that we should not,” an impulse from which none is
wholly free, Poe too often was utterly subjected.
In conclusion, it would be difficult to measure the
dynamic value of his genius, if restricted to what can
be traced of its effect upon literature. His work was
done at a time somewhat unfavorable to the spread of
his typical method; but, as to that, it is doubtful
whether at any time it would be taken up by clever
followers. An ambitious writer does not choose a
master whose mode, if followed, will lessen his own
claim to originality. This may be one ground for the
belief that the greatest writers do not found schools.
In the case of Poe it is clear that his manner was too
individual for frequent adoption. As to the realistic
side of his work, we feel that the contemporaneous
seldom interested him, unless so abnormal as to call
upon his intellect for an examination of its cause and
process.
Under these conditions it is equally difficult to judge
of his limitations. It hardly can be said that he affected
the philosophy of life, or the spirit of art itself, or
that he introduced a new class of fiction — except one
inspired by the success of what he would not have
claimed to be his most enviable work. His vogue among
the French writers has long been evident, and was from
the first the natural result of his assimilation of their
own artistic feeling. The allurement was enhanced by
their perception of an added flavor, the indefinite sug-
gestion of something unwonted, gained from a new
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INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
clime; and this in spite of the belief that “les idées
américaines" are nothing more than sentiments “dear
to the Philistines of two worlds.” It is true that
England made an earlier acquaintance with the Ameri-
can romancer; in fact, his first editions of “Pym *
and the “Tales " were brought out in London close
upon their appearance in New York. Since his death
many editions of his works, either in part or in whole,
have been published in Great Britain, all of which, with
the exception of one reprint of the poems, as well as
all of those in the United States, have followed the
imperfect text of the first inclusive collection. Ger-
many, watchful of English literature and inherently
romantic, was the next country to reprint the Tales,
not only as translated but in their original text. But
the genius of Poe was to find the most sympathetic
recognition in Paris, where he was really introduced,
although selections from his writings were already in
the French, by the author of Les Fleurs du Mal — a
man so possessed with Poe’s spirit as to force one
biographer to declare that the American author held
in the intellectual existence of his translator so large
a place that it was indispensable to dwell upon it, even
apart from the biographical coincidences, in any esti-
mation of Baudelaire’s views; and, again, that the
names of the two men were thenceforth so inseparable
that the memory of one immediately called up the
thought of the other, — for, he adds ingenuously, it
even seems at times, “que les idées de l’Américain appar-
tiennent en propre au Français.” Poe’s chief influence
upon Baudelaire’s own productions relates to poetry,
and is worth attention hereafter, in view of Baudelaire
as a precursor of the modern French school. But it is
true that Baudelaire moved and talked with no other
thought than that of his transatlantic master, and de-
cxxviii
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
voted himself to reproducing the latter’s works. This,
Gautier says, was what made his own name famous;
for in France, he intimates (this was in '68), poets are
only read in their prose, and through this prose their
poems become known. However this might then have
been, Baudelaire’s almost complete translations of Poe’s
Tales and speculative writings, appearing from 1855
to 1865, are a miracle of accuracy and effective grace.
Through his devotion, and with the means afforded
by the perfect coördination of the French language,
the versions, while absolutely faithful, not only jus-
tify Gautier’s statement that they produce the effect
of original works, but almost incline us to surmise, with
Charles Asselineau, that the text even gains in some
respects by such an interpretation. It is not only ren-
dered exquisitely, but properly revised, and on the
whole obtains an editing such as Poe, for half a cen-
tury, has never received in his own country. No later
French translations could supersede Baudelaire’s, nor
have any been attempted. They have gone through
many editions, and are still in demand; the result being
that in France Poe is distinctly esteemed. His rating
there, as a literary artist, may result somewhat from
that trait, common to us all, which made Emerson think
highly of disciples who rehearsed to him his own ideas
embodied in new terms. It did not take long for Ma-
drid to discover Poe, after Paris had found him out, a
Spanish version of his select tales appearing, as His-
torias Eartraordinarias, in 1858–59. The first Italian
translation, Racconti Incredibili, was published in
1876. Poe could teach the Continental writers very
little in the art of perfecting their own romance. His
analytic tales made a great impression. Their rati-
ocination, applied to the solution of criminal mysteries,
captured the Parisian fancy more readily than the qual-
CXXIX
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
ity of his other prose writings. Since then, detective
stories of high and low degree have been written in
France, England, and America; but no amateur, with
a genius approximating to that of “Monsieur C. Au-
guste Dupin,” has appeared, and had his exploits re-
counted, in our own or foreign literature.
The romancer, then, figures as the progenitor of
our crypto-analytic fiction. As a poetic tale-writer,
whose mind was haunted by artistic dreams, but who
flourished in a country where constructive beauty was
yet to come, he still excites a more than common inter-
est; although his computable influence is not propor-
tioned to the taking-up of his name, the idealization of
his traits and career, in more lands than one. His
romances, in truth, were a bright and burning row of
cressets set up at the terminus, rather than at the be-
ginning, of a literary era. If there was any impulse to
copy them, it was disobeyed under the stress of that
incoming naturalism which relegated their phase to an
artificial past. Since their author’s time, the “short
story" has been engrafted upon Anglo-Saxon liter-
ature, but scarcely in consequence of his examples; it is
not Poe’s short story, not that of the French and cog-
nate schools, — though our writers gain more than
Poe’s equipment, from the modern blending of all cults
and methods. The short story of England and Amer-
ica is specifically English or American, except as writ-
ten by the few who are enamoured of the French mode,
and who have the desire and the grace to rival it.
What remains, and may be of higher value, is the
indirect effect, upon our present literature, of Poe's
theory and career. He started a revolt against “the
didactic,” and was our national propagandist of the
now hackneyed formula, Art for Art’s sake, and of the
creed that in perfect beauty consists the fullest truth.
CXXX
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALES
The question of his influence in this wise, upon later
enthusiasts, would lead us forthwith into the by-ways
of personal confession, of individual experience and
result.
The winnow of time, no less, has set apart the writ-
ings of Poe from almost the entire yield of those Ameri-
can contemporaries whose lives were not prolonged far
beyond his own. These Tales, which now have been ex-
amined with the respect due to works that have taken
rank in literary annals, were written by an ill-paid
journalist, at a time when his own country depended
on foreign spoliation for its imaginative reading. When
they show him at his worst, his exigencies justly may be
borne in mind; if his style seems often formless and
disjointed, it must be remembered that he wrote before
the days of Arnold and Pater, of Flaubert, Daudet, and
Maupassant. He has left us something of his best; and,
when all is said, there are few more beautiful harmonies
of thought and sound and color than those presented in
“Shadow,” “Silence,” and “Eleonora,” or in “The
Masque of the Red Death; ” nor is there any such a tril-
ogy, in our own literature, of prose romances taking
wings of poetry at their will, as “Ligeia,” “The As-
signation,” and “The Fall of the House of Usher.”
Through all of these, moreover, there is an impression
of some dramatic energy in reserve, which, had it not
seemed otherwise to the fates, might have enabled this
Numpholeptos to escape from out his “pallid limit” of
the moonbeam, - even to
“pass that goal,
Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge,
And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge
The hesitating pallor on to prime
Of dawn.”
cxxxi
I
ROMLANCES OF DEATH
OVE YTURE
SHADOW — PARABLE
Yeal though I walk through e valley of the Shadow.
PsALM of DAVID.
E who read are still as ong the living; but
I who write shall have long since gone my
way into the region of shadows. For indeed
strange things shall happen, and secret things
be known, and many centuries shall pass away,
ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when
seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to
doubt, and yet a few who will find much to
ponder upon in the characters here graven with
a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of
feelings more intense than terror for which there
is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies
and signs had taken place, and far and wide,
over sea and land, the black wings of the
Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, never-
theless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown
that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and
to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was
evident that now had arrived the alternation of
that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when,
3
ROMANCES OF DEATH
at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is
conjoined with the red ring of the terrible
Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I
mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not
only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the
Souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within
the walls of a noble hall in a dim city called
Ptolemais, we sat at night, a company of seven.
And to our chamber there was no entrance save
by a lofty door of brass; and the door was
fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
rare workmanship, was fastened from within.
Plack draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut
out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
the peopleless streets — but the boding and the
memory of Evil, they would not be so excluded.
There were things around us and about of which
I can render no distinct account — things ma-
terial and spiritual: heaviness in the atmosphere,
a sense of Suffocation, anxiety — and, above all,
that terrible state of existence which the nervous
experience when the senses are keenly living and
awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie
dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It
hung upon our limbs, upon the household furni-
ture, upon the goblets from which we drank;
and all things were depressed, and borne down
thereby — all things save only the flames of the
seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
4.
SHADOW — A PARABLE
Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light,
they thus remained burning, all pallid and mo-
tionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
formed upon the round table of ebony at which
we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the
pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
glare in the downcast eyes of his companions.
Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper
way — which was hysterical: and sang the songs
of Anacreon — which are madness; and drank
deeply — although the purple wine reminded us
of blood. For there was yet another tenant of
our chamber in the person of young Zoilus.
Dead and at full length he lay, enshrouded: the
genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he
bore no portion in our mirth, save that his
countenance, distorted with the plague, and his
eyes in which Death had but half extinguished
the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such in-
terest in our merriment as the dead may haply
take in the merriment of those who are to die.
But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the
departed were upon me, still I forced myself not
to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and,
gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the
songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my
songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
off among the sable draperies of the chamber, be-
came weak, and undistinguishable, and so faded
5
ROMANCES OF DEATH
away. And lo! from among those sable draperies
where the sounds of the song departed, there
came forth a dark and undefined shadow — a
shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
might fashion from the figure of a man; but it
was the shadow neither of man, nor of God, nor
of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile
among the draperies of the room, it at length
rested in full view upon the surface of the door
of brass. But the shadow was vague, and form-
less, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither
of man nor of God — neither God of Greece,
nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God.
And the shadow rested upon the brazen door-
way, and under the arch of the entablature
of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any
word, but there became stationary and re-
mained. And the door whereupon the shadow
rested was, if I remember aright, over against
the feet of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But
we, the seven there assembled, having seen the
shadow as it came out from among the draperies,
dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our
eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of
the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos,
speaking some low words, demanded of the
shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the
shadow answered, “I am SHADOW, and my
dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais,
and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which
6
SHADOW — A PARABLE
border upon the foul Charonian canal.” And
then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering,
and aghast: for the tones in the voice of the
shadow were not the tones of any one being, but
of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily
upon our ears in the well remembered and
familiar accents of many thousand departed
friends.
TERRESTRIAL
THE FAILL OF
THE HOUSE OF USHER
Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitót qu'on le touche il résonne.
BÉRANGER.
URING the whole of a dull, dark, and
soundless day in the autumn of the year,
when the clouds hung oppressively low in the
heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback,
through a singularly dreary tract of country; and
at length found myself, as the shades of the
evening drew on, within view of the melancholy
House of Usher. I know not how it was — but,
with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of
insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say in-
sufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any
of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, senti-
ment with which the mind usually receives even
the sternest natural images of the desolate or
terrible. I looked upon the scene before me —
upon the mere house, and the simple landscape
features of the domain, upon the bleak walls,
upon the vacant eye-like windows, upon a few
rank sedges, and upon a few white trunks of
decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul
II
ROMANCES OF DEATH
which I can compare to no earthly sensation more
properly than to the after-dream of the reveller
upon opium: the bitter lapse into every-day life,
the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was
an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart, an
unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goad-
ing of the imagination could torture into aught
of the sublime. What was it — I paused to think
— what was it that so unnerved me in the con-
templation of the House of Usher? It was a
mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with
the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the
unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond
doubt, there are combinations of very simple
natural objects which have the power of thus af-
fecting us, still the analysis of this power lies
among considerations beyond our depth. It was
possible, I reflected, that a mere different ar-
rangement of the particulars of the scene, of the
details of the picture, would be sufficient to
modify, or perhaps to annihilate, its capacity for
sorrowful impression; and acting upon this idea,
I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a
black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by
the dwelling, and gazed down — but with a shud-
der even more thrilling than before — upon the
remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge,
and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and
eye-like windows.
19
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now
proposed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its
proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my
boon companions in boyhood; but many years had
elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, how-
ever, had lately reached me in a distant part of
the country — a letter from him — which in its
wildly importunate nature had admitted of no
other than a personal reply. The MS. gave
evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke
of acute bodily illness, of a mental disorder which
oppressed him, and of an earnest desire to see me,
as his best and indeed his only personal friend,
with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness
of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It
was the manner in which all this, and much more,
was said — it was the apparent heart that went
with his request — which allowed me no room for
hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith
what I still considered a very singular summons.
Although as boys we had been even intimate
associates, yet I really knew little of my friend.
His reserve had been always excessive and ha-
bitual. I was aware, however, that his very an-
cient family had been noted, time out of mind,
for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, display-
ing itself, through long ages, in many works of
exalted art, and manifested of late in repeated
deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as
well as in a passionate devotion to the intrica-
13
ROMANCES OF DEATH
cies perhaps even more than to the orthodox and
easily recognizable beauties, of musical science.
I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact that
the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it
was, had put forth at no period any enduring
branch; in other words, that the entire family lay
in the direct line of descent, and had always, with
very trifling and very temporary variation, so
lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while
running over in thought the perfect keeping of
the character of the premises with the accredited
character of the people, and while speculating
upon the possible influence which the one, in the
long lapse of centuries, might have exercised
upon the other — it was this deficiency, perhaps,
of collateral issue, and the consequent undeviat-
ing transmission from sire to son of the patri-
mony with the name, which had, at length, so
identified the two as to merge the original title of
the estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation
of the “House of Usher”—an appellation which
seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry
who used it, both the family and the family
mansion.
I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat
childish experiment, that of looking down within
the tarn, had been to deepen the first singular im-
pression. There can be no doubt that the con-
sciousness of the rapid increase of my supersti-
tion — for why should I not so term it? — served
14
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I
have long known, is the paradoxical law of all
sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might
have been for this reason only, that, when I again
uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its
image in the pool, there grew in my mind a
strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed,
that I but mention it to show the vivid force of
the sensations which oppressed me. I had so
worked upon my imagination as really to believe
that about the whole mansion and domain there
hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and
their immediate vicinity: an atmosphere which
had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which
had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the
gray wall, and the silent tarn: a pestilent and
mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible,
and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what must have
been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real
aspect of the building. Its principal feature
seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The
discoloration of ages had been great. Minute
fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a
fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all
this was apart from any extraordinary dilapida-
tion. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and
there appeared to be a wild inconsistency be-
tween its still perfect adaptation of parts and the
crumbling condition of the individual stones. In
15
ROMANCES OF DEATH
this there was much that reminded me of the spe-
cious totality of old wood-work which has rotted
for long years in some neglected vault, with no
disturbance from the breath of the external air.
Beyond this indication of extensive decay, how-
ever, the fabric gave little token of instability.
Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might
have discovered a barely perceptible fissure,
which, extending from the roof of the building in
front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag
direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters
of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I rode over a short
causeway to the house. A servant in waiting
took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway
of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence con-
ducted me, in silence, through many dark and
intricate passages in my progress to the studio of
his master. Much that I encountered on the
way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the
vague sentiments of which I have already spoken.
While the objects around me — while the carv-
ings of the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the
walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the
phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled
as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such
as which, I had been accustomed from my infancy
— while I hesitated not to acknowledge how fa-
miliar was all this — I still wondered to find how
unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary im-
16
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
ages were stirring up. On one of the staircases,
I met the physician of the family. His counte-
nance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of
low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me
with trepidation and passed on. The valet now
threw open a door and ushered me into the pres-
ence of his master.
The room in which I found myself was very
large and lofty. The windows were long, nar-
row, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from
the black oaken floor as to be altogether inac-
cessible from within. Feeble gleams of en-
crimsoned light made their way through the trel-
lised panes, and served to render sufficiently dis-
tinct the more prominent objects around; the
eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the re-
moter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of
the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies
hung upon the walls. The general furniture
was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered.
Many books and musical instruments lay scat-
tered about, but failed to give any vitality to the
scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of
sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable
gloom hung over and pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa
on which he had been lying at full length, and
greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had
much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone
cordiality — of the constrained effort of the en-
17
ROMANCES OF DEATH
nuyé man of the world. A glance, however, at
his countenance, convinced me of his perfect
sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments,
while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feel-
ing half of pity, half of awe. Surely man had
never before so terribly altered, in so brief a
period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with
difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the
identity of the wan being before me with the
companion of my early boyhood. Yet the char-
acter of his face had been at all times remarkable.
A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large,
liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips
somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a sur-
passingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate
Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril
unusual in similar formations; a finely moulded
chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a
want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-
like softness and tenuity; these features, with an
inordinate expansion above the regions of the
temple, made up altogether a countenance not
easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere ex-
aggeration of the prevailing character of these
features, and of the expression they were wont to
convey, lay so much of change that I doubted
to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of
the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the
eye, above all things startled and even awed me.
The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow
18
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer tex-
ture, it floated rather than fell about the face,
I could not, even with effort, connect its arabes-
que expression with any idea of simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend I was at once
struck with an incoherence, an inconsistency; and
I soon found this to arise from a series of fee-
ble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual
trepidancy, an excessive nervous agitation. For
something of this nature I had indeed been pre-
pared, no less by his letter than by reminiscences
of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions de-
duced from his peculiar physical conformation
and temperament. His action was alternately
vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly
from a tremulous indecision (when the animal
spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that spe-
cies of energetic concision—that abrupt, weighty,
unhurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation —
that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modu-
lated guttural utterance — which may be ob-
served in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable
eater of opium, during the periods of his most
intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke of the object of my
visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the
solace he expected me to afford him. He en-
tered, at some length, into what he conceived to
be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a
constitutional and a family evil, and one for
19
ROMANCES OF DEATH
which he despaired to find a remedy — a mere
nervous affection, he immediately added, which
would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed
itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of
these, as he detailed them, interested and be-
wildered me; although, perhaps, the terms and
the general manner of the narration had their
weight. He suffered much from a morbid acute-
ness of the senses; the most insipid food was
alone endurable; he could wear only garments of
certain texture; the odors of all flowers were op-
pressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint
light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and
these from stringed instruments, which did not
inspire him with horror.
To an anomalous species of terror I found him
a bounden slave. “I shall perish,” said he, “I
must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus,
and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the
events of the future, not in themselves, but in
their results. I shudder at the thought of any,
even the most trivial, incident, which may oper-
ate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I
have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in
its absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved
— in this pitiable condition, I feel that the period
will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon
life and reason together, in some struggle with
the grim phantasm, FEAR.”
I learned moreover at intervals, and through
20
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
broken and equivocal hints, another singular fea-
ture of his mental condition. He was enchained
by certain superstitious impressions in regard
to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence,
for many years, he had never ventured forth —
in regard to an influence whose supposititious
force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here
to be re-stated — an influence which some pecu-
liarities in the mere form and substance of his
family mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance,
he said, obtained over his spirit — an effect which
the physique of the gray walls and turrets, and
of the dim tarn into which they all looked down,
had, at length, brought about upon the morale
of his existence.
He admitted, however, although with hesita-
tion, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus
afflicted him could be traced to a more natural
and far more palpable origin — to the severe and
long-continued illness, indeed to the evidently
approaching dissolution, of a tenderly beloved
sister — his sole companion for long years, his
last and only relative on earth. “Her decease,”
he said, with a bitterness which I can never for-
get, “would leave him (him the hopeless and
the frail) the last of the ancient race of the
Ushers.” While he spoke, the lady Madeline
(for so was she called) passed slowly through a
remote portion of the apartment, and, without
having noticed my presence, disappeared. I re-
21
ROMANCES OF DEATH
garded her with an utter astonishment not un-
mingled with dread, and yet I found it impos-
sible to account for such feelings. A sensation
of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her
retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed
upon her, my glance sought instinctively and
eagerly the countenance of the brother; but he
had buried his face in his hands, and I could only
perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness
had overspread the emaciated fingers through
which trickled many passionate tears.
The disease of the lady Madeline had long
baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled
apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person,
and frequent although transient affections of
a partially cataleptical character, were the un-
usual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily
borne up against the pressure of her malady, and
had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on
the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the
house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at
night with inexpressible agitation) to the pros-
trating power of the destroyer; and I learned
that the glimpse I had obtained of her person
would thus probably be the last I should ob-
tain — that the lady, at least while living, would
be seen by me no more.
For several days ensuing, her name was un-
mentioned by either Usher or myself; and dur-
ing this period I was busied in earnest endeavors
22
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We
painted and read together; or I listened, as if in
a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speak-
ing guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer
intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into
the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I
perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a
mind from which darkness, as if an inherent
positive quality, poured forth upon all objects
of the moral and physical universe, in one un-
ceasing radiation of gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the
many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the
master of the House of Usher. Yet I should
fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the ex-
act character of the studies, or of the occupa-
tions, in which he involved me, or led me the
way. An excited and highly distempered ideal-
ity threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His
long improvised dirges will ring forever in my
ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in
mind a certain singular perversion and amplifi-
cation of the wild air of the last waltz of Von
Weber. From the paintings over which his
elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch
by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered
the more thrillingly because I shuddered know-
ing not why; — from these paintings (vivid as
their images now are before me) I would in vain
endeavor to educe more than a small portion
23
ROMANCES OF DEATH
which should lie within the compass of merely
written words. By the utter simplicity, by the
nakedness of his designs, he arrested and over-
awed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea,
that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at
least, in the circumstances then surrounding me,
there arose, out of the pure abstractions which
the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his
canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no
shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contempla-
tion of the certainly glowing yet too concrete
reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my
friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of
abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although
feebly, in words. A small picture presented the
interior of an immensely long and rectangular
vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white,
and without interruption or device. Certain ac-
cessory points of the design served well to con-
vey the idea that this excavation lay at an ex-
ceeding depth below the surface of the earth.
No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast
extent, and no torch or other artificial source of
light was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays
rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a
ghastly and inappropriate splendor.
I have just spoken of that morbid condition
of the auditory nerve which rendered all music
intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of
24
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
certain effects of stringed instruments. It was,
perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus con-
fined himself upon the guitar, which gave birth,
in great measure, to the fantastic character of his
performances. But the fervid facility of his im-
promptus could not be so accounted for. They
must have been, and were, in the notes, as well
as in the words of his wild fantasias (for he not
unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed
verbal improvisations), the result of that intense
mental collectedness and concentration to which
I have previously alluded as observable only in
particular moments of the highest artificial ex-
citement. The words of one of these rhapsodies
I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the
more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it,
because, in the under or mystic current of its
meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the
first time, a full consciousness, on the part of
Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon
her throne. The verses, which were entitled
“The Haunted Palace,” ran very nearly, if not
accurately, thus: —
I
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace —
Radiant palace — reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there;
25
ROMANCES OF DEATH
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II
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 odor went away.
III
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunéd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene,
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV
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.
26
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
V
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI
And travellers now within that valley
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh — but smile no more.
I well remember that suggestions arising from
this ballad led us into a train of thought, wherein
there became manifest an opinion of Usher's
which I mention not so much on account of its
novelty, (for other men have thought thus,) as
on account of the pertinacity with which he main-
tained it. This opinion, in its general form, was
that of the sentience of all vegetable things. But
in his disordered fancy the idea had assumed a
more daring character, and trespassed, under
certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorgan-
* Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the
Bishop of Landaff. — See “Chemical Essays,” vol. v.
27
ROMANCES OF DEATH
ization. I lack words to express the full extent,
or the earnest abandom of his persuasion. The
belief, however, was connected (as I have pre-
viously hinted) with the gray stones of the home
of his forefathers. The conditions of the sen-
tience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the
method of collocation of these stones — in the
order of their arrangement, as well as in that of
the many fungi which overspread them, and of
the decayed trees which stood around — above
all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this
arrangement, and in its reduplication in the
still waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the evi-
dence of the sentience — was to be seen, he
said (and I here started as he spoke), in the
gradual yet certain condensation of an atmos-
phere of their own about the waters and the
walls. The result was discoverable, he added,
in that silent, yet importunate and terrible in-
fluence which for centuries had moulded the des-
tinies of his family, and which made him what I
now saw him — what he was. Such opinions
need no comment, and I will make none.
Our books — the books which, for years, had
formed no small portion of the mental existence
of the invalid — were, as might be supposed, in
strict keeping with this character of phantasm.
We pored together over such works as the Ver-
vert and Chartreuse of Gresset; the Belphegor
of Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of Swed-
28
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
enborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas
Klimm by Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert
Flud, of Jean D'Indaginé, and of De la Cham-
bre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of
Tieck; and the City of the Sun of Campanella.
One favorite volume was a small octavo edition
of the Directorium Inquisitorum, by the Domin-
ican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were pas-
sages in Pomponius Mela, about the old African
Satyrs and AEgipans, over which Usher would sit
dreaming for hours. His chief delight, how-
ever, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly
rare and curious book in quarto Gothic — the
manual of a forgotten church—the Vigiliae
Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Magun-
timae.
I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of
this work, and of its probable influence upon the
hypochondriac, when one evening, having in-
formed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was
no more, he stated his intention of preserving
her corpse for a fortnight, (previously to its
final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults
within the main walls of the building. The
worldly reason, however, assigned for this singu-
lar proceeding, was one which I did not feel at
liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to
his resolution (so he told me) by consideration
of the unusual character of the malady of the
deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries
29
ROMANCES OF DEATH
on the part of her medical men, and of the re-
mote and exposed situation of the burial-ground
of the family. I will not deny that when I called
to mind the sinister countenance of the person
whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of
my arrival at the house, I had no desire to op-
pose what I regarded as at best but a harmless,
and by no means an unnatural, precaution.
At the request of Usher, I personally aided
him in the arrangements for the temporary en-
tombment. The body having been encoffined,
we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in
which we placed it (and which had been so long
unopened that our torches, half smothered in its
oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportu-
nity for investigation) was small, damp, and en-
tirely without means of admission for light; ly-
ing, at great depth, immediately beneath that
portion of the building in which was my own
sleeping apartment. It had been used, appar-
ently, in remote feudal times, for the worst pur-
poses of a donjon-keep, and in later days as a
place of deposit for powder, or some other highly
combustible substance, as a portion of its floor,
and the whole interior of a long archway through
which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with
copper. The door, of massive iron, had been,
also, similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it
moved upon its hinges.
30
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
Having deposited our mournful burden upon
tressels within this region of horror, we partially
turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin,
and looked upon the face of the tenant. A strik-
ing similitude between the brother and sister now
first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining,
perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few
words from which I learned that the deceased
and himself had been twins, and that sympathies
of a scarcely intelligible nature had always ex-
isted between them. Our glances, however,
rested not long upon the dead — for we could not
regard her unawed. The disease which had thus
entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had
left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly catalep-
tical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon
the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously
lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible
in death. We replaced and screwed down the
lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made
our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy
apartments of the upper portion of the house.
And now, some days of bitter grief having
elapsed, an observable change came over the
features of the mental disorder of my friend.
His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordi-
nary occupations were neglected or forgotten.
He roamed from chamber to chamber with hur-
ried, unequal, and objectless step. The pal-
lor of his countenance had assumed, if possible,
31
ROMANCES OF DEATH
a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness of
his eye had utterly gone out. The once oc-
casional huskiness of his tone was heard no more;
and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror,
habitually characterized his utterance. There
were times, indeed, when I thought his unceas-
ingly agitated mind was laboring with some op-
pressive secret, to divulge which he struggled
for the necessary courage. At times, again, I
was obliged to resolve all into the mere inex-
plicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him
gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an atti-
tude of the profoundest attention, as if listening
to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder
that his condition terrified — that it infected me.
I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain de-
grees, the wild influences of his own fantastic
yet impressive superstitions.
It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late
in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the
placing of the lady Madeline within the donjon,
that I experienced the full power of such feel-
ings. Sleep came not near my couch, while the
hours waned and waned away. I struggled to
reason off the nervousness which had dominion
over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if
not all, of what I felt was due to the bewilder-
ing influence of the gloomy furniture of the
room — of the dark and tattered draperies which,
tortured into motion by the breath of a rising
32
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the
walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations
of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An
irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my
frame; and at length there sat upon my very
heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm.
Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I
uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering
earnestly within the intense darkness of the
chamber, hearkened — I know not why, except
that an instinctive spirit prompted me — to cer-
tain low and indefinite sounds which came,
through the pauses of the storm, at long inter-
vals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an
intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet
unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste,
(for I felt that I should sleep no more during
the night,) and endeavored to arouse myself
from the pitiable condition into which I had
fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the
apartment.
I had taken but few turns in this manner,
when a light step on an adjoining staircase ar-
rested my attention. I presently recognized it
as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he
rapped with a gentle touch at my door, and en-
tered, bearing a lamp. His countenance was,
as usual, cadaverously wan—but, moreover,
there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes —
an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole de-
33
ROMANCES OF DEATH
meanor. His air appalled me — but anything
was preferable to the solitude which I had so long
endured, and I even welcomed his presence as
a relief.
“And you have not seen it?” he said ab-
ruptly, after having stared about him for some
moments in silence — “you have not then seen
it? — but, stay! You shall.” Thus speaking,
and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hur-
ried to one of the casements, and threw it freely
open to the storm.
The impetuous fury of the entering gust
nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed,
a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and
one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty.
A whirlwind had apparently collected its force
in our vicinity; for there were frequent and vio-
lent alterations in the direction of the wind; and
the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung
so low as to press upon the turrets of the house)
did not prevent our perceiving the life-like ve-
locity with which they flew careering from all
points against each other, without passing away
into the distance. I say that even their exceed-
ing density did not prevent our perceiving this;
yet we had no glimpse of the moon or stars, nor
was there any flashing forth of the lightning.
But the under surfaces of the huge masses of
agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects
immediately around us, were glowing in the un-
34
THE FAILL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
natural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly
visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and
enshrouded the mansion.
“You must not — you shall not behold this!”
said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him with
a gentle violence from the window to a seat.
“These appearances, which bewilder you, are
merely electrical phenomena not uncommon —
or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in
the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this
casement; the air is chilling and dangerous to
your frame. Here is one of your favorite ro-
mances. I will read, and you shall listen; — and
so we will pass away this terrible night together.”
The antique volume which I had taken up was
the “Mad Trist” of Sir Launcelot Canning;
but I had called it a favorite of Usher's more in
sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is
little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity
which could have had interest for the lofty and
spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, how-
ever, the only book immediately at hand; and I
indulged a vague hope that the excitement which
now agitated the hypochondriac might find re-
lief (for the history of mental disorder is full
of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of
the folly which I should read. Could I have
judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of
vivacity with which he hearkened, or apparently
hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might well
35
ROMANCES OF DEATH
have congratulated myself upon the success of
my design.
I had arrived at that well-known portion of
the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist,
having sought in vain for peaceable admission
into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make
good an entrance by force. Here, it will be
remembered, the words of the narrative run
thus: — -
“And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty
heart, and who was now mighty withal, on account of
the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken,
waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, in
sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feel-
ing the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising
of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and with
blows made quickly room in the plankings of the door
for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling therewith
sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder,
that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood
alarumed and reverberated throughout the forest.”
At the termination of this sentence I started,
and for a moment paused; for it appeared to me
(although I at once concluded that my excited
fancy had deceived me) — it appeared to me
that from some very remote portion of the man-
sion there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what
might have been, in its exact similarity of char-
acter, the echo (but a stifled and dull one cer-
tainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound
which Sir Launcelot had so particularly de-
36
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
scribed. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence
alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid
the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and
the ordinary commingled noises of the still in-
creasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing,
surely, which should have interested or disturbed
me. I continued the story: —
“But the good champion Ethelred, now entering
within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to per-
ceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the
stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious de-
meanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard be-
fore a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon
the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this
legend enwritten —
Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win.
And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the
head of the dragon, which fell before him, and gave up
his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and
withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close his
ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the
like whereof was never before heard.”
Here again I paused abruptly, and now with
a feeling of wild amazement; for there could be
no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did
actually hear (although from what direction it
proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low
and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted,
and most unusual screaming or grating sound—
37
ROMANCES OF DEATH
the exact counterpart of what my fancy had con-
jured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as
described by the romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occur-
rence of this second and most extraordinary coin-
cidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in
which wonder and extreme terror were pre-
dominant, I still retained sufficient presence of
mind to avoid exciting, by any observation,
the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I
was by no means certain that he had noticed
the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a
strange alteration had during the last few min-
utes taken place in his demeanor. From a posi-
tion fronting my own, he had gradually brought
round his chair, so as to sit with his face to the
door of the chamber; and thus I could but parti-
ally perceive his features, although I saw that his
lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly.
His head had dropped upon his breast — yet I
knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and
rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance
of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was
at variance with this idea — for he rocked from
side to side with a gentle yet constant and uni-
form sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all
this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot,
which thus proceeded:—
“And now, the champion, having escaped from the
terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the
38

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USEHER
brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchant-
ment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out
of the way before him, and approached valorously over
the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was
upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full
coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor,
with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.”
No sooner had these syllables passed my lips,
than — as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the
moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver —
I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic
and clangorous, yet apparently muffled rever-
beration. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my
feet; but the measured rocking movement of
Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in
which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before
him, and throughout his whole countenance there
reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my
hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong
shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile
quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke
in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if
unconscious of my presence. Bending closely
over him, I at length drank in the hideous im-
port of his words.
“Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have
heard it. Long — long — long — many minutes,
many hours, many days, have I heard it — yet
I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable wretch that
I am!— I dared not — I dared not speak! We
39
ROMANCES OF DEATH
have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that
my senses were acute? I now tell you that I
heard her first feeble movements in the hollow
coffin. I heard them—many, many days ago —
yet I dared not — I dared not speak! And now
—to-night — Ethelred—ha! hal—the break-
ing of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the
dragon, and the clangor of the shield! — say,
rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating
of the iron hinges of her prison, and her strug-
gles within the coppered archway of the vault!
Oh, whither shall I fly? Will she not be here
anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my
haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the
stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and hor-
rible beating of her heart? Madman!”—here
he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out
his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving
up his soul — “Madman! I tell you that she
now stands without the door!”
As if in the superhuman energy of his utter-
ance there had been found the potency of a spell,
the huge antique panels to which the speaker
pointed threw slowly back, upon the instant,
their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the
work of the rushing gust — but then without
those doors there did stand the lofty and en-
shrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher.
There was blood upon her white robes, and the
evidence of some bitter struggle upon every por-
40
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
tion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she
remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon
the threshold — then, with a low moaning cry,
fell heavily inward upon the person of her
brother, and, in her violent and now final death-
agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a
victim to the terrors he had anticipated.
From that chamber, and from that mansion, I
fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its
wrath as I found myself crossing the old cause-
way. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild
light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so
unusual could have issued; for the vast house and
its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance
was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon,
which now shone vividly through that once
barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before
spoken as extending from the roof of the build-
ing, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I
gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—there came
a fierce breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb
of the satellite burst at once upon my sight —
my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rush-
ing asunder — there was a long tumultuous
shouting sound like the voice of a thousand
waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my
feet closed sullenly and silently over the frag-
ments of the “House of Usher.”
41
BERENICE
Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem,
curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas. – EBN ZAIAT.
ISERY is manifold. The wretchedness
of earth is multiform. Overreaching the
wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as
various as the hues of that arch — as distinct too,
yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the
wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that
from beauty I have derived a type of unloveli-
ness? — from the covenant of peace, a simile of
sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence
of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born.
Bither the memory of past bliss is the anguish
of to-day, or the agonies which are have their
origin in the ecstasies which might have been.
My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my
family I will not mention. Yet there are no
towers in the land more time-honored than my
gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has
been called a race of visionaries; and in many
striking particulars — in the character of the
family mansion, in the frescos of the chief saloon,
in the tapestries of the dormitories, in the chisel-
ling of some buttresses in the armory, but more
especially in the gallery of antique paintings, in
42
BERENICE
the fashion of the library chamber, and, lastly,
in the very peculiar nature of the library's con-
tents — there is more than sufficient evidence to
warrant the belief.
The recollections of my earliest years are con-
nected with that chamber, and with its volumes
— of which latter I will say no more. Here died
my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere
idleness to say that I had not lived before — that
the soul has no previous existence. You deny
it? — let us not argue the matter. Convinced
myself, I seek not to convince. There is, how-
ever, a remembrance of aerial forms, of spiritual
and meaning eyes, of sounds musical yet sad;
a remembrance which will not be excluded; a
memory like a shadow — vague, variable, indefi-
nite, unsteady — and like a shadow, too, in the
impossibility of my getting rid of it while the
sunlight of my reason shall exist.
In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking
from the long night of what seemed, but was
not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of
fairy-land, into a palace of imagination, into the
wild dominions of monastic thought and erudi-
tion, it is not singular that I gazed around me
with a startled and ardent eye—that I loitered
away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my
youth in revery; but it is singular that, as years
rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me
still in the mansion of my fathers, it is wonderful
43
ROMANCES OF DEATH
what stagnation there fell upon the springs of
my life — wonderful how total an inversion took
place in the character of my commonest thought.
The realities of the world affected me as visions,
and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the
land of dreams became, in turn, not the material
of my every-day existence, but in very deed that
existence utterly and solely in itself.
Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up
together in my paternal halls. Yet differently
we grew — I, ill of health, and buried in gloom
— she, agile, graceful, and overflowing with
energy; hers, the ramble on the hillside — mine,
the studies of the cloister; I, living within my
own heart, and addicted, body and soul, to
the most intense and painful meditation — she,
roaming carelessly through life, with no thought
of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight
of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! — I call
upon her name — Berenicel — and from the
gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous
recollections are startled at the sound. Ah,
vividly is her image before me now, as in the
early days of her light-heartedness and joy! O
gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! O sylph amid
the shrubberies of Arnheim! O Naiad among
its fountains! And then — then all is mystery
and terror, and a tale which should not be told.
Disease, a fatal disease, fell like the simoon upon
44
BERENICE
her frame; and, even while I gazed upon her, the
spirit of change swept over her, pervading her
mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a
manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing
even the identity of her person. Alas! the de-
stroyer came and went: and the victim — where
was she? I knew her not — or knew her no
longer as Berenice!
Among the numerous train of maladies super-
induced by that fatal and primary one which ef-
fected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the
moral and physical being of my cousin, may be
mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate
in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfre-
quently terminating in trance itself — trance
very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and
from which her manner of recovery was in most
instances startlingly abrupt. In the mean time,
my own disease — for I have been told that I
should call it by no other appellation — my own
disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and as-
sumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel
and extraordinary form, hourly and momently
gaining vigor, and at length obtaining over
me the most incomprehensible ascendency. This
monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a
morbid irritability of those properties of the
mind in metaphysical science termed the atten-
tive. It is more than probable that I am not
understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no
45
ROMANCES OF DEATH
manner possible to convey to the mind of the
merely general reader, an adequate idea of that
nervous intensity of interest with which, in my
case, the powers of meditation (not to speak
technically) busied and buried themselves, in the
contemplation of even the most ordinary objects
of the universe.
To muse for long unwearied hours, with my
attention riveted to some frivolous device on the
margin or in the typography of a book; to be-
come absorbed, for the better part of a summer's
day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the
tapestry or upon the floor; to lose myself, for
an entire night, in watching the steady flame of a
lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away
whole days over the perfume of a flower; to re-
peat, monotonously, some common word, until
the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased
to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to lose
all sense of motion or physical existence, by
means of absolute bodily quiescence long and ob-
stinately persevered in: such were a few of the
most common and least pernicious vagaries in-
duced by a condition of the mental faculties, not,
indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bid-
ding defiance to anything like analysis or expla-
nation.
Yet let me not be misapprehended. The un-
due, earnest, and morbid attention, thus excited
by objects in their own nature frivolous, must
46
BERENICE
not be confounded in character with that rumi-
nating propensity common to all mankind, and
more especially indulged in by persons of ardent
imagination. It was not even, as might be at
first supposed, an extreme condition, or exag-
geration of such propensity, but primarily and
essentially distinct and different. In the one
instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being inter-
ested by an object usually not frivolous, imper-
ceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness
of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom,
until, at the conclusion of a day-dream often re-
plete with luaury, he finds the incitamentum, or
first cause of his musings, entirely vanished and
forgotten. In my case, the primary object was
invariably frivolous, although assuming, through
the medium of my distempered vision, a re-
fracted and unreal importance. Few deductions,
if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously
returning in upon the original object as a centre.
The meditations were never pleasurable; and, at
the termination of the revery, the first cause, so
far from being out of sight, had attained that
supernaturally exaggerated interest which was
the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word,
the powers of mind more particularly exercised
were, with me, as I have said before, the attentive,
and are, with the day-dreamer, the speculative.
My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually u/
serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be
47
ROMANCES OF DEATH
perceived, largely, in their imaginative and in-
consequential nature, of the characteristic quali-
ties of the disorder itself. I well remember,
among others, the treatise of the noble Italian,
Coelius Secundus Curio, “De Amplitudine Beati
Regni Dei; ” Saint Austin’s great work, “The
City of God; ” and Tertullian’s “De Carne
Christi,” in which the paradoxical sentence,
“Mortuus est Dei filius; credibile est quia
ineptum est; et sepultus resurrearit; certum est
quia impossibile,” — occupied my undivided time,
for many weeks of laborious and fruitless inves-
tigation.
Thus it will appear that, shaken from its
balance only by trivial things, my reason bore
resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by
Ptolemy Hephestion, which, steadily resisting
the attacks of human violence and the fiercer
fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only
to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And
although, to a careless thinker, it might appear
a matter beyond doubt that the alteration pro-
duced by her unhappy malady, in the moral con-
dition of Berenice, would afford me many objects
for the exercise of that intense and abnormal
meditation whose nature I have been at some
trouble in explaining, yet such was not in any
degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my
infirmity, her calmity indeed gave me pain, and,
taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her
48
BERENICE
fair and gentle life, I did not fail to ponder
frequently and bitterly upon the wonder-work-
ing means by which so strange a revolution had
been so suddenly brought to pass. But these
reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my
disease, and were such as would have occurred,
under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass
of mankind. True to its own character, my dis-
order revelled in the less important but more
startling changes wrought in the physical frame
of Berenice — in the singular and most appalling
distortion of her personal identity.
During the brightest days of her unparalleled
beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In
the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings
with me had never been of the heart, and my
passions always were of the mind. Through
the gray of the early morning, among the
trellised shadows of the forest at noonday, and
in the silence of my library at night, she had
flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her, not as
the living and breathing Berenice, but as the
Berenice of a dream; not as a being of the
earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such
a being; not as a thing to admire, but to
analyze; not as an object of love, but as the
theme of the most abstruse although desultory
speculation. And now — now I shuddered in
her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet,
bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate con-
49
ROMANCES OF DEATH
dition, I called to mind that she had loved me
long, and in an evil moment I spoke to her of
marriage.
And at length the period of our nuptials was
approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the
winter of the year — one of those unseasonably
warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse
of the beautiful Halcyon, *— I sat, (and sat, as
I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the
library. But, uplifting my eyes, I saw that
Berenice stood before me.
Was it my own excited imagination — or the
misty influence of the atmosphere — or the un-
certain twilight of the chamber — or the gray
draperies which fell around her figure — that
caused in it so vacillating and indistinct an out-
line? I could not tell. She spoke no word; and
I — not for worlds could I have uttered a
syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame;
a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me;
a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and,
sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some
time breathless and motionless, with my eyes
riveted upon her person. Alas! its emaciation
was excessive, and not one vestige of the former
being lurked in any single line of the contour.
* “For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice
seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and
temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon.”
SIMONIDEs.
50
BERENICE
My burning glances at length fell upon the
face.
The forehead was high, and very pale, and
singularly placid; and the once jetty hair fell
partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow
temples with innumerable ringlets, now of a
vivid yellow, and jarring discordantly, in their
fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy
of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and
lustreless, and seemingly pupilless, and I shrank
involuntarily from their glassy stare to the con-
templation of the thin and shrunken lips. They
parted; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the
teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed them-
selves slowly to my view. Would to God that I
had never beheld them, or that, having done so,
I had died!
The shutting of a door disturbed me, and,
looking up, I found that my cousin had departed
from the chamber. But from the disordered
chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed,
and would not be driven away, the white and
ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a speck on
their surface, not a shade on their enamel, not an
indenture in their edges, but what that brief
period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon
my memory. I saw them now even more une-
quivocally than I beheld them then. The teeth!
— the teeth !—they were here, and there, and
- 51
ROMANCES OF DEATH
everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me;
long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale
lips writhing about them, as in the very moment
of their first terrible development. Then came
the full fury of my monomania, and I struggled
in vain against its strange and irresistible in-
fluence. In the multiplied objects of the external
world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For
these I longed with a frenzied desire. All other
matters and all different interests became ab-
sorbed in their single contemplation. They —
they alone were present to the mental eye, and
they, in their sole individuality, became the
essence of my mental life. I held them in every
light. I turned them in every attitude. I sur-
veyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their
peculiarities. I pondered upon their conforma-
tion. I mused upon the alteration in their nature.
I shuddered as I assigned to them, in imagination,
a sensitive and sentient power, and, even when
unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral ex-
pression. Of Mademoiselle Sallé it has been well
said, “Que tous ses pas Étaient des sentiments,”
and of Berenice I more seriously believed que
toutes ses dents Étaient des idées. Des idées! —
ah, here was the idiotic thought that destroyed
me! Des idées! — ah, therefore it was that I
coveted them so madly! I felt that their posses-
sion could alone ever restore me to peace, in giv-
ing me back to reason.
52
BERENICE
And the evening closed in upon me thus —.
and then the darkness came, and tarried, and
went — and the day again dawned — and the
mists of a second night were now gathering
around—and still Isat motionless in that solitary
room — and still I sat buried in meditation —
and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained
its terrible ascendency, as, with the most vivid
and hideous distinctness, it floated about amid
the changing lights and shadows of the chamber.
At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry
as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a
pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices,
intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow
or of pain. I arose from my seat and, throwing
open one of the doors of the library, saw stand-
ing out in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all
in tears, who told me that Berenice was — no
more! She had been seized with epilepsy in the
early morning, and now, at the closing in of the
night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all
the preparations for the burial were completed.
I found myself sitting in the library, and again
sitting there alone. It seemed that I had newly
awakened from a confused and exciting dream.
I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well
aware that, since the setting of the sun, Berenice
had been interred. But of that dreary period
which intervened I had no positive, at least no
53
ROMANCES OF DEATH
definite, comprehension. Yet its memory was
replete with horror — horror more horrible from
being vague, and terror more terrible from
ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the rec-
ord of my existence, written all over with dim,
and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I
strived to decipher them, but in vain; while ever
and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the
shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed
to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed
— what was it? I asked myself the question
aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber
answered me, – “What was it?”
On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near
it lay a little box. It was of no remarkable char-
acter, and I had seen it frequently before, for it
was the property of the family physician; but
how came it there, upon my table, and why did I
shudder in regarding it? These things were in no
manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at
length dropped to the open pages of a book, and
to a sentence underscored therein. The words
were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn
Zaiat: —“Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum.
amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore
levatas.” Why, then, as I perused them, did the
hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the
blood of my body become congealed within my
veins.
There came a light tap at the library door —
54
IBERENICE
and, pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered
upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror,
and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky,
and very low. What said he? — some broken
sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry dis-
turbing the silence of the night – of the gather-
ing together of the household — of a search in
the direction of the sound; and then his tones
grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of
a violated grave — of a disfigured body en-
shrouded, yet still breathing — still palpitating
— still alive!
He pointed to my garments; they were muddy
and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took
me gently by the hand: it was indented with the
impress of human nails. He directed my atten-
tion to some object against the wall. I looked at
it for some minutes: it was a spade. With a
shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the
box that lay upon it. But I could not force it
open; and, in my tremor, it slipped from my
hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces; and
from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out
some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled
with thirty-two small, white, and ivory-looking
substances that were scattered to and fro about
the floor.
55
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
HE chateau into which my valet had ven-
tured to make forcible entrance, rather
than permit me, in my desperately wounded con-
dition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of
those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur
which have so long frowned among the Apen-
nines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs.
Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been tem-
porarily and very lately abandoned. We estab-
lished ourselves in one of the smallest and least
sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a
remote turret of the building. Its decorations
were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls
were hung with tapestry and bedecked with mani-
fold and multiform armorial trophies, together
with an unusually great number of very spirited
modern paintings in frames of rich golden
arabesque. In these paintings, which depended
from the walls not only in their main surfaces,
but in very many nooks which the bizarre archi-
tecture of the chateau rendered necessary — in
these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps,
had caused me to take deep interest; so that I
bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the
56
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
room — since it was already night, to light the
tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the
head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide
the fringed curtains of black velvet which en-
veloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that
I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least
alternately to the contemplation of these pictures,
and the perusal of a small volume which had been
found upon the pillow, and which purported to
criticise and describe them.
Long — long I read—and devoutly, de-
votedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the
hours flew by, and the deep midnight came. The
position of the candelabrum displeased me, and
outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than
disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as
to throw its rays more fully upon the book.
But the action produced an effect altogether
unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles
(for there were many) now fell within a niche of
the room which had hitherto been thrown into
deep shade by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in
vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was
the portrait of a young girl just ripening into
womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly,
and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not
at first apparent even to my own perception.
But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over
in mind my reason for so shutting them. It was
an impulsive movement to gain time for thought
57
ROMANCES OF DEATH
— to make sure that my vision had not deceived
me — to calm and subdue my fancy for a more
sober and more certain gaze. In a very few
moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.
That I now saw aright I could not and would
not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles
upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the
dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses,
and to startle me at once into waking life.
The portrait, I have already said, was that of
a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders,
done in what is technically termed a vignette
manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of
Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends
of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into the
vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-
ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly
gilded and filagreed in Moresque. As a thing of
art, nothing could be more admirable than the
painting itself. But it could have been neither
the execution of the work, nor the immortal
beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly
and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could
it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half
slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a liv-
ing person. I saw at once that the peculiarities
of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame,
must have instantly dispelled such idea — must
have prevented even its momentary entertain-
ment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I
58
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half
reclining, with my vision riveted upon the por-
trait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found
the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeli-
ness of expression, which, at first startling, finally
confounded, subdued and appalled me. With
deep and reverent awe I replaced the candela-
brum in its former position. The cause of my
deep agitation being thus shut from view, I
sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
paintings and their histories. Turning to the
number which designated the oval portrait, I
there read the vague and quaint words which
follow:—
“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more
lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when
she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, pas-
sionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride
in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more
lovely than full of glee: all light and smiles, and frolic-
some as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all
things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dread-
ing only the palette and brushes and other untoward
instruments which deprived her of the countenance of
her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to
hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his
young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat
meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber
where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from
overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work,
which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day.
59
ROMANCES OF DEATH
And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who
became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that
the light which fell so ghastily in that lone turret
withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who
pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still
on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter
(who had high renown) took a fervid and burning
pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to de-
pict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dis-
pirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the
portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a
mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the
painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted
so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew
nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into
the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the
ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas
rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And
he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the
canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate be-
side him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth
and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again
flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp.
And then the brush was given, and then the tint was
placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood en-
tranced before the work which he had wrought; but in
the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, “This
is indeed Life itself!” turned suddenly to regard his
beloved:— She was dead!” -
ſ
60
MORELLA
Airó kağ' airó piet” airoij, Auovoetóēc àei Öv.
Itself, by itself solely, on E everlastingly, and single.
PLATo: Symposium, 211, B, XXIX.
ITH a feeling of deep yet most singular
affection I regarded my friend Morella.
Thrown by accident into her society many years
ago, my soul, from our first meeting, burned
with fires it had never before known; but the fires
were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to
my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could
in no manner define their unusual meaning, or
regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and
fate bound us together at the altar; and I never
spoke of passion, nor thought of love. She, how-
ever, shunned society, and, attaching herself to
me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness
to wonder; — it is a happiness to dream.
Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope
to live, her talents were of no common order —
her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this,
and, in many matters, became her pupil. I soon,
however, found that, perhaps on account of her
Presburg education, she placed before me a num-
ber of those mystical writings which are usually
considered the mere dross of the early German
61
ROMANCES OF DEATH
literature. These, for what reason I could not
imagine, were her favorite and constant study —
and that, in process of time they became my own,
should be attributed to the simple but effectual
influence of habit and example.
In all this, if I err not, my reason had little
to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were
in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was
any tincture of the mysticism which I read to be
discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either
in my deeds or in my thoughts. Persuaded of
this, I abandoned myself implicitly to the guid-
ance of my wife, and entered with an unflinching
heart into the intricacies of her studies. And
then — then, when, poring over forbidden pages,
I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me —
would Morella place her cold hand upon my
own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philos-
ophy some low, singular words, whose strange
meaning burned themselves in upon my memory.
And then, hour after hour, would I linger by her
side, and dwell upon the music of her voice—
until, at length, its melody was tainted with ter-
ror, and there fell a shadow upon my soul, and
I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too
unearthly tones. And thus joy suddenly faded
into horror, and the most beautiful became the
most hideous, as Hinnom became Gehenna.
It is unnecessary to state the exact character
of those disquisitions which, growing out of the
62
MORELLA
volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a
time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and
myself. By the learned in what might be termed
theological morality they will be readily con-
ceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all
events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism
of Fichte; the modified IIa) tº evecia of the Pytha-
goreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity
as urged by Schelling, were generally the points
of discussion presenting the most of beauty to
the imaginative Morella. That identity which is
termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly de-
fines to consist in the sameness of a rational be-
ing. And since by person we understand an in-
telligent essence having reason, and since there is
a consciousness which always accompanies think-
ing, it is this which makes us all to be that which
we call ourselves—thereby distinguishing us
from other beings that think, and giving us our
personal identity. But the principium individua-
tionis — the notion of that identity which at death
is or is not lost forever — was to me, at all times,
a consideration of intense interest; not more from
the perplexing and exciting nature of its con-
sequences, than from the marked and agitated
manner in which Morella mentioned them.
But, indeed, the time had now arrived when
the mystery of my wife's manner oppressed me as
a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her
wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical
63
ROMANCES OF DEATH
language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes.
And she knew all this, but did not upbraid; she
seemed conscious of my weakness or my folly,
and, Smiling, called it Fate. She seemed, also,
conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the
gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me
no hint or token of its nature. Yet was she
woman, and pined away daily. In time, the
crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and
the blue veins upon the pale forehead became
prominent; and, one instant, my nature melted
into pity, but, in the next, I met the glance of her
meaning eyes, and then my soul sickened and be-
came giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes
downward into some dreary and unfathomable
abyss.
Shall I then say that I longed with an
earnest and consuming desire for the moment of
Morella's decease? I did; but the fragile spirit
clung to its tenement of clay for many days —
for many weeks and irksome months — until my
tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my
mind, and I grew furious through delay, and
with the heart of a fiend cursed the days, and the
hours, and the bitter moments, which seemed to
lengthen and lengthen as her gentle life declined
— like shadows in the dying of the day.
But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay
still in heaven, Morella called me to her bedside.
There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a
64
MORELLA
warm glow upon the waters, and, amid the rich
October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the
firmament had surely fallen.
“It is a day of days,” she said, as I ap-
proached; “a day of all days either to live or die.
It is a fair day for the sons of earth and life —
ah, more fair for the daughters of heaven and
death!”
I kissed her forehead, and she continued: –
“I am dying, yet shall I live.”
“Morella! ”
“The days have never been when thou couldst
love me — but her whom in life thou didst abhor,
in death thou shalt adore.”
“Morella! ”
“I repeat that I am dying. But within me is
a pledge of that affection—ah, how little! —
which thou didst feel for me, Morella. And when
my spirit departs shall the child live — thy child
and mine, Morella’s. But thy days shall be days
of sorrow — that sorrow which is the most lasting
of impressions, as the cypress is the most endur-
ing of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are
over; and joy is not gathered twice in a life, as
the roses of Paestum twice in a year. Thou shalt
no longer, then, play the Teian with time, but,
being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou
shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, as
do the Moslemin at Mecca.”
“Morella!” I cried, “Morella! how knowest
65
ROMANCES OF DEATH
thou this?” — but she turned away her face upon
the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over her
limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no
IſlCTe.
Yet, as she had foretold, her child — to
which in dying she had given birth, and which
breathed not until the mother breathed no more
— her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew
strangely in stature and intellect, and was the
perfect resemblance of her who had departed,
and I loved her with a love more fervent than I
had believed it possible to feel for any denizen of
earth.
But, ere long, the heaven of this pure affec-
tion became darkened, and gloom, and horror,
and grief, swept over it in clouds. I said the
child grew strangely in stature and intelligence.
Strange, indeed, was her rapid increase in bodily
size — but terrible, oh! terrible were the tumul-
tuous thoughts which crowded upon me while
watching the development of her mental being.
Could it be otherwise, when I daily discovered in
the conceptions of the child the adult powers and
faculties of the woman? — when the lessons of
experience fell from the lips of infancy? and
when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I
found hourly gleaming from its full and specula-
tive eye? When, I say, all this became evident
to my appalled senses — when I could no longer
hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those
66
MORELLA
perceptions which trembled to receive it — is it
to be wondered at that suspicions, of a nature
fearful and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or
that my thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild
tales and thrilling theories of the entombed
Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the
world a being whom destiny compelled me to
adore, and in the rigorous seclusion of my home
watched with an agonizing anxiety over all which
concerned the beloved. -
And, as years rolled away, and I gazed, day
after day, upon her holy, and mild, and eloquent
face, and pored over her maturing form, day after
day did I discover new points of resemblance in
the child to her mother, the melancholy and the
dead. And, hourly, grew darker these shadows
of similitude, and more full, and more definite,
and more perplexing, and more hideously terrible
in their aspect. For that her smile was like her
mother's I could bear, but then I shuddered at its
too perfect identity; that her eyes were like
Morella's I could endure, but then they too often
looked down into the depths of my soul with
Morella’s own intense and bewildering meaning.
And in the contour of the high forehead, and in
the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan
fingers which buried themselves therein, and in
the sad musical tones of her speech, and above
all — oh, above all—in the phrases and expres-
sions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the
67
ROMANCES OF DEATH
living, I found food for consuming thought and
horror — for a worm that would not die.
Thus passed away two lustra of her life, and,
as yet, my daughter remained nameless upon the
earth. “My child,” and “my love,” were the
designations usually prompted by a father's af-
fection, and the rigid seclusion of her days pre-
cluded all other intercourse. Morella's name died
with her at her death. Of the mother I had never
spoken to the daughter, — it was impossible to
speak. Indeed, during the brief period of her ex-
istence, the latter had received no impressions
from the outward world, save such as might have
been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy.
But at length the ceremony of baptism presented
to my mind, in its unnerved and agitated con-
dition, a present deliverance from the terrors
of my destiny. And at the baptismal fount I
hesitated for a name. And many titles of the
wise and beautiful, of old and modern times, of
my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my
lips, with many, many fair titles of the gentle,
and the happy, and the good. What prompted
me, then, to disturb the memory of the buried
dead? What demon urged me to breathe that
sound, which in its very recollection was wont to
make ebb the purple blood in torrents from the
temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the
recesses of my soul, when, amid those dim aisles,
and in the silence of the night, I whispered
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MORELLA
within the ears of the holy man the syllables —
Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the
features of my child, and overspread them with
hues of death, as, starting at that scarcely audible
sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the earth
to heaven, and, falling prostrate on the black
slabs of our ancestral vault, responded – “I am
here! ”
Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few
simple sounds within my ear, and thence, like
molten lead, rolled hissingly into my brain.
Years—years may pass away, but the memory
of that epoch — never! Nor was I indeed igno-
rant of the flowers and the vine — but the hem-
lock and the cypress overshadowed me night and
day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place,
and the stars of my fate faded from heaven, and
therefore the earth grew dark, and its figures
passed by me, like flitting shadows, and among
them all I beheld only — Morella. The winds of
the firmament breathed but one sound within my
ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured
evermore — Morella. But she died; and with my
own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed
with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces
of the first, in the charnel where I laid the second
— Morella.
69
LIGEIA
And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth
the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but
a great will pervading all things by nature of its intent-
ness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto
death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble
will. Joseph GLANVILL.
CANNOT, for my soul, remember how,
when, or even precisely where, I first became
acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years
have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble
through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot
now bring these points to mind, because in truth
the character of my beloved, her rare learning,
her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the
thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low
musical language, made their way into my heart
by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive
that they have been unnoticed and unknown.
Yet I believe that I met her first and most fre-
quently in some large, old, decaying city near the
Rhine. Of her family I have surely heard her
speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date can-
not be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in
studies of a nature more than all else adapted to
deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by
that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I
70
LIGEIA
bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her
who is no more. And now, while I write, a recol-
lection flashes upon me that I have never known
the paternal name of her who was my friend and
my betrothed, and who became the partner of my
studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was
it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia?
or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I
should institute no inquiries upon this point? or
was it rather a caprice of my own — a wildly
romantic offering on the shrine of the most
passionate devotion? I but indistinctly recall the
fact itself — what wonder that I have utterly for-
gotten the circumstances which originated or at-
tended it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which
is entitled Romance — if ever she, the wan and
the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt,
presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened,
then most surely she presided over mine.
There is one dear topic, however, on which my
memory fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia.
In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and,
in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in
vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet
ease, of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible
lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She came
and departed as a shadow. I was never made
aware of her entrance into my closed study, save
by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she
placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In
'71
ROMANCES OF DEATH
beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It
was the radiance of an opium-dream — an airy
and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than
the fantasies which hovered about the slumbering
souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features
were not of that regular mould which we have
been falsely taught to worship in the classical
labors of the heathen. “There is no exquisite
beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking
truly of all the forms and genera of beauty,
“without some strangeness in the proportion.”
Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia
were not of a classic regularity — although I per-
ceived that her loveliness was indeed “exquisite,”
and felt that there was much of “strangeness”
pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the
irregularity and to trace home my own percep-
tion of “the strange.” I examined the contour
of the lofty and pale forehead: it was faultless —
how cold indeed that word when applied to a
majesty so divine!—the skin rivalling the purest
ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the
gentle prominence of the regions above the
temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the
luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting
forth the full force of the Homeric epithet,
“hyacinthine!” I looked at the delicate outlines
of the nose — and nowhere but in the graceful
medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a simi-
lar perfection. There were the same luxurious
72
LIGEIA
smoothness of surface, the same scarcely per-
ceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same har-
moniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit.
Iregarded the sweet mouth. Here was indeed the
triumph of all things heavenly — the magnificent
turn of the short upper lip — the soft, volup-
tuous slumber of the under — the dimples which
sported, and the color which spoke — the teeth
glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling,
every ray of the holy light which fell upon them
in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly
radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation
of the chin: and here, too, I found the gentle-
ness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the
fulness and the spirituality, of the Greek—the
contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a
dream to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian.
And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.
For eyes we have no models in the remotely
antique. It might have been, too, that in these
eyes of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord
Verulam alludes. They were, I must believe, far
larger than the ordinary eyes of our own race.
They were even fuller than the fullest of
the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of
Nourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals — in
moments of intense excitement — that this pe-
culiarity became more than slightly noticeable in
Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty
— in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps
73
ROMANCES OF DEATH
— the beauty of beings either above or apart from
the earth, the beauty of the fabulous Houri of
the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most
brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung
jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly
irregular in outline, had the same tint. The
“strangeness,” however, which I found in the
eyes, was of a nature distinct from the forma-
tion, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features,
and must, after all, be referred to the eaſpression.
Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast
latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance
of so much of the spiritual. The expression of
the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours have I
pondered upon it! How have I, through the
whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom
it! What was it — that something more pro-
found than the well of Democritus — which lay
far within the pupils of my beloved? What was
it? I was possessed with a passion to discover.
Those eyes! those large, those shining, those
divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of
Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers.
There is no point, among the many incompre-
hensible anomalies of the science of mind, more
thrillingly exciting than the fact — never, I be-
lieve, noticed in the schools — that in our en-
deavors to recall to memory something long for-
gotten, we often find ourselves upon the very
verge of remembrance, without being able, in the
'74
LIGEIA
end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in
my intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes, have I felt
approaching the full knowledge of their expres-
sion — felt it approaching, yet not quite be mine,
and so at length entirely depart! And (strange,
oh strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the
commonest objects of the universe, a circle of
analogies to that expression. I mean to say that,
subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty
passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a
shrine, I derived, from many existences in the
material world, a sentiment such as I felt always
around, within me, by her large and luminous
orbs. Yet not the more could I define that senti-
ment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I rec-
ognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey
of a rapidly-growing vine — in the contemplation
of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of
running water. I have felt it in the ocean; in the
falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances
of unusually aged people. And there are one or
two stars in heaven, (one especially, a star of the
sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be
found near the large star in Lyra,) in a telescopic
scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the
feeling. I have been filled with it by certain
sounds from stringed instruments, and not un-
frequently by passages from books. Among in-
numerable other instances, I well remember
something in a volume of Joseph Glanvill, which
75
ROMANCES OF DEATH
(perhaps merely from its quaintness — who shall
say?) never failed to inspire me with the senti-
ment: “And the will therein lieth, which dieth
not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will,
with its vigor? For God is but a great will per-
vading all things by nature of its intentness.
Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto
death utterly, save only through the weakness of
his feeble will.”
Length of years and subsequent reflection have
enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connec-
tion between this passage in the English moralist
and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An
intensity in thought, action, or speech, was pos-
sibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that
gigantic volition which, during our long inter-
course, failed to give other and more immediate
evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom
I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the
ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey
to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And
of such passion I could form no estimate, save by
the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at
once so delighted and appalled me — by the al-
most magical melody, modulation, distinctness,
and placidity of her very low voice — and by the
fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by con-
trast with her manner of utterance) of the wild
words which she habitually uttered.
I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it
76
LIGELA
was immense — such as I have never known in
woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply
proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance ex-
tended in regard to the modern dialects of
Europe, I have never known her at fault. In-
deed upon any theme of the most admired, be-
cause simply the most abstruse of the boasted
erudition of the academy, have I ever found
Ligeia at fault? How singularly, how thrill-
ingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has
forced itself, at this late period only, upon my
attention! I said her knowledge was such as
I have never known in woman — but where
breathes the man who has traversed, and success-
fully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and
mathematical science? I saw not then what I
now clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of
Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was
sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to
resign myself, with a child-like confidence, to her
guidance through the chaotic world of meta-
physical investigation at which I was most busily
occupied during the earlier years of our marriage.
With how vast a triumph, with how vivid a de-
light, with how much of all that is ethereal in
hope, did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but
little sought — but less known, that delicious
vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down
whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I
might at length pass onward to the goal of a
77 ty
ROMANCES OF DEATH
wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden!
How poignant, then, must have been the grief
with which, after some years, I beheld my well-
grounded expectations take wings to themselves
and fly away! Without Ligeia I was but as
a child groping benighted. Her presence, her
readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the
many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which
we were immersed. Wanting the radiant lustre
of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew
duller than Saturnian lead. And now those eyes
shone less and less frequently upon the pages
over which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild
eyes blazed with a too — too glorious effulgence;
the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen
hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the
lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with
the tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that
she must die — and I struggled desperately in
spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles
of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment,
even more energetic than my own. There had
been much in her stern nature to impress me with
the belief that, to her, death would have come
without its terrors; but not so. Words are im-
potent to convey any just idea of the fierceness
of resistance with which she wrestled with the
Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable
spectacle. I would have soothed — I would have
reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire
78

LIGEIA
for life — for life — but for life — solace and
reason were alike the uttermost of folly. Yet not
until the last instance, amid the most convulsive
writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the ex-
ternal placidity of her demeanor. Her voice
grew more gentle — grew more low — yet I
would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning
of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as
I hearkened, entranced, to a melody more than
mortal — to assumptions and aspirations which
mortality had never before known.
That she loved me I should Ilot have doubted;
and I might have been easily aware that, in a
bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no
ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully
impressed with the strength of her affection.
For long hours, detaining my hand, would she
pour out before me the overflowing of a heart
whose more than passionate devotion amounted
to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed
by such confessions? how had I deserved to be so
cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour
of her making them? But upon this subject I
cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in
Ligeia's more than womanly abandonment to a
love, alas! all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed,
I at length recognized the principle of her long-
ing, with so wildly earnest a desire, for the life
which was now fleeing so rapidly away. It is this
wild longing, it is this eager vehemence of desire
79
ROMANCES OF DEATH
for life — but for life, that I have no power to
portray, no utterance capable of expressing.
At high noon of the night in which she de-
parted, beckoning me peremptorily to her side,
she bade me repeat certain verses composed by
herself not many days before. I obeyed her.
They were these:
Lo! ”t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.
That motley drama — oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
80
LIGEIA
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude 1
It writhes—it writhes! with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food, ... •
And seraphs 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,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. .
“O God!” half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her
feet and extending her arms aloft with a spas-
modic movement, as I made an end of these
lines — “O God! O Divine Father! shall these
things be undeviatingly so? shall this conqueror be
not once conquered? Are we not part and parcel
in Thee? Who — who knoweth the mysteries
of the will with its vigor? ‘Man doth not yield
him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save
only through the weakness of his feeble will.’”
And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she
suffered her white arms to fall, and returned
solemnly to her bed of death. And as she
breathed her last sighs, there came mingled with
them a low murmur from her lips. I bent to
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
them my ear, and distinguished, again, the con-
cluding words of the passage in Glanvill: “Man
doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death
wtterly, save only through the weakness of his
feeble will.”
She died: and I, crushed into the very dust
with sorrow, could no longer endure the lonely
desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decay-
ing city by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the
world calls wealth. Ligeia had brought me far
more, very far more, than ordinarily falls to the
lot of mortals. After a few months, therefore, of
weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and
put in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not
name, in one of the wildest and least frequented
portions of fair England. The gloomy and
dreary grandeur of the building, the almost
savage aspect of the domain, the many melan-
choly and time-honored memories connected with
both, had much in unison with the feelings of
utter abandonment which had driven me into that
remote and unsocial region of the country. Yet
although the external abbey, with its verdant
decay hanging about it, suffered but little altera-
tion, I gave way with a child-like perversity, and
perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my
sorrows, to a display of more than regal mag-
nificence within. For such follies, even in child-
hood, I had imbibed a taste, and now they came
back to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I
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LIGEIA
feel how much even of incipient madness might
have been discovered in the gorgeous and fan-
tastic draperies, in the solemn carvings of Egypt,
in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam
patterns of the carpets of tufted gold! I had be-
come a bounden slave in the trammels of opium,
and my labors and my orders had taken a coloring
from my dreams. But these absurdities I must
not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that
one chamber ever accursed, whither, in a moment
of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my
bride — as the successor of the unforgotten Lig-
eia — the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Ro-
wena Trevanion, of Tremaine.
There is no individual portion of the archi-
tecture and decoration of that bridal chamber
which is not now visibly before me. Where were
the souls of the haughty family of the bride, when,
through thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the
threshold of an apartment so bedecked, a maiden
and a daughter so beloved? I have said that I
minutely remember the details of the chamber —
yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep mo-
ment; and here there was no system, no keeping,
in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the
memory. The room lay in a high turret of the
castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and
of capacious size. Occupying the whole southern
face of the pentagon was the sole window — an
immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice —
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so
that the rays of either the sun or moon, passing
through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects
within. Over the upper portion of this huge
window extended the trellis-work of an aged vine,
which clambered up the massy walls of the turret.
The ceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, was exces-
sively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted with
the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a
semi-Gothic, semi-Druidical device. From out
the most central recess of this melancholy vault-
ing depended, by a single chain of gold with long
links, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic
in pattern, and with many perforations so con-
trived that there writhed in and out of them, as if
endued with a serpent vitality, a continual suc-
cession of party-colored fires.
Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of
Eastern figure, were in various stations about;
and there was the couch, too — the bridal couch
— of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured
of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy above.
In each of the angles of the chamber stood on end
a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the
tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with their
aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in
the draping of the apartment lay, alas! the
chief fantasy of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in
height, even unproportionably so, were hung
from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy
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LIGELA
and massive-looking tapestry — tapestry of a ma-
terial which was found alike as a carpet on the
floor, as a covering for the Ottomans and the
ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the
gorgeous volutes of the curtains which partially
shaded the window. The material was the richest
cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregu-
lar intervals, with arabesque figures, about a foot
in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in pat-
terns of the most jetty black. But these figures
partook of the true character of the arabesque only
when regarded from a single point of view. By
a contrivance now common, and indeed traceable
to a very remote period of antiquity, they were
made changeable in aspect. To one entering the
room, they bore the appearance of simple mon-
strosities; but upon a farther advance, this ap-
pearance gradually departed; and, step by step,
as the visitor moved his station in the chamber, he
saw himself surrounded by an endless succession
of the ghastly forms which belong to the supersti-
tion of the Norman, or arise in the guilty slum-
bers of the monk. The phantasmagoric effect
was vastly heightened by the artificial introduc-
tion of a strong continual current of wind behind
the draperies, giving a hideous and uneasy ani-
mation to the whole. -
In halls such as these, in a bridal chamber such
as this, I passed, with the Lady of Tremaine, the
unhallowed hours of the first month of our mar-
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
riage — passed them with but little disquietude.
That my wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my
temper — that she shunned me, and loved me but
little — I could not help perceiving; but it gave
me rather pleasure than otherwise. I loathed her
with a hatred belonging more to demon than to
man. My memory flew back (oh, with what in-
tensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the
august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in
recollections of her purity, of her wisdom, of her
lofty, her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her
idolatrous love. Now, then, did my spirit fully
and freely burn with more than all the fires of
her own. In the excitement of my opium
dreams, (for I was habitually fettered in the
shackles of the drug,) I would call aloud upon
her name, during the silence of the night, or
among the sheltered recesses of the glens by day,
as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn
passion, the consuming ardor of my longing for
the departed, I could restore her to the pathway
she had abandoned — ah, could it be forever? —
upon the earth.
About the commencement of the second month
of the marriage, the Lady Rowena was attacked
with sudden illness, from which her recovery was
slow. The fever which consumed her, rendered
her nights uneasy; and in her perturbed state of
half-slumber, she spoke of sounds, and of motions,
in and about the chamber of the turret, which I
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LIGEIA
concluded had no origin save in the distemper of
her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric in-
fluences of the chamber itself. She became at
length convalescent — finally, well. Yet but a
brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent
disorder again threw her upon a bed of suffer-
ing; and from this attack her frame, at all times
feeble, never altogether recovered. Her illnesses
were, after this epoch, of alarming character, and
of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the
knowledge and the great exertions of her phy-
sicians. With the increase of the chronic disease,
which had thus apparently taken too sure hold
upon her constitution to be eradicated by human
means, I could not fail to observe a similar in-
crease in the nervous irritation of her tempera-
ment, and in her excitability by trivial causes of
fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently
and pertinaciously, of the sounds — of the slight
sounds — and of the unusual motions among the
tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded.
One night, near the closing in of September,
she pressed this distressing subject with more
than usual emphasis upon my attention. She had
just awakened from an unquiet slumber, and I
had been watching, with feelings half of anxiety,
half of vague terror, the workings of her emaci-
ated countenance. I sat by the side of her
ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of India.
She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
whisper, of sounds which she then heard, but
which I could not hear — of motions which she
then saw, but which I could not perceive. The
wind was rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries,
and I wished to show her (what, let me confess it,
I could not all believe) that those almost in-
articulate breathings, and those very gentle varia-
tions of the figures upon the wall, were but the
natural effects of that customary rushing of the
wind. But a deadly pallor, overspreading her
face, had proved to me that my exertions to reas-
sure her would be fruitless. She appeared to be
fainting, and no attendants were within call.
I remembered where was deposited a decanter
of light wine which had been ordered by her
physicians, and hastened across the chamber to
procure it. But, as I stepped beneath the light
of the censer, two circumstances of a startling
nature attracted my attention. I had felt that
some palpable although invisible object had
passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there
lay upon the golden carpet, in the very middle
of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a
shadow — a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic
aspect — such as might be fancied for the shadow
of a shade. But I was wild with the excitement
of an immoderate dose of opium, and heeded these
things but little, nor spoke of them to Rowena.
Having found the wine, I recrossed the chamber,
and poured out a gobletful, which I held to the
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LIGELA
lips of the fainting lady. She had now partially
recovered, however, and took the vessel herself,
while I sank upon an ottoman near me, with my
eyes fastened upon her person. It was then that I
'became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon
the carpet, and near the couch; and in a second
thereafter, as Rowena was in the act of raising the
wine to her lips, I saw, or may have dreamed
that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some
invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room,
three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby-
colored fluid. If this I saw — not so Rowena.
She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I for-
bore to speak to her of a circumstance which must
after all, I considered, have been but the sugges-
tion of a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly
active by the terror of the lady, by the opium,
and by the hour. -
Yet I cannot conceal it from my own percep-
tion that, immediately subsequent to the fall of
the ruby-drops, a rapid change for the worst took
place in the disorder of my wife; so that, on the
third subsequent night, the hands of her menials
prepared her for the tomb, and on the fourth,
I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that
fantastic chamber which had received her as my
bride. Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted
shadow-like before me. I gazed with unquiet eye
upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room,
upon the varying figures of the drapery, and
89
ROMANCES OF DEATH
upon the writhing of the party-colored fires in the
censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as I called
to mind the circumstances of a former night, to
the spot beneath the glare of the censer where I
had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was
there, however, no longer; and breathing with
greater freedom, I turned my glances to the
pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Then
rushed upon me a thousand memories of Ligeia
— and then came back upon my heart, with the
turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of that
unutterable woe with which I had regarded her
thus enshrouded. The night waned; and still,
with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the one
only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing
upon the body of Rowena.
It might have been midnight, or perhaps ear-
lier, or later, for I had taken no note of time,
when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled
me from my revery. I felt that it came from the
bed of ebony — the bed of death. I listened in an
agony of superstitious terror — but there was no
repetition of the sound. I strained my vision to
detect any motion in the corpse — but there was
not the slighest perceptible. Yet I could not
have been deceived. I had heard the noise, how-
ever faint, and my soul was awakened within
me. I resolutely and perseveringly kept my at-
tention riveted upon the body. Many minutes
elapsed before any circumstance occurred tending
90
LIGEIA
to throw light upon the mystery. At length it be-
came evident that a slight, a very feeble, and
barely noticeable tinge of color had flushed up
within the cheeks, and along the sunken small
veins of the eyelids. Through a species of un-
utterable horror and awe, for which the language
of mortality has no sufficiently energetic expres-
sion, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow
rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty finally
operated to restore my self-possession. I could
no longer doubt that we had been precipitate in
our preparations — that Rowena still lived. It
was necessary that some immediate exertion be
made; yet the turret was altogether apart from
the portion of the abbey tenanted by the servants
— there were none within call — I had no means
of summoning them to my aid without leaving
the room for many minutes — and this I could
not venture to do. I therefore struggled alone
in my endeavors to call back the spirit still hover-
ing. In a short period it was certain, however,
that a relapse had taken place; the color disap-
peared from both eyelid and cheek, leaving a wan-
ness even more than that of marble; the lips be-
came doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the
ghastly expression of death; a repulsive clammi-
ness and coldness overspread rapidly the surface
of the body; and all the usual rigorous stiff-
ness immediately supervened. I fell back with a
shudder upon the couch from which I had been
91
ROMANCES OF DEATH
so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up
to passionate waking visions of Ligeia.
An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be pos-
sible?) I was a second time aware of some vague
sound issuing from the region of the bed. I
listened—in extremity of horror. The sound
came again— it was a sigh. Rushing to the
corpse, I saw — distinctly saw — a tremor upon
the lips. In a minute afterwards they relaxed,
disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth.
Amazement now struggled in my bosom with the
profound awe which had hitherto reigned there
alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my
reason wandered; and it was only by a violent
effort that I at length succeeded in nerving my-
self to the task which duty thus once more had
pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon
the forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a
perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame;
there was even a slight pulsation at the heart.
The lady lived; and with redoubled ardor I be-
took myself to the task of restoration. I chafed
and bathed the temples and the hands, and used
every exertion which experience, and no little
medical reading, could suggest. But in vain.
Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the
lips resumed the expression of the dead, and, in
an instant afterward, the whole body took upon
itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense
rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome
92
LIGEIA
peculiarities of that which has been, for many
days, a tenant of the tomb.
And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia —
and again, (what marvel that I shudder while I
write?) again there reached my ears a low sob
from the region of the ebony bed. But why shall
I minutely detail the unspeakable horrors of that
night? Why shall I pause to relate how, time
after time, until near the period of the gray
dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was re-
peated; how each terrific relapse was only into a
sterner and apparently more irredeemable death;
how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle
with some invisible foe; and how each struggle
was succeeded by I know not what of wild change
in the personal appearance of the corpse? Let
me hurry to a conclusion.
The greater part of the fearful night had
worn away, and she who had been dead, once
again stirred — and now more vigorously than
hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution
more appalling in its utter helplessness than any.
I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and re-
mained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a help-
less prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which
extreme awe was perhaps the least terrible, the
least consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred,
and now more vigorously than before. The hues
of life flushed up with unwonted energy into
the countenance — the limbs relaxed — and, save
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily to-
gether, and that the bandages and draperies of
the grave still imparted their charnel character
to the figure, I might have dreamed that Rowena
had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of
Death. But if this idea was not, even then, alto-
gether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer,
when, arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble
steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of
one bewildered in a dream, the thing that was
enshrouded advanced bodily and palpably into
the middle of the apartment.
I trembled not — I stirred not — for a crowd
of unutterable fancies connected with the air, the
stature, the demeanor of the figure, rushing hur-
riedly through my brain, had paralyzed — had
chilled me into stone. I stirred not — but gazed
upon the apparition. There was a mad disorder
in my thoughts — a tumult unappeasable. Could
it, indeed, be the living Rowena who confronted
me? Could it indeed be Rowena at all — the fair-
haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of
Tremaine? Why, why should I doubt it? The
bandage lay heavily about the mouth—but then
might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady
of Tremaine? And the cheeks — there were the
roses as in her noon of life – yes, these might
indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady of
Tremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in
health, might it not be hers? but had she then
94
LIGELA
grown taller since her malady? What inexpres-
sible madness seized me with that thought? One
bound, and I had reached her feet! Shrinking
from my touch, she let fall from her head the
ghastly cerements which had confined it, and
there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere
of the chamber, huge masses of long and dis-
hevelled hair; it was blacker than the wings of the
midnight! And now slowly opened the eyes of
the figure which stood before me. “Here then,
at least,” I shrieked aloud, “can I never — can I
never be mistaken — these are the full, and the
black, and the wild eyes — of my lost love — of
the Lady — of the LADY LIGEIA.”
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ELEONORA
Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima.
RAYMond LULLY.
AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy
and ardor of passion. Men have called me
mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether
madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence:
whether much that is glorious, whether all that
is profound, does not spring from disease of
thought — from moods of mind exalted at the ex-
pense of the general intellect. They who dream
by day are cognizant of manythings which escape
those who dream only by night. In their gray
visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and
thrill, in awaking, to find that they have been
upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches,
they learn something of the wisdom which is of
good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of
evil. They penetrate, however rudderless or com-
passless, into the vast ocean of the “light in-
effable; ” and again, like the adventures of the
Nubian geographer, “ agressi sunt mare tenebra-
rum, quid in eo esset earploraturi.”
We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at
least, that there are two distinct conditions of my
mental existence: the condition of a lucid reason,
not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory
96
ELEONORA
of events forming the first epoch of my life —
and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertain-
ing to the present, and to the recollection of what
constitutes the second great era of my being.
Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period,
believe; and to what I may relate of the later
time, give only such credit as may seem due; or
doubt it altogether; or, if doubt it ye cannot, then
play unto its riddle the OEdipus.
She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I
now pen calmly and distinctly these remem-
brances, was the sole daughter of the only sister
of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the
name of my cousin. We had always dwelled to-
gether, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of
the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep
ever came upon that vale; for it lay far away up
among a range of giant hills that hung beetling
around about it, shutting out the sunlight from
its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in
its vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there
was need of putting back, with force, the foliage
of many thousands of forest trees, and of crush-
ing to death the glories of many millions of
fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all
alone, knowing nothing of the world without the
valley, - I, and my cousin, and her mother.
From the dim regions beyond the mountains at
the upper end of our encircled domain, there
crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than
97
ROMANCES OF DEATH
V all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding
stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away,
at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills
still dimmer than those whence it had issued.
We called it the “River of Silence; ” for there
seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No
murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it
wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon
which we loved to gaze, far down within its
bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless
content, each in its own old station, shining on
gloriously forever. º
The margin of the river, and of the many
dazzling rivulets that glided through devious
ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that
extended from the margins away down into the
depths of the streams until they reached the bed
of pebbles at the bottom, -these spots, not less
than the whole surface of the valley, from the
river to the mountains that girdled it in, were
carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short,
perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so
besprinkled throughout with the yellow butter-
cup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the
ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty
spoke to our hearts in loud tones of the love and
of the glory of God.
And, here and there, in groves about this grass,
like wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic
trees, whose tall slender stems stood not upright,
98
ELEONORA
but slanted gracefully towards the light that
peered at noonday into the centre of the valley.
Their bark was speckled with the vivid alternate
splendor of ebony and silver, and was smoother
V than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but
for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that
spread from their summits in long, tremulous
lines, dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have
fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing
homage to their Sovereign the Sun.
Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen
years, roamed I with Eleonora before Love
entered within our hearts. It was one evening
at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and
of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in
each other's embrace, beneath the serpent-like
trees, and looked down within the waters of the
River of Silence at our images therein. We
spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day;
and our words even upon the morrow were
tremulous and few. We had drawn the god Eros
from that wave, and now we felt that he had
enkindled within us the fiery souls of our fore-
fathers. The passions which had for centuries
distinguished our race came thronging with the
fancies for which they had been equally noted,
and together breathed a delirious bliss over the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change
fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers,
star-shaped, burst out upon the trees where no
99 * * * ,
ROMANCES OF DEATH
flowers had been known before. The tints of the
green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the
white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in
place of them ten by ten of the ruby-red aspho-
del. And life arose in our paths; for the tall fla-
mingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing
birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The
golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the
bosom of which issued, little by little, a murmur
that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more
divine than that of the harp of AEolus — sweeter
than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now,
too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long
watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out
thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and
settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower
and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of
the mountains, turning all their dimness into
magnificence, and shutting us up, as if forever,
within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of
glory.
The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the
Seraphim; but she was a maiden artless and in-
nocent as the brief life she had led among the
flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love
which animated her heart, and she examined with
me its inmost recesses as we walked together in
the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and dis-
coursed of the mighty changes which had lately
taken place therein.
, . 100

ELEONORA
At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of
the last sad change which must befall Human-
ity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one
sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our
converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz,
the same images are found occurring, again and
again, in every impressive variation of phrase.
She had seen that the finger of Death was upon
her bosom — that, like the ephemeron, she had
been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but
the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a con-
sideration which she revealed to me, one evening
at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence.
She grieved to think that, having entombed her
in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I
would quit forever its happy recesses, trans-
ferring the love which now was so passionately
her own to some maiden of the outer and every-
day world. And then and there I threw myself
hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up
a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would
never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of
Earth—that I would in no manner prove rec-
reant to her dear memory, or to the memory of
the devout affection with which she had blessed
me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the
Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my
vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him
and of her, a saint in Helusion, should I prove
traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the
I01
ROMANCES OF DEATH
exceeding great horror of which will not permit
me to make record of it here. And the bright
eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words; and
she sighed as if a deadly burden had been taken
from her breast; and she trembled and very
bitterly wept; but she made acceptance of the
vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it
made easy to her the bed of her death. And she
said to me not many days afterwards, tranquilly
dying, that, because of what I had done for the
comfort of her spirit, she would watch over me in
that spirit when departed, and, if so it were per-
mitted her, return to me visibly in the watches of
the night; but, if this thing were indeed beyond
the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would
at least give me frequent indications of her
presence; sighing upon me in the evening winds,
or filling the air which I breathed with perfume
from the censers of the angels. And, with these
words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent
life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.
Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass
the barrier in Time's path, formed by the death
of my beloved, and proceed with the second era
of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over
my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the
record. But let me on. — Years dragged them-
selves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second
change had come upon all things. The star-
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ELEONORA
shaped flowers shrank into the stems of the
trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the
green carpet faded; and one by one the ruby-red
asphodels withered away; and there sprang up in
place of them, ten by ten, dark eye-like violets,
that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered
with dew. And Life departed from our paths;
for the tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet
plumage before us, but flew sadly from the vale
into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that
had arrived in his company. And the golden and
silver fish swam down through the gorge at the
lower end of our domain and bedecked the sweet
river never again. And the lulling melody that
had been softer than the wind-harp of AEolus, and
more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora,
it died little by little away, in murmurs growing
lower and lower, until the stream returned, at
length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original
silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud
uprose, and, abandoning the tops of the moun-
tains to the dimness of old, fell back into the
regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold
golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of
the Many-Colored Grass.
Yet the promises of Eleonora were not for-
gotten; for I heard the sounds of the swinging
of the censers of the angels; and streams of a
holy perfume floated ever and ever about the
valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat
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ROMANCES OF DEATH
heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came
unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct
murmurs filled often the night air; and once —
oh, but once only! I was awakened from a slum-
ber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing of
spiritual lips upon my own.
But the void within my heart refused, even
thus, to be filled. I longed for the love which
had before filled it to overflowing. At length
the valley pained me through its memories of
Eleonora, and I left it forever for the vanities
and the turbulent triumphs of the world.
I found myself within a strange city, where all
things might have served to blot from recollection
the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps
and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad
clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of
woman, bewildered and intoxicated my brain.
But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows,
and the indications of the presence of Eleonora
were still given me in the silent hours of the night.
Suddenly, these manifestations — they ceased;
and the world grew dark before mine eyes; and
I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which
possessed, at the terrible temptations which beset,
me; for there came from some far, far distant
and unknown land, into the gay court of the
king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole
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ELEONORA
recreant heart yielded at once — at whose foot-
stool I bowed down without a struggle, in the
most ardent, in the most abject worship of love.
What indeed was my passion for the young girl
of the valley in comparison with the fervor, and
the delirium, and the spirit-lifting ecstasy of ad-
oration with which I poured out my whole soul
in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?
Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in
that knowledge I had room for none other. Oh,
divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I
looked down into the depths of her memorial
eyes, I thought only of them — and of her.
I wedded; — nor dreaded the curse I had in-
voked; and its bitterness was not visited upon
me. And once—but once again in the silence
of the night, there came through my lattice the
soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they
modelled themselves into familiar and sweet
voice, saying: —
“Sleep in peace!— for the Spirit of Love
reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy pas-
sionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art
absolved, for reasons which shall be made known
to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora.”
105
CELESTIAL
THE
COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
MeXXovta Tajta.
SoPHocLES: Antigone, 1334.
These things are in the future.
NA. “Born again?”
Monos. Yes, fairest and best beloved
Una, “born again.” These were the words upon
whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered,
rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, un-
til Death himself resolved for me the secret.
UNA. Death!
Monos. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo
my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your
step – a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You
are confused and oppressed by the majestic
novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of
Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds
that word which of old was wont to bring terror
to all hearts — throwing a mildew upon all plea-
sures!
UNA. Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at
all feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose our-
selves in speculations upon its nature! How
mysteriously did it act as a check to human bliss
109
ROMANCES OF DEATH
— saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!”
That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which
burned within our bosoms — how vainly did we
flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first up-
springing, that our happiness would strengthen
with its strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in
our hearts the dread of that evil hour which was
hurrying to separate us forever! Thus, in time,
it became painful to love. Hate would have been
mercy then.
MONos. Speak not here of these griefs, dear
Una — mine, mine forever now!
UNA. But the memory of past sorrow — is it
not present joy? I have much to say yet of the
things which have been. Above all, I burn to
know the incidents of your own passage through
the Dark Valley and Shadow.
Monos. And when did the radiant Una ask
anything of her Monos in vain? I will be mi-
nute in relating all: but at what point shall the
weird narrative begin?
UNA. At what point?
Monos. You have said.
UNA. Monos, I comprehend you. In Death
we have both learned the propensity of man to
define the indefinable. I will not say, then, com-
mence with the moment of life’s cessation; but
commence with that sad, sad instant when, the
fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed
II.0
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fin-
gers of love. z
Monos. One word first, my Una, in regard
to man's general condition at this epoch. You
will remember that one or two of the wise among
our forefathers — wise in fact, although not in
the world’s esteem — had ventured to doubt the
propriety of the term “improvement,” as applied
to the progress of our civilization. There were
periods in each of the five or six centuries im-
mediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for
those principles whose truth appears now, in
our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious —
principles which should have taught our race to
submit to the guidance of the natural laws, rather ‘’
than attempt their control. At long intervals
some master-minds appeared, looking upon each
advance in practical science as a retrogradation
in the true utility. Occasionally the poetic in-
tellect — that intellect which we now feel to have
been the most exalted of all, since those truths
which to us were of the most enduring importance
could only be reached by that analogy which
speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
and to the unaided reason bears no weight — oc-
casionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step
farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the
philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that
tells of the tree of knowledge, and of its for-
III
ROMANCES OF DEATH
bidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct intima-
tion that knowledge was not meet for man in the
infant condition of his soul. And these men,
the poets, living and perishing amid the scorn of
the “utilitarians” — of rough pedants, who arro-
gated to themselves a title which could have been
properly applied only to the scorned — these
men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not un-
wisely, upon the ancient days when our wants
were not more simple than our enjoyments were
keen; days when mirth was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness; holy, august
and blissful days, when blue rivers ran un-
dammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored.
Yet these noble exceptions from the general
misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition.
Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our
evil days. The great “movement’” — that was
the cant term — went on; a deceased commotion,
moral and physical. Art — the Arts — arose
supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon
the intellect which had elevated them to power.
Man, because he could not but acknowledge the
majesty of Nature, fell into childish exultation
at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over
her elements. Even while he stalked a God in
his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over
him. As might be supposed from the origin of
his disorder, he grew infected with system, and
112
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in gen-
eralities. Among other odd ideas, that of univer-
sal equality gained ground; and in the face of
analogy and of God, in despite of the loud warn-
ing voice of the laws of gradation so visibly per-
vading all things in Earth and Heaven, wild at-
tempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy were
made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the
leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not both
know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank
before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face
of Nature was deformed as with the ravages of
some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet
Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and
of the far-fetched might have arrested us here.
But now it appears that we had worked out our
own destruction in the perversion of our taste, or
rather in the blind neglect of its culture in the
schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that
taste alone — that faculty which, holding a mid-
dle position between the pure intellect and the
moral sense, could never safely have been disre-
garded—it was now that taste alone could have
led us gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to
Life. But alas for the pure contemplative spirit
and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
povolkſ which he justly regarded as an all-suffi-
cient education for the soul! Alas for him and
for it!—since both were most desperately needed
II 3
ROMANCES OF DEATH
when both were most entirely forgotten or
despised."
Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has
said, how truly 1– “que tout notre raisonnement
se réduit à céder au sentiment; ” and it is not im-
possible that the sentiment of the natural, had
time permitted it, would have regained its old
ascendency over the harsh mathematical reason
of the schools. But this thing was not to be.
Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowl-
edge, the old age of the world drew on. This the
mass of mankind saw not, or, living lustily al-
though unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
myself, the Earth's records had taught me to
* “It will be hard to discover a better [method of edu-
cation] than that which the experience of so many ages has
already discovered; and this may be summed up as con-
sisting in gymnastics for the body, and music for the soul.”
— Repub. lib. 2. “For this reason is a musical education
most essential; since it causes Rhythm and Harmony to
penetrate most intimately into the soul, taking the strong-
est hold upon it, filling it with beauty, and making the man
beautiful-minded. . . . He will praise and admire the beau-
tiful; will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon
it, and assimilate his own condition with it.” — Ibid. lib. 3.
Music (ſuovorikij) had, however, among the Athenians a
far more comprehensive signification than with us. It in-
cluded not only the harmonies of time and of tune, but the
poetic diction, sentiment and creation, each in its widest
sense. The study of music was with them, in fact, the gen-
eral cultivation of the taste — of that which recognizes the
beautiful — in contradistinction from reason, which deals
only with the true.
114
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
look for widest ruin as the price of highest civili-
zation. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate
from comparison of China, the simple and en-
during, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt
the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In
history of these regions I met with a ray from
the Future. The individual artificialities of the
three latter were local diseases of the Earth, and
in their individual overthrows we had seen local
remedies applied; but for the infected world at
large I could anticipate no regeneration save in
death. That man, as a race, should not become
extinct, I saw that he must be “born again.”
And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we
wrapped our spirits daily in dreams. Now it was
that in twilight we discoursed of the days to
come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth,
having undergone that purification * which alone
could efface its rectangular obscenities, should
clothe itself anew in the verdure and the moun-
tain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise,
and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for
man: for man the Death-purged; for man to
whose now exalted intellect there should be
poison in knowledge no more; for the redeemed,
* “History,” from to Topeiv, to contemplate.
* The word “purification ” seems here to be used with
reference to its root in the Greek Trop, fire.
115
ROMANCES OF DEATH
regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but
still for the material, man.
UNA. Well do I remember these conversa-
tions, dear Monos; but the epoch of the fiery
overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed,
and as the corruption you indicate did surely
warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died
individually. You yourself sickened, and passed
into the grave; and thither your constant Una
speedily followed you. And though the century
which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion
brings us thus together once more, tortured our
slumbering senses with no impatience of dura-
tion, yet, my Monos, it was a century still.
MONOS. Say, rather, a point in the vague in-
finity. Unquestionably, it was in the Earth’s
dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anx-
ieties which had their origin in the general tur-
moil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever.
After some few days of pain, and many of
dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, the mani-
festations of which you mistook for pain, while
I longed but was impotent to undeceive you —
after some days there came upon me, as you
have said, a breathless and motionless torpor;
and this was termed Death by those who stood
around me.
Words are vague things. My condition did
not deprive me of sentience. It appeared to me
not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence
116
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
of him, who, having slumbered long and pro-
foundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in
a midsummer noon, begins to steal slowly back
into consciousness, through the mere sufficiency
of his sleep, and without being awakened by ex-
ternal disturbances.
I breathed no longer. The pulses were still.
The heart had ceased to beat. Volition had not
departed, but was powerless. The senses were
unusually active, although eccentrically so — as-
suming often each other's functions at random.
The taste and the smell were inextricably con-
founded, and became one sentiment, abnormal
and intense. The rose-water with which your
tenderness had moistened my lips to the last,
affected me with sweet fancies of flowers — fan-
tastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old
Earth, but whose prototypes we have here bloom-
ing around us. The eyelids, transparent and
bloodless, offered no complete impediment to
vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls
could not roll in their sockets, but all objects
within the range of the visual hemisphere were
seen with more or less distinctness: the rays which
fell upon the external retina, or into the corner
of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than
those which struck the front or interior surface.
Yet, in the former instance, this effect was so far
anomalous that I appreciated it only as sound
— sound sweet or discordant as the matters pre-
117
ROMANCES OF DEATH
senting themselves at my side were light or dark
in shade, curved or angular in outline. The hear-
ing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
was not irregular in action, estimating real sounds
with an extravagance of precision not less than
of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modifica-
tion more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted
always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus
the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eye-
lids, at first only recognized through vision, at
length, long after their removal, filled my whole
being with a sensual delight immeasurable. I
say with a sensual delight. All my perceptions
were purely sensual. The materials furnished
the passive brain by the senses were not in the
least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
understanding. Of pain there was some little;
of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain
or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful ca-
dences, and were appreciated in their every varia-
tion of sad tone; but they were soft musical
sounds and no more; they conveyed to the ex-
tinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which
gave them birth; while the large and constant
tears which fell upon my face, telling the by-
standers of a heart which broke, thrilled every
fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And this
was in truth the Death of which these bystanders
118
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
spoke reverently, in low whispers — you, sweet
Una, gaspingly, with loud cries.
They attired me for the coffin — three or four
dark figures which flitted busily to and fro. As
these crossed the direct line of my vision they
affected me as forms; but upon passing to my
side their images impressed me with the idea of
shrieks, groans, and other dismal expressions
of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone,
habited in a white robe, passed in all directions
musically about me.
The day waned; and, as its light faded away,
I became possessed by a vague uneasiness, an
anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
sounds fall continuously within his ear — low
distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal
intervals, and commingling with melancholy
dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a
heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with
the oppression of some dull weight, and was
palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not
unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more
continuous, which, beginning with the first twi-
light, had grown in strength with the darkness.
Suddenly lights were brought into the room, and
this reverberation became forthwith interrupted
into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous
oppression was in a great measure relieved; and,
issuing from the flame of each lamp, for there
119
ROMANCES OF DEATH
were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my
ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when
now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon which
I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side,
breathing odor from your sweet lips, and press-
ing them upon my brow, there arose tremulously
within my bosom, and mingling with the merely
physical sensations which circumstances had
called forth, a something akin to sentiment itself
— a feeling that, half appreciating, half re-
sponded to your earnest love and sorrow; but this
feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and
seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality,
and faded quickly away, first into extreme quies-
cence, and then into a purely sensual pleasure as
before.
And now, from the wreck and chaos of the
usual senses, there appeared to have arisen within
me a sixth, all perfect. In its exercise I found a
wild delight: yet a delight still physical, inas-
much as the understanding had in it no part.
Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased.
No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery
throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up,
in the brain, that of which no words could con-
vey to the merely human intelligence even an in-
distinct conception. Let me term it a mental
pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embod-
iment of man’s abstract idea of Time. By the
absolute equalization of this movement, or of
120
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
such as this, had the cycles of the firmamental
orbs themselves been adjusted. By its aid I mea-
sured the irregularities of the clock upon the
mantel, and of the watches of the attendants.
Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The
slightest deviations from the true proportion —
and these deviations were Omni-prevalent — af-
fected me just as violations of abstract truth were
wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. Al-
though no two of the time-pieces in the chamber
struck the individual seconds accurately together,
yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in mind
the tones, and the respective momentary errors of
each. And this — this keen, perfect, self-existing
sentiment of duration — this sentiment existing
(as man could not possibly have conceived it to
exist) independently of any succession of events
—this idea — this sixth sense, upspringing from
the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and
certain step of the intemporal soul upon the
threshold of the temporal Eternity. -
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side.
All others had departed from the chamber of
Death. They had deposited me in the coffin.
The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew
by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains.
But, suddenly these strains diminished in dis-
tinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased.
The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms
affected my vision no longer. The oppression
121
ROMANCES OF DEATH
of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom.
A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my
frame, and was followed by total loss of the idea
of contact. All of what man has termed sense
was merged in the sole consciousness of entity,
and in the one abiding sentiment of duration.
The mortal body had been at length stricken with
the hand of the deadly Decay.
Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the
consciousness and the sentiment remaining “Sup-
plied some of its functions by a lethargic intui-
tion. I appreciated the direful change now in
operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is
sometimes aware of the bodily presence of one
who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully
felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the
noon of the second day came, I was not uncon-
scious of those movements which displaced you
from my side, which confined me within the cof-
fin, which deposited me within the hearse, which
bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it,
which heaped heavily the mould upon me, and
which thus left me, in blackness and corruption,
to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
And here, in the prison-house which has few
secrets to disclose, there rolled away days and
weeks and months; and the soul watched nar-
rowly each second as it flew, and without effort
took record of its flight — without effort and
without object.
192
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
A year passed. The consciousness of being
had grown hourly more indistinct, and that of
mere locality had in great measure usurped its
position. The idea of entity was becoming
merged in that of place. The narrow space im-
mediately surrounding what had been the body
was now growing to be the body itself. At
length, as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep
and its world alone is Death imaged) — at .
length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the
deep slumberer, when some flitting light half
startled him into awaking, yet left him half en-
veloped in dreams — so to me, in the strict em-
brace of the Shadow, came that light which alone
might have had power to startle, the light of en-
during Love. Men toiled at the grave in which
I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth.
Upon my mouldering bones there descended the
coffin of Una.
And now again all was void. That nebulous
light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill
had vibrated itself into quiescence. Many lustra
had supervened. Dust had returned to dust.
The worm had food no more. The sense of be-
ing had at length utterly departed, and there
reigned in its stead — instead of all things, domi-
nant and perpetual, the autocrats Place and
Time. For that which was not, for that which
had no form, for that which had no thought, for
that which had no sentience, for that which was
I23
ROMANCES OF DEATH
soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion
— for all this nothingness, yet for all this im-
mortality, the grave was still a home, and the
corrosive hours, co-mates.
124
THE CONVERSATION OF
EIROS AND CHARMION
IIöp orot Trpoo'otoro.
I will bring fire to thee.
EURIPIDEs: Andromache, 257.
IROS. Why do you call me Eiros?
CHARMION. So henceforward will you
always be called. You must forget, too, my
earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
EIROs. This is indeed no dream!
CHARMION. Dreams are with us no more; —
but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to see you
looking life-like and rational. The film of the
shadow has already passed from off your eyes.
Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your allotted
days of stupor have expired; and, to-morrow, I
will myself induct you into the full joys and
wonders of your novel existence.
IEIROS. True — I feel no stupor — none at
all. The wild sickness and the terrible darkness
have left me, and I hear no longer that mad, rush-
ing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many
waters.” Yet my senses are bewildered, Char-
mion, with the keenness of their perception of
the new.
CHARMION. A few days will remove all this;
195
ROMANCES OF DEATH
— but I fully understand you, and feel for you.
It is now ten earthly years since I underwent
what you undergo — yet the remembrance of it
hangs by me still. You have now suffered all of
pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
EIRos. In Aidenn?
CHARMION. In Aidenn.
EIRos. Oh, God! — pity me, Charmion — I
am overburdened with the majesty of all things
— of the unknown now known — of the specu-
lative Future merged in the august and certain
Present.
CHARMION. Grapple not now with such
thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find
relief in the exercise of simple memories. Look
not around, nor forward — but back. I am
burning with anxiety to hear the details of that
stupendous event which threw you among us.
Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar things,
in the old familiar language of the world which
has so fearfully perished.
EIRos. Most fearfully, fearfully! — this is in-
deed no dream.
CHARMION. Dreams are no more. Was I
much mourned, my Eiros?
EIRos. Mourned, Charmion?— oh, deeply.
To that last hour of all, there hung a cloud of
intense gloom and devout sorrow over your
household.
I26
CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
CHARMION. And that last hour — speak of
it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact of the
catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, com-
ing out from among mankind, I passed into
Night through the Grave — at that period, if
I remember aright, the calamity which over-
whelmed you was utterly unanticipated. But,
indeed, I knew little of the speculative philoso-
phy of the day.
EIRos. The individual calamity was, as you
say, entirely unanticipated; but analogous mis-
fortunes had been long a subject of discussion
with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my
friend, that, even when you left us, men had
agreed to understand those passages in the most
holy writings which speak of the final destruc-
tion of all things by fire, as having reference to
the orb of the earth alone. But in regard to
the immediate agency of the ruin, speculation
had been at fault from that epoch in astronom-
ical knowledge in which the comets were divested
of the terrors of flame. The very moderate den-
sity of these bodies had been well established.
They had been observed to pass among the satel-
lites of Jupiter, without bringing about any
sensible alteration either in the masses or in the
orbits of these secondary planets. We had long
regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of in-
conceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable
of doing injury to our substantial globe, even in
127
ROMANCES OF DEATH
the event of contact. But contact was not in any
degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets
were accurately known. That among them we
should look for the agency of the threatened
fiery destruction had been for many years con-
sidered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and
wild fancies had been, of late days, strangely rife
among mankind; and, although it was only with
a few of the ignorant that actual apprehension
prevailed, upon the announcement by astron-
omers of a new comet, yet this announcement was
generally received with I know not what of agi-
tation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immedi-
ately calculated, and it was at once conceded by
all observers, that its path, at perihelion, would
bring it into very close proximity with the earth.
There were two or three astronomers, of sec-
ondary note, who resolutely maintained that a
contact was inevitable. I cannot very well ex-
press to you the effect of this intelligence upon
the people. For a few short days they would
not believe an assertion which their intellect, so
long employed among worldly considerations,
could not in any manner grasp. But the truth of
a vitally important fact soon makes its way into
the understanding of even the most stolid.
Finally, all men saw that astronomical knowl-
edge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its
approach was not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor
198
CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
was its appearance of very unusual character.
It was of a dull red, and had little perceptible
train. For seven or eight days we saw no ma-
terial increase in its apparent diameter, and but
a partial alteration in its color. Meantime, the
ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all
interests absorbed in a growing discussion, insti-
tuted by the philosophic, in respect to the come-
tary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
their sluggish capacities to such considerations.
The learned now gave their intellect — their
soul — to no such points as the allaying of fear,
or to the sustenance of loved theory. They
sought—they panted for right views. They
groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose
in the purity of her strength and exceeding maj-
esty, and the wise bowed down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its
inhabitants would result from the apprehended
contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
among the wise; and the wise were now freely
permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of
the crowd. It was demonstrated that the den-
sity of the comet's nucleus was far less than that
of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of
a similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter
was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with
an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the
biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the
129
ROMANCES OF DEATH
people with a directness and simplicity of which
no previous instance had been known. That the
final destruction of the earth must be brought
about by the agency of fire was urged with a
spirit that enforced everywhere conviction; and
that the comets were of no fiery nature (as all
men now knew) was a truth which relieved all,
in a great measure, from the apprehension of the
great calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the
popular prejudices and vulgar errors in regard
to pestilences and wars — errors which were wont
to prevail upon every appearance of a comet —
were now altogether unknown. As if by some
sudden convulsive exertion, reason had at once
hurled superstition from her throne. The fee-
blest intellect had derived vigor from excessive
interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact
were points of elaborate question. The learned
spoke of slight geological disturbances, of proba-
ble alterations in climate, and consequently in
vegetation; of possible magnetic and electric in-
fluences. Many held that no visible or percepti-
ble effect would in any manner be produced.
While such discussions were going on, their sub-
ject gradually approached, growing larger in
apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre.
Mankind grew paler as it came. All human
operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the gen-
I 30
CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
eral sentiment when the comet had attained, at
length, a size surpassing that of any previously
recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing
any lingering hope that the astronomers were
wrong, experienced all the certainty of evil. The
chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
within their bosoms. A very few days suf-
ficed, however, to merge even such feelings in
sentiments more unendurable. We could no
longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed
thoughts. Its historical attributes had disap-
peared. It oppressed us with a hideous novelty
of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical
phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus
upon our hearts, and a shadow upon our brains.
It had taken, with inconceivable rapidity, the
character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, ex-
tending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater
freedom. It was clear that we were already
within the influence of the comet; yet we lived.
We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and
vivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the
object of our dread was apparent; for all heav-
enly objects were plainly visible through it.
Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly al-
tered; and we gained faith, from this predicted
circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A
I31
IROMANCES OF DEATH
wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown be-
fore, burst out upon every vegetable thing.
Yet another day — and the evil was not alto-
gether upon us. It was now evident that its
nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had
come over all men; and the first sense of pain
was the wild signal for general lamentation and
horror. This first sense of pain lay in a rigorous
constriction of the breast and lungs, and an in-
sufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be
denied that our atmosphere was radically af-
fected; the conformation of this atmosphere, and
the possible modifications to which it might be
subjected, were now the topics of , discussion.
The result of investigation sent an electric thrill
of the intensest terror through the universal heart
of man.
It had been long known that the air which en-
circled us was a compound of oxygen and nitro-
gen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one mea-
sures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen, in
every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen,
which was the principle of combustion, and the
vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the
support of animal life, and was the most power-
ful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen,
on the contrary, was incapable of supporting
either animal life or flame. An unnatural ex-
cess of oxygen would result, it had been ascer-
tained, in just such an elevation of the animal
132
CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
spirits as we had latterly experienced. It was
the pursuit, the extension of the idea, which had
engendered awe. What would be the result of
a total eatraction of the nitrogen? A combustion
irresistible, all-devouring, omniprevalent, imme-
diate; the entire fulfilment, in all their minute
and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-in-
spiring denunciations of the prophecies of the
Holy Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disen-
chained frenzy of mankind? That tenuity in
the comet, which had previously inspired us with
hope, was now the source of the bitterness of
despair. In its impalpable gaseous character we
clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
Meantime a day again passed — bearing away
with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in
the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
bounded tumultuously through its strict chan-
nels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and,
with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threat-
ening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud.
But the nucleus of the destroyer was mow upon
us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I speak.
Let me be brief — brief as the ruin that over-
whelmed. For a moment there was a wild lurid
light alone, visiting and penetrating all things.
Then — let us bow down, Charmion, before the
excessive majesty of the great God!—then,
there came a shouting and pervading sound, as
I33
ROMANCES OF DEATH
if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole
incumbent mass of ether in which we existed
burst at once into a species of intense flame, for
whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
even the angels in the high heaven of pure knowl-
edge have no name. Thus ended all.
134
THE POWER OF WORDS
INOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of
a spirit new-fledged with immortality!
AGATHos. You have spoken nothing, my
Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded. Not
even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For
wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be
given!
OINos. But, in this existence, I dreamed
that I should be at once cognizant of all things,
and thus at once happy in being cognizant of
all.
AGATHos. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness,
but in the acquisition of knowledge! In forever
knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know all,
were the curse of a fiend. -
OrNos. But does not The Most High know
all?
AGATHos. That (since he is The Most
Happy) must be still the one thing unknown
even to HIM.
OINos. But, since we grow hourly in knowl-
edge, must not at last all things be known?
AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal dis-
tances! attempt to force the gaze down the multi-
tudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly
135 -
ROMANCES OF DEATH
through them thus — and thus—and thus!
Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all points
arrested by the continuous golden walls of the
universe? — the walls of the myriads of the shin-
ing bodies that mere number has appeared to
blend into unity?
OINos. I clearly perceive that the infinity of
matter is no dream.
AGATHos. There are no dreams in Aidenn;
but it is here whispered that, of this infinity of
matter, the sole purpose is to afford infinite
springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst
to know which is forever unquenchable within it
— since to quench it would be to extinguish the
soul’s self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely
and without fear. Come! we will leave to the
left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and Swoop
outward from the throne into the starry meadows
beyond Orion, where, for pansies and violets and
heart's-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and
triple-tinted suns.
OINos. And now, Agathos, as we proceed,
instruct me! speak to me in the earth's familiar
tones! I understood not what you hinted to me,
just now, of the modes or of the methods of what,
during mortality, we were accustomed to call
Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator
is not God?
AGATHos. I mean to say that the Deity does
not create.
136
THE POWER OF WORDS
OINos. Explain!
AGATHos. In the beginning only, he created.
The seeming creatures, which are now through-
out the universe so perpetually springing into
being, can only be considered as the mediate or
indirect, not as the direct or immediate, results
of the Divine creative power.
OINos. Among men, my Agathos, this idea
would be considered heretical in the extreme.
AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen
to be simply true.
OINos. I can comprehend you thus far —
that certain operations of what we term Nature,
or the natural laws, will, under certain condi-
tions, give rise to that which has all the appear-
ance of creation. Shortly before the final over-
throw of the earth there were, I well remember,
many very successful experiments in what some
philosophers were weak enough to denominate
the creation of animalculae.
AGATHos. The cases of which you speak were,
in fact, instances of the secondary creation — and
of the only species of creation which has ever
been, since the first word spoke into existence
the first law.
OLNos. Are not the starry worlds that, from
the abyss of nonentity, burst hourly forth into
the heavens — are not these stars, Agathos, the
immediate handiwork of the King?
AGATHos. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead
137
ROMANCES OF DEATH
you, step by step, to the conception I intend.
You are well aware that, as no thought can
perish, so no act is without infinite result. We
moved our hands, for example, when we were
dwellers on the earth, and, in so doing, we gave
vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.
This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it
gave impulse to every particle of the earth's air,
which thenceforward, and forever, was actuated
by the one movement of the hand. This fact the
mathematicians of our globe well knew. They
made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the
fluid by special impulses, the subject of exact cal-
culation — so that it became easy to determine
in what precise period an impulse of given extent
would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever)
every atom of the atmosphere circumambient.
Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a
given effect, under given conditions, in determin-
ing the value of the original impulse. Now the
mathematicians who saw that the results of any
given impulse were absolutely endless — and who
saw that a portion of these results were accurately
traceable through the agency of algebraic analysis
— who saw, too, the facility of the retrograda-
tion — these men saw, at the same time, that this
species of analysis, itself, had within itself a
capacity for indefinite progress — that there were
no bounds conceivable to its advancement and ap-
plicability, except within the intellect of him who
138
THE POWER OF WORDS
advanced or applied it. But at this point our
mathematicians paused.
OINos. And why, Agathos, should they have
proceeded?
AGATHos. Because there were some considera-
tions of deep interest beyond. It was deducible
from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
understanding — one to whom the perfection of
the algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could
be no difficulty in tracing every impulse given the
air, and the ether through the air, to the remotest
consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch
of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every
such impulse, given the air, must, in the end, im-
press every individual thing that exists within the
wniverse; and the being of infinite understand-
ing, the being whom we have imagined, might
trace the remote undulations of the impulse:
trace them upward and onward in their influences
upon all particles of all matter — upward and
onward forever in their modifications of old
forms, or, in other words, in their creation of new
— until he found them reflected, unimpressive at
last, back from the throne of the Godhead. And
not only could such a being do this, but at any
epoch, should a given result be afforded him —
should one of these numberless comets, for ex-
ample, be presented to his inspection — he could
have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
retrogradation, to what original impulse it was
139
ROMANCES OF DEATH
due. This power of retrogradation in its absolute
fulness and perfection—this faculty of referring
at all epochs all effects to all causes — is of course
the prerogative of the Deity alone; but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfec-
tion, is the power itself exercised by the whole
host of the Angelic Intelligences.
OINos. But you speak merely of impulses
upon the air.
AGATHos. In speaking of the air, I referred
only to the earth; but the general proposition
has reference to impulses upon the ether, which,
since it pervades, and alone pervades, all space,
is thus the great medium of creation.
OINos. Then all motion, of whatever nature,
creates?
AGATHos. It must; but a true philosophy has
long taught that the source of all motion is
thought — and the source of all thought is —
Onos. God.
AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to
a child of the fair Earth which lately perished,
of impulses upon the atmosphere of the Earth.
OLNOs. You did.
AGATHos. And while I thus spoke, did there
not cross your mind some thought of the physical
power of words? Is not every word an im-
pulse on the air?
OINos. But why, Agathos, do you weep —
and why, oh, why do your wings droop as we
140 -
THE POWER OF WORDS
hover above this fair star, which is the greenest
and yet most terrible of all we have encountered
in our flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a
fairy dream, but its fierce volcanoes like the
passions of a turbulent heart.
AGATHos. They are!—they are! This wild
star—it is now three centuries since, with clasped
hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of
my beloved, I spoke it, with a few passionate
sentences, into birth. Its brilliant flowers are
the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
raging volcanoes are the passions of the most
turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.
141
FINALE
SILENCE — A FABLE
Eiðovatv 8° àpéov copvºai Te kai papayyes,
IIpóoves Te kai xapdépat.
ALCMAN: 60 [10] 646.
The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves
are silent.
ISTEN to me,” said the Demon, as he placed
his hand upon my head. “The region of
which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the
borders of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet
there, nor silence.
“There the waters of the river have a saffron
and sickly hue; and they flow not onward to the
sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the
red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convul-
sive motion. For many miles on either side of the
river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-
lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that soli-
tude, and stretch towards the heaven their long
and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their ever-
lasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur
which cometh out from among them like the
rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one
unto the other.
I42
SILENCE — A FABLE
“But there is a boundary to their realm — the
boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest.
There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low
underwood is agitated continually. But there is
no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall
primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither
with a crashing and mighty sound. And from
their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting
dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers
lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And over-
head, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray
clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll,
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon.
But there is no wind throughout the heaven.
And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
neither quiet nor silence.
“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling,
it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And
I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and
the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed
one unto the other in the solemnity of their desola-
tion.
“And, all at once, the moon arose through the
thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And
mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the
light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and
ghastly, and tall, - and the rock was gray.
Upon its front were characters engraven in the
stone; and I walked through the morass of water-
I43
ROMANCES OF DEATH
lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
might read the characters upon the stone. But I
could not decipher them. And I was going back
into the morass, when the moon shone with a
fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon
the rock, and upon the characters; — and the
characters were DESOLATION.
“And I looked upwards, and there stood a
man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid my-
self among the water-lilies that I might discover
the actions of the man. And the man was tall
and stately in form, and was wrapped up from
his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome.
And the outlines of his figure were indistinct—
but his features were the features of a deity; for
the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the
moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the
features of his face. And his brow was lofty with
thought, and his eye wild with care; and in the
few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of
sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind,
and a longing after solitude.
“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned
his head upon his hand, and looked out upon
the desolation. He looked down into the low,
unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval
trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and
into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of
the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;
144
SILENCE – A FABLE
— but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.
“And the man turned his attention from the
heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river
Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and
upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And
the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies,
and to the murmur that came up from among
them. And I lay close within my covert and
observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned,
and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I went down into the recesses of the
morass, and waded afar in among the wilderness
of the lilies and called unto the hippopotami
which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the
morass. And the hippopotami heard my call,
and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath
the moon. And I lay close within my covert and
observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude; —but the night waned,
and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of
tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in the
heaven, where before there had been no wind.
And the heaven became livid with the violence
of the tempest — and the rain beat upon the head
of the man — and the floods of the river came
down — and the river was tormented into foam
— and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds
145
ROMANCES OF DEATH
— and the forest crumbled before the wind –
and the thunder rolled—and the lightning fell
— and the rock rocked to its foundation. And
I lay close within my covert and observed the
actions of the man. And the man trembled in
the solitude; — but the night waned, and he sat
upon the rock.
“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the
curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the
wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And
they became accursed, and were still. And the
moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven
— and the thunder died away — and the light-
ning did not flash—and the clouds hung motion-
less — and the waters sunk to their level and re-
mained — and the trees ceased to rock — and the
water-lilies sighed no more — and the murmur
was heard no longer from among them, nor any
shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable
desert. And I looked upon the characters of the
rock, and they were changed; — and the char-
acters were SILENCE.
“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of
the man, and his countenance was wan with
terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from
his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and
listened. But there was no voice throughout the
vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon
the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered,
146
SILENCE – A FABLE
and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in
haste, so that I beheld him no more.”
Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the
Magi—in the iron-bound, melancholy volumes
of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious his-
tories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of
the mighty Sea — and of the Genii that over-
ruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven.
There was much lore too in the sayings which
were said by the Sibyls; and holy, holy things
were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled
around Dodona — but, as Allah liveth, that fable
which the Demon told me, as he sat by my side in
the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an
end of his story, he fell back within the cavity
of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
with the Demon, and he cursed me because I
could not laugh. And the lynx, which dwelleth
forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay
down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him
steadily in the face.
147
II
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
(NORTHERN ITALY)
HE “Red Death" had long devastated the
country. No pestilence had ever been so
fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its avatar and
its seal — the redness and the horror of blood.
There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness,
and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dis-
solution. The scarlet stains upon the body, and
especially upon the face, of the victim were the
pest ban which shut him out from the aid and
from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the
whole seizure, progress, and termination of the
disease were the incidents of half an hour.
But the Prince Prospero was happy and “
dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions
were half depopulated, he summoned to his pres-
ence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends
from among the knights and dames of his court,
and with these retired to the deep seclusion of
one of his castellated abbeys. This was an exten-
sive and magnificent structure, the creation of
the Prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A
strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall
had gates of iron. The courtiers, having en-
tered, brought furnaces and massy hammers, and
151
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means
neither of ingress or egress to the sudden im-
pulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The
abbey was amply provisioned. With such pre-
cautions the courtiers might bid defiance to con-
ion. The external world could take care of
itself. In the mean time it was folly to grieve,
or to think. The Prince had provided all the
appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons,
there were improvisatori, there were ballet-danc-
ers, there were musicians, there was Beauty,
there was wine. All these and security were
within. Without was the “Red Death.”
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth
month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence
raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince
Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a
masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade.
But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was
held. There were seven — an imperial suite. In
many palaces, however, such suites form a long
and straight vista, while the folding-doors slide
back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that
the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded.
Here the case was very different, as might have
been expected from the Prince's love of the
bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly dis-
posed that the vision embraced but little more
than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at
152
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn
a novel effect. To the right and left, in the
middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic
window looked out upon a closed corridor which
pursued the windings of the suite. These win-
dows were of stained glass, whose color varied
in accordance with the prevailing hue of the
decorations of the chamber into which it opened.
That at the eastern extremity was hung, for ex-
ample, in blue — and vividly blue were its win-
dows. The second chamber was purple in its
ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes
were purple. The third was green throughout,
and so were the casements. The fourth was fur-
nished and lighted with orange, the fifth with
white, the sixth with violet. The seventh apart-
ment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapes-
tries that hung all over the ceiling and down the
walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the
same material and hue. But, in this chamber
only, the color of the windows failed to corres-
pond with the decorations. The panes here were
—scarlet — a deep blood-color. Now in no one of
the seven apartments was there any lamp or
candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden orna-
ments that lay scattered to and fro or depended
from the roof. There was no light of any kind
emanating from lamp or candle within the suite
of chambers. But in the corridors that followed
the suite there stood, opposite to each window, a
153
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that pro-
jected its rays through the tinted glass and so
glaringly illumined the room. And thus were
produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic ap-
pearances. But in the western or black chamber
the effect of the firelight that streamed upon the
dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes
was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild
a look upon the countenances of those who
entered that there were few of the company
bold enough to set foot within its precincts at
all.
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood
against the western wall a gigantic clock of
ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a
dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the
minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the
hour was to be stricken, there came from the
brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear
and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but
of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each
lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra
were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their
performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus
the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and
there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay
company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet
rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale,
and the more aged and sedate passed their hands
over their brows as if in confused revery or med-
I54
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
itation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a
light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the
musicians looked at each other and smiled as if
at their own nervousness and folly, and made
whispering vows, each to the other, that the next
chiming of the clock should produce in them no
similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty
minutes (which embrace three thousand and six
hundred seconds of the Time that flies) there
came yet another chiming of the clock, and then
were the same disconcert and tremulousness and
meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and
magnificent revel. The tastes of the Prince
were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and
effects. He disregarded the decora of mere
fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his
conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There
are some who would have thought him mad. His
followers felt that he was not. It was necessary
to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he
was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable
embellishments of the seven chambers, upon oc-
casion of this great féte; and it was his own guid-
ing taste which had given character to the mas-
queraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There
were much glare and glitter and piquancy and
phantasm — much of what has been since seen
in Hernani. There were arabesque figures with
155
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
unsuited limbs and appointments. There were
delirious fancies such as the madman fashions.
There was much of the beautiful, much of the
wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the
terrible, and not a little of that which might have
excited disgust. To and fro in the seven cham-
bers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams’
And these — the dreams — writhed in and about,
taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild
music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their
steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock
which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then,
for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save
the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-
frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the
chime die away—they have endured but an in-
stant — and a light, half-subdued laughter floats
after them as they depart. And now again the
music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to
and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from
the many tinted windows through which stream
the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber
which lies most westwardly of the seven, there
are now none of the maskers who venture; for
the night is waning away, and there flows a
ruddier light through the blood-colored panes;
and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls;
and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet,
there comes from the near clock of ebony a
muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any
/
156
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
which reaches their ears who indulge in the more
remote gayeties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely
crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart
of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until
at length there commenced the sounding of mid-
night upon the clock. And then the music ceased,
as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers
were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation
of all things as before. But now there were
twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the
clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more
of thought crept, with more of time, into the
meditations of the thoughtful among those who
revelled. And thus too it happened, perhaps,
that before the last echoes of the last chime had
utterly sunk into silence, there were many indi-
viduals in the crowd who had found leisure to be-
come aware of the presence of a masked figure
which had arrested the attention of no single
individual before. And the rumor of this
new presence having spread itself whisperingly
around, there arose at length from the whole
company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disap-
probation and surprise — then, finally, of terror,
of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have
painted, it may well be supposed that no ordi-
nary appearance could have excited such sensa-
tion. In truth the masquerade license of the
157
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in
question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone be-
yond the bounds of even the Prince's indefinite
decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the
most reckless which cannot be touched without
emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom X
life and death are equally jests, there are mat-
ters of which no jest can be made. The whole
company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that
in the costume and bearing of the stranger
neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure
was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to
foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask
which concealed the visage was made so nearly to
resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse
that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty
in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might
have been endured, if not approved, by the mad
revellers around. But the mummer had gone so
far as to assume the type of the Red Death.
His vesture was dabbled in blood — and his
broad brow, with all the features of the face, was
besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon
this spectral image (which with a slow and
solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its
rôle, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he
was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment,
with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste;
but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
I58
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the
courtiers who stood near him – “who dares in-
sult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize
him and unmask him—that we may know whom
we have to hang at sunrise, from the battle-
ments!”
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which
stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these
words. They rang throughout the seven rooms
loudly and clearly — for the Prince was a bold
and robust man, and the music had become
hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the Prince,
with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At
first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing
movement of this group in the direction of the
intruder, who at the moment was also near at
hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step,
made closer approach to the speaker. But from
a certain nameless awe with which the mad as-
sumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole
party, there were found none who put forth
hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed
within a yard of the Prince's person; and, while
the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank
from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he
made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same
solemn and measured step which had distin-
guished him from the first, through the blue
chamber to the purple —through the purple to
159
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
the green—through the green to the orange —
through this again to the white—and even thence
to the violet, ere a decided movement had been
made to arrest him. It was then, however, that
the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and
the shame of his own momentary cowardice,
rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while
none followed him on account of a deadly terror
that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn
dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuos-
ity, to within three or four feet of the retreating
figure, when the latter, having attained the ex-
tremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly
and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp
cry— and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the
sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards,
fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero.
Then, summoning the wild courage of despair,
a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves
into the black apartment, and, seizing the mum-
mer, whose tall figure stood erect and motion-
less within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped
in unutterable horror at finding the grave cere-
ments and corpse-like mask, which they handled
with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any
tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of
the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the
night. And one by one dropped the revellers
in the blood-bedeved halls of their revel, and
I60

THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
died each in the despairing posture of his fall.
And the life of the ebony clock went out with
that of the last of the gay. And the flames of
the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay
and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over
all.
I61
THE ASSIGNATION
(VENICE)
Stay for me there ! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
HENRY KING, BISHoP of CHICHESTER:
The Ea'equy.
LL-FATED and mysterious man! bewildered
in the brilliancy of thine own imagination,
and fallen in the flames of thine own youth!
Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy
form hath risen before me!—not— oh, not as
thou art — in the cold valley and shadow — but
as thou shouldst be — squandering away a life
of magnificent meditation in that city of dim
visions, thine own Venice — which is a star-be-
loved Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows
of whose Palladian palaces look down with a
deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her
silent waters. Yes! I repeat it — as thou shouldst
be. There are surely other worlds than this: other
thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude,
other speculations than the speculations of the
sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into
question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours,
or denounce those occupations as a wasting away
of life, which were but the overflowings of thine
everlasting energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway
162
THE ASSIGNATION
there called the Ponte di Sospiri, that I met for
the third or fourth time the person of whom I
speak. It is with a confused recollection that I
bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting.
Yet I remember—ah! how should I forget? —
the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the
beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance
that stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great
clock of the Piazza had sounded the fifth hour
of the Italian evening. The square of the Cam-
panile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in
the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I
was returning home from the Piazetta, by way
of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived
opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a
female voice from its recesses broke suddenly
upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long-
continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang
upon my feet, while the gondolier, letting slip
his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness be-
yond a chance of recovery, and we were conse-
quently left to the guidance of the current which
here sets from the greater into the smaller chan-
nel. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor,
we were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge
of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaus flashing
from the windows, and down the staircases of the
Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom
into a livid and preternatural day.
I63
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
A child, slipping from the arms of its own
mother, had fallen from an upper window of the
lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The
quiet waters had closed placidly over their vic-
tim; and, although my own gondola was the only
one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already in
the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface
the treasure which was to be found, alas! only
within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble
flagstones at the entrance of the palace, and a
few steps above the water, stood a figure which
none who then saw can have ever since forgot-
ten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite — the ado-
ration of all Venice — the gayest of the gay —
the most lovely where all were beautiful—but
still the young wife of the old and intriguing
Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her
first and only one, who now, deep beneath the
murky water, was thinking in bitterness of heart
upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little
life in struggles to call upon her name.
She stood alone. Her small, bare and silvery
feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble be-
neath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half
loosened for the night from its ball-room array,
clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and
round her classical head, in curls like those of
the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-
like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering
to her delicate form; but the midsummer and
164:
THE ASSIGNATION
midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no
motion in the statue-like form itself stirred even
the folds of that raiment of very vapor which
hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around
the Niobe. Yet, strange to say, her large lus-
trous eyes were not turned downwards upon that
grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried —
but riveted in a widely different direction! The
prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the state-
liest building in all Venice, but how could that
lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her
lay stifling her only child? Yon dark, gloomy
niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber
window — what, then, could there be in its
shadows, in its architecture, in its ivy-wreathed
and solemn cornices, that the Marchesa di Men-
toni had not wondered at a thousand times be-
fore? Nonsense! Who does not remember that,
at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered
mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and
sees in innumerable far off places the woe which
is close at hand?
Many steps above the Marchesa, and within
the arch of the water-gate, stood, in full dress,
the satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was
occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and
seemed ennuyé to the very death, as at intervals
he gave directions for the recovery of his child.
Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to
move from the upright position I had assumed
165
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
upon first hearing the shriek, and must have
presented to the eyes of the agitated group a
spectral and ominous appearance, as with pale
countenance and rigid limbs I floated down
among them in that funereal gondola.
All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most
energetic in the search were relaxing their exer-
tions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There
seemed but little hope for the child (how much
less than for the mother!); but now, from the in-
terior of that dark niche which has been already
mentioned as forming a part of the Old Repub-
lican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the
Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak stepped out
within reach of the light, and, pausing a moment
upon the verge of the giddy descent, plunged
headlong into the canal. As in an instant after-
wards he stood, with the still living and breath-
ing child within his grasp, upon the marble flag-
stones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak,
heavy with the drenching water, became unfast-
ened, and, falling in folds about his feet, dis-
covered to the wonder-stricken spectators the
graceful person of a very young man, with the
sound of whose name the greater part of Europe
was then ringing.
No word spoke the deliverer. But the Mar-
chesa! She will now receive her child — she will
press it to her heart—she will cling to its little
form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas!
166 -
THE ASSIGNATION
another's arms have taken it from the stranger
— another's arms have taken it away, and borne
it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the
Marchesa! Her lip— her beautiful lip trembles;
tears are gathering in her eyes – those eyes
which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are “soft and al-
most liquid.” Yes, tears are gathering in those
eyes — and see! the entire woman thrills through-
out the soul, and the statue has started into life!
The pallor of the marble countenance, the swell-
ing of the marble bosom, the very purity of the
marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with
a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight
shudder quivers about her delicate frame, as a
gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies
in the grass.
Why should that lady blush? To this demand
there is no answer— except that, having left, in
the eager haste and terror of a mother's heart,
the privacy of her own boudoir, she has neglected
to enthrall her tiny feet in their slippers, and
utterly forgotten to throw over her Venetian
shoulders that drapery which is their due. What
other possible reason could there have been for
her so blushing? — for the glance of those wild
appealing eyes? for the unusual tumult of that
throbbing bosom? for the convulsive pressure of
that trembling hand — that hand which fell, as
Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally
upon the hand of the stranger? What reason
167
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
could there have been for the low — the singu-
larly low tone of those unmeaning words which
the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu’
“Thou hast conquered,” she said, or the mur-
murs of the water deceived me; “thou hast con-
quered — one hour after sunrise—we shall meet
— so let it be!”
The tumult had subsided, the lights had died
away within the palace, and the stranger, whom
I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags.
He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his
eyes glanced around in search of a gondola. I
could not do less than offer him the service of
my own; and he accepted the civility. Having
obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded
together to his residence, while he rapidly re-
covered his self-possession, and spoke of our for-
mer slight acquaintance in terms of great ap-
parent cordiality.
There are some subjects upon which I take
pleasure in being minute. The person of the
stranger—let me call him by this title, who to
all the world was still a stranger — the person
of the stranger is one of these subjects. In height
he might have been below rather than above the
medium size; although there were moments of
intense passion when his frame actually earpanded
and belied the assertion. The light, almost
I68
THE ASSIGNATION
slender, symmetry of his figure promised more
of that ready activity which he evinced at the
Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength
which he has been known to wield without an
effort, upon occasions of more dangerous emer-
gency. With the mouth and chin of a deity —
singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows
varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant
jet — and a profusion of curling, black hair,
from which a forehead of unusual breadth
gleamed forth at intervals all light and ivory —
his were features than which I have seen none
more classically regular, except, perhaps, the
marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his
countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which
all men have seen at some period of their lives,
and have never afterwards seen again. It had
no peculiar — it had no settled predominant ex-
pression to be fastened upon the memory; a coun-
tenance seen and instantly forgotten, but for-
gotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of
recalling it to mind. Not that the spirit of each
rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own
distinct image upon the mirror of that face;
but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no
vestige of the passion, when the passion had de-
parted.
Upon leaving him on the night of our adven-
ture, he solicited me, in what I thought an urgent
manner, to call upon him very early the next
169
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
morning. Shortly after sunrise I found myself
accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge
structures of gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which
tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in
the vicinity of the Rialto. I was shown up a
broad winding staircase of mosaics into an apart-
ment whose unparalled splendor burst through
the opening door with an actual glare, making
me blind and dizzy with luxuriousness.
I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Re-
port had spoken of his possessions in terms which
I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous
exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could
not bring myself to believe that the wealth of any
subject in Europe could have supplied the
princely magnificence which burned and blazed
around.
Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the
room was still brilliantly lighted up. I judged
from this circumstance, as well as from an air
of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend,
that he had not retired to bed during the whole
of the preceding night. In the architecture and
embellishments of the chamber the evident de-
sign had been to dazzle and astound. Little at-
tention had been paid to the decora of what is
technically called keeping, or to the proprieties
of nationality. The eye wandered from object
to object, and rested upon none — neither the
grotesques of the Greek painters, nor the sculp-
170
THE ASSIGNATION
tures of the best Italian days, nor the huge
carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in
every part of the room trembled to the vibration
of low, melancholy music, whose origin was not
to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by
mingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking up
from strange convolute censers, together with
multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of
emerald and violet fire. The rays of the newly
risen sun poured in upon the whole, through win-
dows, formed each of a single pane of crimson-
tinted glass. Glancing to and fro in a thousand
reflections, from curtains which rolled from their
cornices like cataracts of molten silver, the beams
of natural glory mingled at length fitfully with
the artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued
masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth
of Chili gold.
“Ha! haſ hal—ha! haſ hal”— laughed the
proprietor, motioning me to a seat as I entered
the room, and throwing himself back at full
length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, per-
ceiving that I could not immediately reconcile
myself to the bienséance of so singular a wel-
come – “I see you are astonished at my apart-
ment — at my statues — my pictures — my orig-
inality of conception in architecture and uphol-
stery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my magnifi-
cence? But pardon me, my dear sir,” (here his
tone of voice dropped to the very spirit of cordi-
171
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
ality) “pardon me for my uncharitable laughter.
You appeared so utterly astonished. Besides,
some things are so completely ludicrous that a
man must laugh, or die. To die laughing must
be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! Sir
Thomas More — a very fine man was Sir Thomas
More — Sir Thomas More died laughing, you
remember. Also in the “Absurdities” of Ra-
visius Textor there is a long list of characters
who came to the same magnificent end. Do you
know, however,” continued he, musingly, “that
at Sparta—which is now Palaeochori — at
Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among
a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of socle
upon which are still legible the letters AAX.M.
They are undoubtedly part of TEAAXMA. Now,
at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines
to a thousand different divinities. How exceed-
ingly strange that the altar of Laughter should
have survived all the others! But in the present
instance,” he resumed, with a singular alteration
of voice and manner, “I have no right to be
merry at your expense. You might well have
been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything
so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other
apartments are by no means of the same order —
mere ultras of fashionable insipidity. This is
better than fashion, is it not? Yet this has but
to be seen to become the rage—that is, with those
who could afford it at the cost of their entire
172
THE ASSIGNATION
patrimony. I have guarded, however, against
any such profanation. With one exception, you
are the only human being, besides myself and
my valet, who has been admitted within the mys-
teries of these imperial precincts, since they have
been bedizened as you see!”
I bowed in acknowledgment: for the over-
powering sense of splendor and perfume and
music, together with the unexpected eccentricity
of his address and manner, prevented me from
expressing, in words, my appreciation of what I
might have construed into a compliment.
“Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on
my arm as he sauntered around the apartment,
— “here are paintings from the Greeks to Cima-
bue, and from Cimabue to the present hour.
Many are chosen, as you see, with little defer-
ence to the opinions of Virtu. They are all,
however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as
this. Here, too, are some chefs d’aeuvre of the
unknowing great; and here, unfinished designs
by men, celebrated in their day, whose very
names the perspicacity of the academies has left
to silence and to me. What think you,” said he,
turning abruptly as he spoke — “what think you
of this Madonna della Pietà?”
“It is Guido's own!” I said, with all the enthu-
siasm of my nature, for I had been poring in-
tently over its surpassing loveliness. “It is
Guido's own!—how could you have obtained it?
173
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus
is in sculpture.”
“Hal” said he, thoughtfully, “the Venus—
the beautiful Venus? — the Venus of the Medici?
—she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair?
Part of the left arm,” (here his voice dropped
so as to be heard with difficulty) “and all the
right, are restorations; and in the coquetry of
that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of
all affectation. Give me the Canova! The
Apollo, too, is a copy — there can be no doubt
of it—blind fool that I am, who cannot behold
the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot
help — pity me! — I cannot help preferring the
Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the
statuary found his statue in the block of marble?
Then Michel Angelo was by no means original
in his couplet — -
*Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
Chè un marmo solo in se non circonscriva.’”
It has been or should be remarked that, in the
manner of the true gentleman, we are always
aware of a difference from the bearing of the
vulgar, without being at once precisely able to
determine in what such difference consists. Al-
lowing the remark to have applied in its full force
to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I
felt it, on that eventful morning, still more fully
applicable to his moral temperament and char-
174
THE ASSIGNATION
acter. Nor can I better define that peculiarity
of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially
apart from all other human beings, than by call-
ing it a habit of intense and continual thought,
pervading even his most trivial actions, intrud-
ing upon his moments of dalliance, and inter-
weaving itself with his very flashes of merriment,
like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the
grinning masks in the cornices around the temples
of Persepolis. .
I could not help, however, repeatedly observ-
ing, through the mingled tone of levity and
solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon
matters of little importance, a certain air of trep-
idation — a degree of nervous unction in action
and in speech — an unquiet excitability of man-
ner which appeared to me at all times unaccount-
able, and upon some occasions even filled me with
alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle
of a sentence whose commencement he had ap-
parently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in
the deepest attention, as if either in momentary
expectation of a visitor, or to sounds which must
have had existence in his imagination alone.
It was during one of these reveries or pauses
of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over a
page of the poet and scholar Politian's beauti-
ful tragedy, the Orfeo, (the first native Italian
tragedy) which lay near me upon an ottoman,
I discovered a passage underlined in pencil. It
175
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
was a passage towards the end of the third act
— a passage of the most heart-stirring excite-
ment—a passage which, although tainted with
impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of
novel emotion, no woman without a sigh. The
whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and
upon the opposite interleaf were the following
English lines, written in a hand so very different
from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance
that I had some difficulty in recognizing it as his
OWIl —
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 1 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.
176
THE ASSIGNATION
Now all my hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow:
From me, and from our misty clime
Where weeps the silver willow.
That these lines were written in English, a lan-
guage with which I had not believed their author
acquainted, afforded me little matter for surprise.
I was too well aware of the extent of his acquire-
ments, and of the singular pleasure he took in
concealing them from observation, to be aston-
ished at any similar discovery; but the place
of date. I must confess, occasioned me no little
amazement. It had been originally written Lon-
don, and afterwards carefully overscored—not,
however, so effectually as to conceal the word
from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned
me no little amazement; for I well remember
that, in a former conversation with my friend, I
particularly inquired if he had at any time met
in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for
some years previous to her marriage had resided
in that city) when his answer, if I mistake not,
177
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
gave me to understand that he had never visited
the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well
here mention that I have more than once heard,
(without, of course, giving credit to a report in-
volving so many improbabilities) that the person
of whom I speak was not only by birth, but in
education, an Englishman.
“There is one painting,” said he, without being
aware of my notice of the tragedy — “there is
still one painting which you have not seen.” And
throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-
length portrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the
delineation of her superhuman beauty. The same
ethereal figure which stood before me the preced-
ing night, upon the steps of the Ducal Palace,
stood before me once again. But in the expres-
sion of the countenance, which was beaming all
over with smiles, there still lurked (incompre-
hensible anomaly!) that fitful stain of melancholy
which will ever be found inseparable from the
perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay
folded over her bosom. With her left she pointed
downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One
small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the
earth; and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant
atmosphere which seemed to encircle and enshrine
her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately
imagined wings. My glance fell from the paint-
178
THE ASSIGNATION
ing to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous
words of Chapman's Bussy D'Ambois, quivered
instinctively upon my lips: —
“I am up
Here like a Roman statue; I will stand
Till death hath made me marble!”
“Come,” he said at length, turning towards a
table of richly enamelled and massive silver, upon
which were a few goblets fantastically stained, to-
gether with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned
in the same extraordinary model as that in the
foreground of the portrait, and filled with what I
supposed to be Johannisberger. “Come,” he said
abruptly, “let us drink! It is early—but let us
drink. It is indeed early,” he continued mus-
ingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer
made the apartment ring with the first hour after
sunrise: “it is indeed early — but what matters
it? let us drink! Let us pour out an offering to
yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and
censers are so eager to subdue!” And, having
made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed
in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.
“To dream,” he continued, resuming the tone
of his desultory conversation, as he held up to the
rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases
— “to dream has been the business of my life.
I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a
bower of dreams. In the heart of Venice could I
179
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
have erected a better? You behold around you, it
is true, a medley of architectural embellishments.
The chastity of Iona is offended by antedilu-
vian devices, and the sphinxes of Egypt are out-
stretched upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect is
incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of
place, and especially of time, are the bugbears
which terrify mankind from the contemplation
of the magnificent. Once I was myself a de-
corist; but that sublimation of folly has palled
upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my
purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spirit
is writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene
is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that
land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly
departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent his
head to his bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound
which I could not hear. At length, erecting his
frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the
lines of the Bishop of Chichester: —
“Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.”
In the next instant, confessing the power of the
wine, he threw himself at full length upon an
Ottoman.
A quick step was now heard upon the staircase,
and a loud knock at the door rapidly succeeded.
I was hastening to anticipate a second disturb-
ance, when a page of Mentoni’s household burst
I80
THE ASSIGNATION
into the room, and faltered out, in a voice
choking with emotion, the incoherent words,
“My mistress! — my mistress! — Poisoned! —
poisoned! Oh, beautiful — oh, beautiful Aph-
rodite!”
Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and en-
deavored to arouse the sleeper to a sense of the
startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid
— his lips were livid—his lately beaming eyes
were riveted in death. I staggered back towards
the table — my hand fell upon a cracked and
blackened goblet — and a consciousness of the
entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over
my soul.
181
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
(ROME)
HE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had
borne as I best could; but when he ven-
tured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who
so well know the nature of my soul, will not
suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a
threat. At length. I would be avenged; this was
a point definitively settled — but the very de-
finitiveness with which it was resolved precluded
the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but
punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed
when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is
equally unredressed when the avenger fails to
make himself felt as such to him who has done
the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word
nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt
my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to
smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point — this Fortunato — al-
though in other regards he was a man to be re-
spected and even feared. He prided himself on
his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have
the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their
182
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and oppor-
tunity—to practise imposture upon the British
and Austrian millionnaires. In painting and
gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a
quack— but in the matter of old wines he was
sincere. In this respect I did not differ from
him materially: I was skilful in the Italian
vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I
could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the
supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with
excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.
The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting
parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted
by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased
to see him that I thought I should never have
done wringing his hand.
I said to him, “My dear Fortunato, you are
luckily met. How remarkably well you are look-
ing to-day! But I have received a pipe of what
passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe?
Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was
silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price
without consulting you in the matter. You were
not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a
bargain.”
“Amontillado!”
I83
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“I have my doubts.”
“Amontillado!”
“And I must satisfy them.”
“Amontillado!”
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to
Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he.
He will tell me 53
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from
Sherry.”
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste
is a match for your own.”
“Come, let us go.”
“Whither?”
“To your vaults.”
“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your
good-nature. I perceive you have an engage-
ment. Luchesi-”
“I have no engagement; — come.”
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement,
but the severe cold with which I perceive you
are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp.
They are encrusted with nitre.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely
nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed
upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish
Sherry from Amontillado.”
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself
of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk,
and drawing a roquelaire closely about my per-
son, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
184
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
There were no attendants at home; they had
absconded to make merry in honor of the time.
I had told them that I should not return until
the morning, and had given them explicit orders
not to stir from the house. These orders were
sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back
was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaus, and
giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through
several suites of rooms to the archway that led
into the vaults. I passed down a long and wind-
ing staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he
followed. We came at length to the foot of the
descent, and stood together on the damp ground
of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the
bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
“The pipe,” said he.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the
white web-work which gleams from these cavern
walls.” -
He turned towards me, and looked into my
eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum
of intoxication.
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had
that cough?”
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh!
ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
185
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
My poor friend found it impossible to reply
for many minutes.
“It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go
back; your health is precious. You are rich,
respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as
once I was. You are a man to be missed. For
me it is no matter. We will go back; you will
be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides,
there is Luchesi — ”
“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere noth-
ing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a
cough.”
“True — true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I
had no intention of alarming you unnecessar-
ily — but you should use all proper caution. A
draught of this Medoc will defend us from the
damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which
I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay
upon the mould.
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused
and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells
jingled.
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose
around us.”
“And I to your long life.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
186
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great
and numerous family.”
“I forget your arms.”
A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure;
the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs
are imbedded in the heel.”
“And the motto?”
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells
jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the
Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled
bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling,
into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I
paused again, and this time I made bold to seize
Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It
hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below
the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle
among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it
is too late. Your cough — ”
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But
first, another draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grāve.
He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with
a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle
upwards with a gesticulation I did not under-
stand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the
movement — a grotesque One.
187
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
“Not I,” I replied.
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“EHOW 2 ”
“You are not of the masons.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
“A mason,” I replied.
“A sign,” he said.
“It is this,” I answered, producing a towel
from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few
paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”
“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath
the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He
leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route
in search of the Amontillado. We passed through
a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and,
descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in
which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaus
rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there
appeared another less spacious. Its walls had
been lined with human remains, piled to the vault
overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs
of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were
still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth
the bones had been thrown down, and lay pro-
miscuously upon the earth, forming at one point
a mound of some size. Within the wall thus
188
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
exposed by the displacing of the bones, we per-
ceived a still interior recess, in depth about four
feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It
seemed to have been constructed for no especial
use within itself, but formed merely the interval
between the of the colossal supports of the roof
of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his
dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of
the recess. Its termination the feeble light did
not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado.
As for Luchesi — ”
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend,
as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I fol-
lowed immediately at his heels. In an instant
he had reached the extremity of the niche, and
finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood
stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had
fettered him to the granite. In its surface were
two iron staples, distant from each other about
two feet, horizontally. From one of these de-
pended a short chain, from the other a padlock.
Throwing the links about his waist, it was but
the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was
too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the
key, I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you
cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very
189
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
damp. Once more let me implore you to return.
No? Then I must positively leave you. But I
must first render you all the little attentions in
my power.”
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend,
not yet recovered from his astonishment.
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among
the pile of bones of which I have before spoken.
Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quan-
tity of building stone and mortar. With these
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began
vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry
when I discovered that the intoxication of For-
tunato had in a great measure worn off. The
earliest indication I had of this was a low moan-
ing cry from the depth of the recess. It was not
the cry of a drunken man. There was then a
long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier,
and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard
the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I
might hearken to it with the more satisfaction,
I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones.
When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed
the trowel, and finished without interruption the
fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall
was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I
again paused, and holding the flambeaus over the
190
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the
figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, burst-
ing suddenly from the throat of the chained
form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For
a brief moment I hesitated — I trembled. Un-
sheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it
about the recess; but the thought of an instant
reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid
fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re-
approached the wall. I replied to the yells of
him who clamored. I re-echoed — I aided — I
surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did
this, and the clamorer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was draw-
ing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the
ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a por-
tion of the last and the eleventh; there remained
but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in.
I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially
in its destined position. But now there came
from out the niche a low laugh that erected the
hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad
voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as
that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said —
“Ha! haſ ha!— hel hel hel — a very good
joke indeed — an excellent jest. We will have
many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo – hel
hel hel — over our wine — hel hel hel ”
“The Amontillado!” I said.
191
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“He! hel hel—hel hel hel—yes, the Amon-
tillado. But is it not getting late? Will not
they be awaiting us at the palazzo, - the Lady
Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“For the love of God, Montresort ’’
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a
reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud —
“Fortunato!”
No answer. I called again —
“Fortunato!”
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the
remaining aperture and let it fall within. There
came forth in return only a jingling of the bells.
My heart grew sick — on account of the damp-
ness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an
end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its
position; I plastered it up. Against the new
masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones.
For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed
them. In pace requiescat.
192
A TALE OF
THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
(INDIA)
URING the fall of the year 1827, while
residing near Charlottesville, Virginia, I
casually made the acquaintance of Mr. Augustus
Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable
in every respect, and excited in me a profound
interest and curiosity. I found it impossible to
comprehend him either in his moral or his phys-
ical relations. Of his family I could obtain no
satisfactory account. Whence he came, I never
ascertained. Even about his age — altogether I
call him a young gentleman — there was some-
thing which perplexed me in no little degree. He
certainly seemed young — and he made a point
of speaking about his youth — yet there were
moments when I should have had little trouble
in imagining him a hundred years of age. But
in no regard was he more peculiar than in
his personal appearance. He was singularly tall
and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were
exceedingly long and emaciated. His forehead
was broad and low. His complexion was abso-
lutely bloodless. His mouth was large and flex-
193
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
ible, and his teeth were more wildly uneven,
although sound, than I had ever before seen teeth
in a human head. The expression of his smile,
however, was by no means unpleasing, as might
be supposed; but it had no variation whatever.
It was one of profound melancholy, of a phaseless
and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally
large, and round like those of a cat. The pupils,
too, upon any accession or diminution of light,
underwent contraction or dilation, just such as is
observed in the feline tribe. In moments of ex-
citement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost
inconceivable; seeming to emit luminous rays,
not of a reflected, but of an intrinsic lustre, as
does a candle or the sun; yet their ordinary con-
dition was so totally vapid, filmly, and dull, as
to convey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred
corpse.
These peculiarities of person appeared to cause
him much annoyance, and he was continually al-
luding to them in a sort of half explanatory,
half apologetic strain, which, when I first heard
it, impressed me very painfully. I soon, how-
ever, grew accustomed to it, and my uneasiness
wore off. It seemed to be his design rather to
insinuate than directly to assert that, physically,
he had not always been what he was — that a
long series of neuralgic attacks had reduced him
from a condition of more than usual personal
beauty to that which I saw. For many years
194
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
past he had been attended by a physician, named
Templeton — an old gentleman, perhaps seventy
years of age — whom he had first encountered
at Saratoga, and from whose attention, while
there, he either received, or fancied that he re-
ceived, great benefit. The result was that Bedloe,
who was wealthy, had made an arrangement with
Doctor Templeton, by which the latter, in con-
sideration of a liberal annual allowance, had con-
sented to devote his time and medical experience
exclusively to the care of the invalid.
Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his
younger days, and at Paris had become a convert,
in great measure, to the doctrines of Mesmer.
It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies
that he had succeeded in alleviating the acute
pains of his patient; and this success had very
naturally inspired the latter with a certain degree
of confidence in the opinions from which the rem-
edies had been educed. The Doctor, however,
like all enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a
thorough convert of his pupil, and finally so far
gained his point as to induce the sufferer to sub-
mit to numerous experiments. By a frequent
repetition of these a result had arisen, which of
late days has become so common as to attract
little or no attention, but which, at the period of
which I write, had very rarely been known in
America. I mean to say, that between Doctor
Templeton and Bedloe there had grown up, little
195
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
by little, a very distinct and strongly marked rap-
port, or magnetic relation. I am not prepared
to assert, however, that this rapport extended
beyond the limits of the simple sleep-producing
power; but this power itself had attained great
intensity. At the first attempt to induce the
magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entirely
failed. In the fifth or sixth he succeeded very
partially, and after long-continued effort. Only
at the twelfth was the triumph complete. After
this the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to
that of the physician, so that, when I first became
acquainted with the two, sleep was brought about
almost instantaneously, by the mere volition of
the operator, even when the invalid was unaware
of his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845,
when similar miracles are witnessed daily by
thousands, that I dare venture to record this
apparent impossibility as a matter of serious
fact.
The temperature of Bedloe was, in the high-
est degree, sensitive, excitable, enthusiastic. His
imagination was singularly vigorous and creative;
and no doubt it derived additional force from the
habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in
great quantity, and without which he would have
found it impossible to exist. It was his practice
to take a very large dose of it immediately after
breakfast, each morning — or rather immediately
after a cup of strong coffee, for he ate nothing
196
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
in the forenoon — and then set forth alone, or
attended only by a dog, upon a long ramble
among the chain of wild and dreary hills that
lie westward and southward of Charlottesville,
and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged
Mountains.
Upon a dim, warm, misty day, towards the
close of November, and during the strange in-
terregnum of the seasons which in America is
termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed
as usual for the hills. The day passed, and still
he did not return.
About eight o'clock at night, having become
seriously alarmed at his protracted absence, we
were about setting out in search of him, when he
unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no
worse than usual, and in rather more than ordi-
nary spirits. The account which he gave of his
expedition, and of the events which had detained
him, was a singular one indeed.
“You will remember,” said he, “that it was
about nine in the morning when I left Char-
lottesville. I bent my steps immediately to the
mountains, and, about ten, entered a gorge which
was entirely new to me. I followed the wind-
ings of this pass with much interest. The scenery
which presented itself on all sides, although
scarcely entitled to be called grand, had about
it an indescribable and, to me, a delicious aspect
of dreary desolation. The solitude seemed abso-
197
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
lutely virgin. I could not help believing that the
green sods and the gray rocks upon which I trod
had been trodden never before by the foot of a
human being. So entirely secluded, and in fact
inaccessible, except through a series of accidents,
is the entrance of the ravine, that it is by no
means impossible that I was indeed the first ad-
venturer — the very first and sole adventurer
who had ever penetrated its recesses.
“The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which
distinguishes the Indian Summer, and which now
hung heavily over all objects, served, no doubt,
to deepen the vague impressions which these ob-
jects created. So dense was this pleasant fog,
that I could at no time see more than a dozen
yards of the path before me. This path was
excessively sinuous, and as the sun could not be
seen, I soon lost all idea of the direction in which
I journeyed. In the mean time the morphine
had its customary effect—that of enduing all
the external world with an intensity of interest.
In the quivering of a leaf, in the hue of a blade
of grass, in the shape of a trefoil, in the humming
of a bee, in the gleaming of a dewdrop, in the
breathing of the wind, in the faint odors that
came from the forest, there came a whole universe
of suggestion — a gay and motley train of rhap-
sodical and immethodical thought.
“Busied in this, I walked on for several hours,
during which the mist deepened around me to
198
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
so great an extent that at length I was re-
duced to an absolute groping of the way. And
now an indescribable uneasiness possessed me —
a species of nervous hesitation and tremor. I
feared to tread, lest I should be precipitated into
some abyss. I remembered, too, strange stories
told about these Ragged Hills, and of the un-
couth and fierce races of men who tenanted their
groves and caverns. A thousand vague fancies
oppressed and disconcerted me: fancies the more
distressing because vague. Very suddenly my
attention was arrested by the loud beating of a
drum.
“My amazement was, of course, extreme. A
drum in these hills was a thing unknown. I
could not have been more surprised at the sound
of the trump of the Archangel. But a new and
still more astounding source of interest and per-
plexity arose. There came a wild rattling or
jingling sound, as if of a bunch of large keys —
and upon the instant a dusky-visaged and
half-naked man rushed past me with a shriek.
He came so close to my person that I felt his
hot breath upon my face. He bore in one hand
an instrument composed of an assemblage of
steel rings, and shook them vigorously as he ran.
Scarcely had he disappeared in the mist, before,
panting after him, with open mouth and glaring
eyes, there darted a huge beast. I could not be
mistaken in its character. It was a hyena.
199
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“The sight of this monster rather relieved
than heightened my terrors; for I now made sure
that I dreamed, and endeavored to arouse myself
to waking consciousness. I stepped boldly and
briskly forward. I rubbed my eyes. I called
aloud. I pinched my limbs. A small spring of
water presented itself to my view, and here,
stooping, I bathed my hands and my head and
neck. This seemed to dissipate the equivocal
sensations which had hitherto annoyed me. I
arose, as I thought, a new man, and proceeded
steadily and complacently on my unknown way.
“At length, quite overcome by exertion, and
by a certain oppressive closeness of the atmos-
phere, I seated myself beneath a tree. Presently
there came a feeble gleam of sunshine, and the
shadow of the leaves of the tree fell faintly but
definitely upon the grass. At this shadow I
gazed wonderingly for many minutes. Its char-
acter stupefied me with astonishment. I looked
upward. The tree was a palm.
“I now arose hurriedly, and in a state of fear-
ful agitation — for the fancy that I dreamed
would serve me no longer. I saw — I felt that
I had perfect command of my senses — and these
senses now brought to my soul a world of novel
and singular sensation. The heat became all
at once intolerable. A strange odor loaded the
breeze. A low, continuous murmur, like that
arising from a full, but gently flowing river,
200
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
came to my ears, intermingled with the peculiar
hum of multitudinous human voices.
“While I listened in an extremity of astonish-
ment which I need not attempt to describe, a
strong and brief gust of wind bore off the in-
cumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter.
“I found myself at the foot of a high moun-
tain, and looking down into a vast plain, through
which wound a majestic river. On the margin
of this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such
as we read of in the Arabian Tales, but of a
character even more singular than any there de-
scribed. From my position, which was far above
the level of the town, I could perceive its every
nook and corner, as if delineated on a map. The
streets seemed innumerable, and crossed each
other irregularly in all directions, but were rather
long winding alleys than streets, and absolutely
swarmed with inhabitants. The houses were
wildly picturesque. On every hand was a wilder-
ness of balconies, of verandas, of minarets, of
shrines, and fantastically carved oriels. Bazaars
abounded; and in these were displayed rich wares
in infinite variety and profusion — silks, muslins,
the most dazzling cutlery, the most magnificent
jewels and gems. Besides these things, were
seen, on all sides, banners and palanquins, lit-
ters with stately dames close veiled, elephants
gorgeously caparisoned, idols grotesquely hewn,
drums, banners and gongs, spears, silver and
201
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
gilded maces. And amid the crowd, and the
clamor, and the general intricacy and confusion
— amid the million of black and yellow men,
turbaned and robed, and of flowing beard, there
roamed a countless multitude of holy filleted
bulls, while vast legions of the filthy but sacred
ape clambered, chattering and shrieking, about
the cornices of the mosques, or clung to the
minarets and oriels. From the swarming streets
to the banks of the river, there descended innum-
erable flights of steps leading to bathing places,
while the river itself seemed to force a passage
with difficulty through the vast fleets of deeply-
burdened ships that far and wide encountered
its surface. Beyond the limits of the city arose,
in frequent majestic groups, the palm and the
cocoa, with other gigantic and weird trees of vast
age; and here and there might be seen a field
of rice, the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank,
a stray temple, a gypsy camp, or a solitary grace-
ful maiden taking her way, with a pitcher upon
her head, to the banks of the magnificent river.
“You will say now, of course, that I dreamed;
but not so. What I saw — what I heard — what
I felt—what I thought— had about it nothing
of the unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream.
All was rigorously self-consistent. At first,
doubting that I was really awake, I entered into
a series of tests, which soon convinced me that I
really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in the
202
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
dream, suspects that he dreams, the suspicion
never fails to confirm itself, and the sleeper is
almost immediately aroused. Thus Novalis errs
not in saying that “we are near waking when we
dream that we dream.’ Had the vision occurred
to me as I describe it, without my suspecting it as
a dream, then a dream it might absolutely have
been, but, occurring as it did, and suspected and
tested as it was, I am forced to class it among
other phenomena.”
“In this I am not sure that you are wrong,”
observed Dr. Templeton, “but proceed. You
arose and descended into the city.”
“I arose,” continued Bedloe, regarding the
Doctor with an air of profound astonishment, “I
arose, as you say, and descended into the city.
On my way, I fell in with an immense populace,
crowding through every avenue, all in the same
direction, and exhibiting in every action the wild-
est excitement. Very suddenly, and by some in-
conceivable impulse, I became intensely imbued
with personal interest in what was going on. I
seemed to feel that I had an important part to
play, without exactly understanding what it was.
Against the crowd which environed me, however,
I experienced a deep sentiment of animosity. I
shrank from amid them, and, swiftly, by a cir-
cuitous path, reached and entered the city. Here
all was the wildest tumult and contention. A
small party of men, clad in garments half Indian,
203
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
half European, and officered by gentlemen in a
uniform partly British, were engaged, at great
odds, with the swarming rabble of the alleys. I
joined the weaker party, arming myself with the
weapons of a fallen officer, and fighting I knew
not whom with the nervous ferocity of despair.
We were soon overpowered by numbers, and
driven to seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here
we barricaded ourselves, and, for the present,
were secure. From a loop-hole near the summit
of the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious
agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay pal-
ace that overhung the river. Presently, from an
upper window of this palace, there descended an
effeminate-looking person, by means of a string
made of the turbans of his attendants. A boat
was at hand, in which he escaped to the opposite
bank of the river.
“And now a new object took possession of
my soul. I spoke a few hurried but energetic
words to my companions, and, having succeeded
in gaining over a few of them to my purpose,
made a frantic sally from the kiosk. We rushed
amid the crowd that surrounded it. They re-
treated, at first, before us. They rallied, fought
madly, and retreated again. In the mean time
we were borne far from the kiosk, and became
bewildered and entangled among the narrow
streets of tall overhanging houses, into the re-
cesses of which the sun had never been able to
204
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
shine. The rabble pressed impetuously upon us,
harassing us with their spears and overwhelming
us with flights of arrows. These latter were very
remarkable, and resembled in some respects the
writhing creese of the Malay. They were made
to imitate the body of a creeping serpent, and
were long and black, with a poisoned barb. One
of them struck me upon the right temple. I
reeled and fell. An instantaneous and dreadful
sickness seized me. I struggled — I gasped—
I died.”
“You will hardly persist now,” said I, Smiling,
“that the whole of your adventure was not a
dream. You are not prepared to maintain that
you are dead?”
When I said these words, I of course expected
some lively sally from Bedloe in reply; but, to
my astonishment, he hesitated, trembled, became
fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I looked
towards Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in
his chair — his teeth chattered, and his eyes were
starting from their sockets. “Proceed!” he at
length said hoarsely to Bedloe.
“For many minutes,” continued the latter,
“my sole sentiment — my sole feeling — was
that of darkness and nonentity, with the con-
sciousness of death. At length, there seemed to
pass a violent and sudden shock through my soul,
as if of electricity. With it came the sense of
elasticity and of light. This latter I felt — not
205
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the
ground. But I had no bodily, no visible, audible,
or palpable presence. The crowd had departed.
The tumult had ceased. The city was in com-
parative repose. Beneath me lay my corpse,
with the arrow in my temple, the whole head
greatly swollen and disfigured. But all these
things I felt — not saw. I took interest in noth-
ing. Even the corpse seemed a matter in which
I had no concern. Volition I had none, but ap-
peared to be impelled into motion, and flitted
buoyantly out of the city, retracing the cir-
cuitous path by which I had entered it. When I
had attained that point of the ravine in the
mountains, at which I had encountered the hyena,
I again experienced a shock as of a galvanic bat-
tery; the sense of weight, of volition, of sub-
stance, returned. I became my original self, and
bent my steps eagerly homewards — but the past
had not lost the vividness of the real—and not
now, even for an instant, can I compel my under-
standing to regard it as a dream.”
“Nor was it,” said Templeton, with an air of
deep solemnity, “yet it would be difficult to say
how otherwise it should be termed. Let us sup-
pose only, that the soul of the man of to-day is
upon the verge of some stupendous psychal dis-
coveries. Let us content ourselves with this sup-
position. For the rest, I have some explanation
to make. Here is a water-color drawing, which
206
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
I should have shown you before, but which an
unaccountable sentiment of horror has hitherto
prevented me from showing.”
We looked at the picture which he presented.
I saw nothing in it of an extraordinary char-
acter; but its effect upon Bedloe was prodigious.
He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet it was
but a miniature portrait — a miraculously ac-
curate one, to be sure — of his own very remark-
able features. At least this was my thought as
I regarded it.
“You will perceive,” said Templeton, “the
date of this picture — it is here, scarcely visible,
in this corner — 1780. In this year was the
portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend,
a Mr. Oldeb, to whom I became much attached
at Calcutta, during the administration of Warren
Hastings. I was then only twenty years old.
When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Saratoga,
it was the miraculous similarity which existed be-
tween yourself and the painting, which induced
me to accost you, to seek your friendship, and to
bring about those arrangements which resulted
in my becoming your constant companion. In
accomplishing this point, I was urged partly, and
perhaps principally, by a regretful memory of
the deceased, but also, in part, by an uneasy,
and not altogether horrorless curiosity respecting
yourself.
“In your detail of the vision which presented
207
-*
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
itself to you amid the hills, you have described,
with the minutest accuracy, the Indian city of
Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the
combats, the massacre, were the actual events of
the insurrection of Cheyte Sing, which took place
in 1780, when Hastings was put in imminent
peril of his life. The man escaping by the string
of turbans was Cheyte Sing himself. The party
in the kiosk were Sepoys and British officers,
headed by Hastings. Of this party I was one,
and did all I could to prevent the rash and fatal
sally of the officer who fell, in the crowded alleys,
by the poisoned arrow of a Bengalee. That of-
ficer was my dearest friend. It was Oldeb. You
will perceive by these manuscripts * (here the
speaker produced a note-book in which several
pages appeared to have been freshly written)
“that at the very period in which you fancied
these things amid the hills, I was engaged in
detailing them upon paper here at home.”
In about a week after this conversation, the
following paragraphs appeared in a Charlottes-
ville paper:
“We have the painful duty of announcing the death
of Mr. AUGUSTUs BEDLo, a gentleman whose amiable
manners and many virtues have long endeared him to
the citizens of Charlottesville.
“Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to
neuralgia, which has often threatened to terminate
fatally; but this can be regarded only as the mediate
208
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
cause of his decease. The proximate cause was one of
especial singularity. In an excursion to the Ragged
Mountains, a few days since, a slight cold and fever were
contracted, attended with great determination of blood
to the head. To relieve this, Dr. Templeton resorted to
topical bleeding. Leeches were applied to the temples.
In a fearfully brief period the patient died, when it ap-
peared that, in the jar containing the leeches, had been
introduced, by accident, one of the venomous vermicular
sangsues which are now and then found in the neighbor-
ing ponds. This creature fastened itself upon a small
artery in the right temple. Its close resemblance to
the medicinal leech caused the mistake to be overlooked
until too late.
“N. B. The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville
may always be distinguished from the medicinal leech by
its blackness, and especially by its writhing or vermic-
ular motions, which very nearly resemble those of a
snake.”
I was speaking with the editor of the paper
in question, upon the topic of this remarkable
accident, when it occurred to me to ask how it
happened that the name of the deceased had been
given as Bedlo.
“I presume,” said I, “you have authority for
this spelling, but I have always supposed the
name to be written with an e at the end.”
“Authority?— no,” he replied. It is a mere
typographical error. The name is Bedlo with an
e all the world over, and I never knew it to be
spelt otherwise in my life.”
“Then,” said I mutteringly, as I turned upon
209
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
my heel, “then indeed has it come to pass that
one truth is stranger than any fiction — for
Bedlo, without the e, what is it but Oldeb con-
versed? And this man tells me it is a typo-
graphical error.”
210
METZENGERSTEIN
(HUNGARY)
Pestis eram vivus — moriens tua mors ero.
MARTIN LUTHER.
ORROR and fatality have been stalking
abroad in all ages. Why then give a date
to the story I have to tell? Let it suffice to say
that, at the period of which I speak, there existed,
in the interior of Hungary, a settled although
hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsy-
chosis. Of the doctrines themselves — that is, of
their falsity, or of their probability — I say noth-
ing. I assert, however, that much of our incre-
dulity (as La Bruyère says of all our unhappi-
ness) “vient de me pouvoir àtre seul.” "
But there were some points in the Hungarian
superstition which were fast verging to absurdity.
They — the Hungarians — differed very essen-
tially from their Eastern authorities. For exam-
ple, “The soul,” said the former — I give the
* Mercier, in L'An deua mille quatre cent quarante, se-
riously maintains the doctrines of the Metempsychosis, and
J. D'Israeli says that “no system is so simple and so little
repugnant to the understanding.” Colonel Ethan Allen,
the “Green Mountain Boy,” is also said to have been a
serious metempsychosist.
211
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
words of an acute and intelligent Parisian — “me
demeure qu'une seule fois dans un corps sensible:
aw reste — un cheval, un chien, um homme méme,
n’est que la ressemblance peu tangible de ces
animaua.”
The families of Berlifitzing and Metzenger-
stein had been at variance for centuries. Never
before were two houses so illustrious, mutually
embittered by hostility so deadly. The origin of
this enmity seems to be found in the words of
an ancient prophecy — “A lofty name shall have
a fearful fall when, as the rider over his horse,
the mortality of Metzengerstein shall triumph
over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”
To be sure, the words themselves had little or
no meaning. But more trivial causes have given
rise — and that no long while ago — to conse-
quences equally eventful. Besides, the estates,
which were contiguous, had long exercised a rival
influence in the affairs of a busy government.
Moreover, near neighbors are seldom friends;
and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing
might look, from their lofty buttresses, into the
very windows of the Palace Metzengerstein.
Least of all had the more than feudal magnifi-
cence thus discovered a tendency to allay the
irritable feelings of the less ancient and less
wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder, then, that
the words, however silly, of that prediction
should have succeeded in setting and keeping at
212
METZENGERSTEIN
variance two families already predisposed to
quarrel by every instigation of hereditary jeal-
ousy? The prophecy seemed to imply — if it
implied anything — a final triumph on the part
of the already more powerful house, and was of
course remembered with the more bitter animos-
ity by the weaker and less influential.
Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily
descended, was, at the epoch of this narrative, an
infirm and doting old man, remarkable for noth-
ing but an inordinate and inveterate personal an-
tipathy to the family of his rival, and so passion-
ate a love of horses and of hunting, that neither
bodily infirmity, great age, nor mental incapacity
prevented his daily participation in the dangers
of the chase.
Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the
other hand, not yet of age. His father, the Min-
ister G–, died young. His mother, the Lady
Mary, followed him quickly. Frederick was, at
that time, in his eighteenth year. In a city eigh-
teen years are no long period; but in a wilderness,
in so magnificent a wilderness as that old prin-
cipality, the pendulum vibrates with a deeper
meaning.
From some peculiar circumstances attending
the administration of his father, the young Baron,
at the decease of the former, entered immediately
upon his vast possessions. Such estates were sel-
dom held before by a nobleman of Hungary.
213
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
His castles were without number. The chief in
point of splendor and extent was the “Palace
Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his do-
minions was never clearly defined; but his princi-
pal park embraced a circuit of fifty miles.
Upon the successon of a proprietor so young,
with a character so well known, to a fortune so un-
paralleled, little speculation was afloat in regard
to his probable course of conduct. And indeed,
for the space of three days, the behavior of the
heir out-Heroded Herod, and fairly surpassed
the expectations of his most enthusiastic admi-
rers. Shameful debaucheries, flagrant treacher-
ies, unheard-of atrocities, gave his trembling vas-
sals quickly to understand that no servile submis-
sion on their part, no punctilios of conscience on
his own, were thenceforward to prove any secur-
ity against the remorseless fangs of a petty Calig-
ula. On the night of the fourth day the stables
of the Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on
fire; and the unanimous opinion of the neighbor-
hood added the crime of the incendiary to the al-
ready hideous list of the Baron's misdemeanors
an enormities.
But during the tumult occasioned by this
occurrence the young nobleman himself sat ap-
parently buried in meditation, in a vast and
desolate upper apartment of the family palace
of Metzengerstein. The rich although faded
tapestry hangings which swung gloomily upon
214
METZENGERSTEIN
the walls, represented the shadowy and majestic
forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. Here,
rich ermined priests and pontifical dignitaries,
familiarly seated with the autocrat and the sover-
eign, put a veto on the wishes of a temporal king
or restrained with the fiat of papal supremacy the
rebellious sceptre of the Arch-Enemy. There,
the dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzen-
gerstein — their muscular war-coursers plunging
over the carcasses of fallen foes — startled the
steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression;
and here, again, the voluptuous and swan-like
figures of the dames of days gone by floated away
in the mazes of an unreal dance to the strains of
imaginary melody.
But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen,
to the gradually increasing uproar in the stables
of Berlifitzing — or perhaps pondered upon some
more novel, some more decided act of audac-
ity, — his eyes were turned unwittingly to the
figure of an enormous, and unnaturally colored
horse, represented in the tapestry as belonging to
a Saracen ancestor of the family of his rival. The
horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood
motionless and statue-like — while, farther back,
its discomfited rider perished by the dagger of a
Metzengerstein.
On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression,
as he became aware of the direction which his
glance had, without his consciousness, assumed.
215
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
Yet he did not remove it. On the contrary, he
could by no means account for the overwhelming
anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon
his senses. It was with difficulty that he recon-
ciled his dreamy and incoherent feelings with the
certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed,
the more absorbing became the spell — the more
impossible did it appear that he could ever with-
draw his glance from the fascination of that
tapestry. But the tumult without becoming sud-
denly more violent, with a compulsory exertion
he diverted his attention to the glare of ruddy
light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the
windows of the apartment.
The action, however, was but momentary; his
gaze returned mechanically to the wall. To his
extreme horror and astonishment, the head of the
gigantic steed had, in the mean time, altered its
position. The neck of the animal, before arched,
as if in compassion, over the prostrate body of
its lord, was now extended, at full length, in the
direction of the Baron. The eyes, before invisi-
ble, now wore an energetic and human expression,
while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red;
and the distended lips of the apparently enraged
horse left in full view his sepulchral and disgust-
ing teeth.
Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tot-
tered to the door. As he threw it open, a flash of
red light, streaming far into the chamber, flung
216
METZENGERSTEIN
his shadow with a clear outline against the quiver-
ing tapestry; and he shuddered to perceive that
shadow — as he staggered awhile upon the thresh-
old — assuming the exact position, and pre-
cisely filling up the contour, of the relentless and
triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.
To lighten the depression of his spirits, the
Baron hurried into the open air. At the principal
gate of the palace he encountered three equerries.
With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril
of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive
plunges of a gigantic and fiery-colored horse.
“Whose horse? Where did you get him?” de-
manded the youth, in a querulous and husky tone,
as he became instantly aware that the mysterious
steed in the tapestried chamber was the very
counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.
“He is your own property, sire,” replied one
of the equerries, “at least he is claimed by no
other owner. We caught him flying, all Smok-
ing and foaming with rage, from the burning
stables of the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing
him to have belonged to the old Count’s stud of
foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.
But the grooms there disclaim any title to the
creature; which is strange, since he bears evident
marks of having made a narrow escape from the
flames.”
“The letters W. W. B. are also branded very
distinctly on his forehead,” interrupted a second
217 ; : * >
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
equerry; I supposed them, of course, to be the
initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing — but all at
the castle are positive in denying any knowledge
of the horse.”
“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron,
with a musing air, and apparently unconscious of
the meaning of his words. “He is, as you say,
a remarkable horse, — a prodigious horse! al-
though, as you very justly observe, of a suspi-
cious and untractable character; let him be mine,
however,” he added, after a pause,” perhaps a
rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein may tame
even the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”
“You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I
think we mentioned, is not from the stables of the
Count. If such had been the case, we know our
duty better than to bring him into the presence
of a noble of your family.”
“True!” observed the Baron, dryly; and at
that instant a page of the bed-chamber came
from the palace with a heightened color, and a
precipitate step. He whispered into his master's
ear an account of the sudden disappearance of
a small portion of the tapestry, in an apartment
which he designated, entering, at the same time,
into particulars of a minute and circumstantial
character; but, from the low tone of voice in
which these latter were communicated, nothing
escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of the
equerries.
• * * 218
METZENGERSTEIN
The young Frederick, during the conference,
seemed agitated by a variety of emotions. He
soon, however, recovered his composure, and
an expression of determined malignancy settled
upon his countenance, as he gave peremptory
orders that the apartment in question should be
immediately locked up, and the key placed in his
own possession.
“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the
old hunter Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals
to the Baron, as, after the departure of the
page, the huge steed which that nobleman had
adopted as his own plunged and curveted, with
redoubled fury, down the long avenue which ex-
tended from the palace to the stables of Met-
zengerstein.
“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly to-
wards the speaker, “dead! say you?”
“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to the noble
of your name, will be, I imagine, no unwelcome
intelligence.”
A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the
listener. “How died he?”
“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite
portion of his hunting-stud he has himself per-
ished miserably in the flames.”
“I—n – d – e—e—d— I’’ ejaculated the
Baron, as if slowly and deliberately impressed
with the truth of some exciting idea.
“Indeed,” repeated the vassal.
219
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and
turned quietly into the palace.
From this date a marked alteration took place
in the outward demeanor of the dissolute young
Baron Frederick Von Metzengerstein. Indeed,
his behavior disappointed every expectation, and
proved little in accordance with the views of
many a manoeuvring mamma; while his habits
and manners, still less than formerly, offered
anything congenial with those of the neighboring
aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the
limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and
social world, was utterly companionless, – un-
less, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous, and fiery-
colored horse, which he henceforward continually
bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of
his friend. -
Numerous invitations on the part of the neigh-
borhood for a long time, however, periodically
came in. “Will the Baron honor our festivals
with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us
in a hunting of the boar? –– “Metzengerstein
does not hunt; ” “Metzengerstein will not at-
tend,” were the haughty and laconic answers.
These repeated insults were not to be endured
by an imperious nobility. Such invitations be-
came less cordial, less frequent; in time they
ceased altogether. The widow of the un-
fortunate Count Berlifitzing was even heard to
express a hope “that the Baron might be at
220
METZENGERSTEIN
home when he did not wish to be at home, since
he disdained the company of his equals; and ride
when he did not wish to ride, since he preferred
the Society of a horse.” This, to be sure, was a
very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and
merely proved how singularly unmeaning our
sayings are apt to become, when we desire to be
unusually energetic.
The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the al-
teration in the conduct of the young nobleman to
the natural sorrow of a son for the untimely loss
of his parents; forgetting, however, his atrocious
and reckless behavior during the short period im-
mediately succeeding that bereavement. Some
there were, indeed, who suggested a too haughty
idea of self-consequence and dignity. Others
again (among whom may be mentioned the
family physician) did not hesitate in speaking of
morbid melancholy and hereditary ill-health;
while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature,
were current among the multitude.
Indeed, the Baron's perverse attachment to his
lately-acquired charger — an attachment which
seemed to attain new strength from every fresh
example of the animal's ferocious and demon-
like propensities — at length became, in the eyes
of all reasonable men, a hideous and unnatural
fervor. In the glare of noon, at the dead hour
of night, in sickness or in health, in calm or in
tempest, the young Metzengerstein seemed riv-
221
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
eted to the saddle of that colossal horse, whose
intractable audacities so well accorded with his
own spirit.
There were circumstances, moreover, which,
coupled with late events, gave an unearthly and
portentous character to the mania of the rider
and to the capabilities of the steed. The space
passed over in a single leap had been accurately
measured, and was found to exceed, by an as-
tounding difference, the wildest expectations of
the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had
no particular name for the animal, although all
the rest in his collection were distinguished by
characteristic appellations. His stable, too, was
appointed at a distance from the rest; and with
regard to grooming and other necessary offices,
none but the owner in person had ventured to
officiate, or even to enter the enclosure of that
horse's particular stall. It was also to be ob-
served that, although the three grooms, who had
caught the steed as he fled from the conflagra-
tion at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in arresting
his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose
— yet no one of the three could with any cer-
tainty affirm that he had, during that dangerous
struggle or at any period thereafter, actually
placed his hand upon the body of the beast. In-
stances of peculiar intelligence in the demeanor
of a noble and high-spirited horse are not
to be supposed capable of exciting unreasonable
222
METZENGERSTEIN
attention, but there were certain circumstances
which intruded themselves perforce upon the
most sceptical and phlegmatic; and it is said
there were times when the animal caused the
gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in hor-
ror from the deep and impressive meaning of his
terrible stamp — times when the young Metzen-
gerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the
rapid and searching expression of his earnest and
human-looking eye.
Among all the retinue of the Baron, however,
none were found to doubt the ardor of that ex-
traordinary affection which existed on the part
of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of
his horse; at least, none but an insignificant and
misshapen little page, whose deformities were in
everybody’s way, and whose opinions were of the
least possible importance. He (if his ideas are
worth mentioning at all) had the effrontery to
assert that his master never vaulted into the sad-
dle without an unaccountable and almost imper-
ceptible shudder; and that, upon his return from
every long-continued and habitual ride, an ex-
pression of triumphant malignity distorted every
muscle in his countenance.
One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awak-
ing from heavy slumber, descended like a maniac
from his chamber, and, mounting in hot haste,
bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An
occurrence so common attracted no particular at-
223
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
tention, but his return was looked for with in-
tense anxiety on the part of his domestics, when,
after some hours' absence, the stupendous and
magnificent battlements of the Palace Metzen-
gerstein were discovered crackling and rocking
to their very foundation, under the influence of
a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.
As the flames, when first seen, had already
made so terrible a progress that all efforts to save
any portion of the building were evidently futile,
the astonished neighborhood stood idly around in
silent, if not apathetic wonder. But a new and
fearful object soon riveted the attention of the
multitude and proved how much more intense
is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a
crowd by the contemplation of human agony
than that brought about by the most appalling
spectacles of inanimate matter.
Up the long avenue of aged oaks, which led
from the forest to the main entrance of the Pal-
ace Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an unbon-
neted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with
an impetuosity which outstripped the very De-
mon of the Tempest.
The career of the horseman was indisputably,
on his own part, uncontrollable. The agony of
his countenance, the convulsive struggle of his
frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion;
but no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from
his lacerated lips, which were bitten through and
224
METZENGERSTEIN
through in the intensity of terror. One instant,
and the clattering of hoofs resounded sharply and
shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the
shrieking of the winds — another, and, clearing
at a single plunge the gateway and the moat,
the steed bounded far up the tottering staircases
of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared
amid the whirlwind of chaotic fire.
The fury of the tempest immediately died
away, and a dead calm sullenly succeeded. A
white flame still enveloped the building like a
shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet
atmosphere, shot forth a glare of preternatural
light; while a cloud of smoke settled heavily over
the battlements in the distinct colossal figure of
— a horse.
225
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
(SPAIN)
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to
be erected upon the site of the Jacobin Club
House at Paris.
WAS sick — sick unto death with that long
agony; and when they at length unbound me,
and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses
were leaving me. The sentence—the dread sen-
tence of death — was the last of distinct accentua-
tion which reached my ears. After that, the
sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged
in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed
to my soul the idea of revolution, perhaps from
its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-
wheel. This only for a brief period; for presently
I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but
with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the
lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared
to me white, whiter than the sheet upon which I
trace these words, and thin even to grotesqueness;
thin with the intensity of their expression of firm-
226
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
ness, – of immovable resolution, of stern con-
tempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees
of what to me was Fate were still issuing from
those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locu-
tion. I saw them fashion the syllables of my
name; and I shuddered because no sound suc-
ceeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of deliri-
ous horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible wav-
ing of the sable draperies which enwrapped the
walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell
upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At
first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed
white slender angels who would save me; but
then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea
over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame
thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic
battery, while the angel forms became meaning-
less spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that
from them there would be no help. And then
there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note,
the thought of what sweet rest there must be in
the grave. The thought came gently and stealth-
ily, and it seemed long before it attained full ap-
preciation; but just as my spirit came at length
properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of
the judges vanished, as if magically, from before
me; the tall candles sank into nothingness; their
flames went out utterly; the blackness of dark-
ness supervened; all sensations appeared swal-
lowed up in a mad rushing descent as of the soul
227
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and
night were the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all
of consciousness was lost. What of it there re-
mained I will not attempt to define, or even to
describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest
slumber — no! In delirium — no! In a swoon
—no! In death — no! even in the grave all is
not lost. Else there is no immortality for man.
Arousing from the most profound of slumbers,
we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet
in a second afterward (so frail may that web
have been) we remember not that we have
dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon
there are two stages: first, that of the sense of
mental or spiritual, secondly, that of the sense of
physical, existence. It seems probable that if,
upon reaching the second stage, we could recall
the impressions of the first, we should find these
impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf be-
yond. And that gulf is — what? How at least
shall we distinguish its shadows from those of the
tomb? But if the impressions of what I have
termed the first stage are not at will recalled, yet,
after a long interval, do they not come unbidden,
while we marvel whence they come? He who has
never swooned is not he who finds strange palaces
and wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; is
not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad
visions that the many may not view; is not he
228
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
who ponders over the perfume of some novel
flower; is not he whose brain grows bewildered
with the meaning of some musical cadence which
has never before arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to re-
member, amid earnest struggles to regather some
token of the state of seeming nothingness into
which my soul had lapsed, there have been mo-
ments when I have dreamed of success; there
have been brief, very brief periods when I have
conjured up remembrances which the lucid rea-
son of a later epoch assures me could have had
reference only to that condition of seeming un-
consciousness. These shadows of memory tell,
indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore
me in silence down — down — still down — till
a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea
of the interminableness of the descent. They tell
also of a vague horror at my heart, on account
of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes
a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all
things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!)
had outrun in their descent the limits of the lim-
itless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their
toil. After this I call to mind flatness and damp-
ness; and then all is madness — the madness of
a memory which busies itself among forbidden
things. -
Very suddenly there came back to my soul mo-
tion and sound — the tumultuous motion of the
229
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating.
Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again
sound, and motion, and touch — a tingling sen-
sation pervading my frame. Then the mere con-
sciousness of existence, without thought — a con-
dition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly,
thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest en-
deavor to comprehend my true state. Then a
strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a
rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to
move. And now a full memory of the trial, of
the judges, of the sable draperies, of the sentence,
of the sickness, of the swoon. Then entire for-
getfulness of all that followed; of all that a later
day and much earnestness of endeavor have en-
abled me vaguely to recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that
I lay upon my back, unbound. I reached out my
hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp
and hard. There I suffered it to remain for
many minutes, while I strove to imagine where
and what I could be. I longed yet dared not to
employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance at
objects around me. It was not that I feared to
look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast
lest there should be nothing to see. At length,
with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly un-
closed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were
confirmed. The blackness of eternal night en-
compassed me. I struggled for breath. The in-
230
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
tensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and
stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close.
I still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise
my reason. I brought to mind the inquisitorial
proceedings, and attempted from that point to
deduce my real condition. The sentence had
passed; and it appeared to me that a very long
interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for
a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.
Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we
read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real
existence; — but where and in what state was I?
The condemned to death, I knew, perished usu-
ally at the autos-da-fé, and one of these had been
held on the very night of the day of my trial.
Had I been remanded to my dungeon, to await
the next sacrifice, which would not take place
for many months? This I at once saw could
not be. Victims had been in immediate demand.
Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all the con-
demned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and
light was not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood
in torrents upon my heart, and for a brief period
I once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon
recovering, I at once started to my feet, trem-
bling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my
arms wildly above and around me in all direc-
tions. I felt nothing; yet dreaded to move a
step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a
* 231
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and
stood in cold big beads upon my forehead. The
agony of suspense grew at length intolerable, and
I cautiously moved forward, with my arms ex-
tended, and my eyes straining from their sockets,
in the hope of catching some faint ray of light. I
proceeded for many paces; but still all was black-
ness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. It
seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the
most hideous of fates.
And now, as I still continued to step cautiously
onward, there came thronging upon my recollec-
tion a thousand vague rumors of the horrors of
Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange
things narrated — fables I had always deemed
them — but yet strange, and too ghastly to re-
peat, save in a whisper. Was I left to perish of
starvation in this subterranean world of dark-
ness; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful,
awaited me? That the result would be death,
and a death of more than customary bitterness, I
knew too well the character of my judges to
doubt. The mode and the hour were all that
occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered
some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seem-
ingly of stone masonry — very smooth, slimy,
and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the
careful distrust with which certain antique nar-
ratives had inspired me. This process, however,
232
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
afforded me no means of ascertaining the dimen-
sions of my dungeon; as I might make its circuit,
and return to the point whence I set out, with-
out being aware of the fact, so perfectly uniform
seemed the wall. I therefore sought the knife
which had been in my pocket when led into
the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my
clothes had been exchanged for a wrapper of
coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade
in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to
identify my point of departure. The difficulty,
nevertheless, was but trivial; although, in the dis-
order of my fancy, it seemed at first insuperable.
I tore a part of the hem from the robe and placed
the fragment at full length, and at right angles
to the wall. In groping my way around the
prison I could not fail to encounter this rag
upon completing the circuit. So, at least, I
thought; but I had not counted upon the extent
of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness.
The ground was moist and slippery. I stag-
gered onward for some time, when I stumbled
and fell. My excessive fatigue induced me to
remain prostrate; and sleep soon overtook me as
I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm,
I found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water.
I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity.
Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around
233
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
the prison, and with much toil came at last upon
the fragment of the serge. Up to the period
when I fell, I had counted fifty-two paces, and,
upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-
eight more— when I arrived at the rag. There
were in all, then, a hundred paces; and, admitting
two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon
to be fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however,
with many angles in the wall, and thus I could
form no guess at the shape of the vault; for vault
I could not help supposing it to be.
I had little object — certainly no hope — in
these researches; but a vague curiosity prompted
me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I re-
solved to cross the area of the enclosure. At
first, I proceeded with extreme caution, for the
floor, although seemingly of solid material, was
treacherous with slime. At length, however, I
took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly
— endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as
possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve
paces in this manner, when the remnant of the
torn hem of my robe became entangled between
my legs. I stepped on it and fell violently on
my face. -
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not
immediately apprehend a somewhat startling cir-
cumstance, which yet, in a few seconds after-
ward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my
attention. It was this: my chin rested upon the
234
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
floor of the prison, but my lips and the upper
portion of my head, although seemingly at a
less elevation than the chin, touched nothing.
At the same time, my forehead seemed bathed
in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of
decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put for-
ward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had
fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, whose
extent, of course, I had no means of ascertain-
ing at the moment. Groping about the masonry
just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging
a small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss.
For many seconds I hearkened to its reverbera-
tions as it dashed against the sides of the chasm
in its descent; at length, there was a sullen plunge
into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the
same moment there came a sound resembling
the quick opening and as rapid closing of a door
overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed
suddenly through the gloom, and as suddenly
faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been pre-
pared for me, and congratulated myself upon the
timely accident by which I had escaped. An-
other step before my fall, and the world had
seen me no more. And the death just avoided
was of that very character which I had regarded
as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting
the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny
there was the choice of death with its direst
235
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
physical agonies, or death with its most hideous
moral horrors. I had been reserved for the
latter. By long suffering my nerves had been
unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my
own voice, and had become in every respect a
fitting subject for the species of torture which
awaited me.
Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back
to the wall—resolving there to perish rather
than risk the terrors of the wells, of which my
imagination now pictured many in various posi-
tions about the dungeon. In other conditions
of mind, I might have had courage to end my
misery at once, by a plunge into one of these
abysses; but now I was the veriest of cowards.
Neither could I forget what I had read of these
pits—that the sudden extinction of life formed
no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many
long hours; but at length I again slumbered.
Upon arousing, I found by my side, as before,
a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst
consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at a
draught. It must have been drugged — for
scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly
drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me — a sleep
like that of death. How long it lasted, of course
I know not; but, when once again I unclosed my
eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a
wild, sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I
236
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
could not at first determine, I was enabled to see
the extent and aspect of the prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The
whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-
five yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned
me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed — for
what could be of less importance, under the ter-
rible circumstances which environed me, than the
mere dimensions of my dungeon? But my soul
took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied my-
self in endeavors to account for the error I had
committed in my measurement. The truth at
length flashed upon me. In my first attempt at
exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to
the period when I fell: I must then have been
within a pace or two of the fragment of serge;
in fact, I had nearly performed the circuit of the
vault. I then slept — and, upon awaking, I
must have returned upon my steps, thus suppos-
ing the circuit nearly double what it actually
was. My confusion of mind prevented me from
observing that I began my tour with the wall to
the left, and ended it with the wall to the right.
I had been deceived, too, in respect to the
shape of the enclosure. In feeling my way, I
had found many angles, and thus deduced an
idea of great irregularity; so potent is the ef-
fect of total darkness upon one arousing from
lethargy or sleep! The angles were simply those
of a few slight depressions, or niches, at odd
237
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
intervals. The general shape of the prison was
square. What I had taken for masonry, seemed
now to be iron, or some other metal, in huge
plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the de-
pression. The entire surface of this metallic
enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous
and repulsive devices to which the charnel sup-
erstition of the monks has given rise. The
figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with
skeleton forms, and other more really fearful
images, overspread and disfigured the walls. I
observed that the outlines of these monstrosities
were sufficiently distinct, but that the colors
seemed faded and blurred, as if from the effects
of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the floor,
too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned
the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped;
but it was the only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much ef-
fort, for my personal condition had been greatly
changed during slumber. I now lay upon my
back, and at full length, on a species of low
framework of wood. To this I was securely
bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle.
It passed in many convolutions about my limbs
and body, leaving at liberty only my head, and
my left arm to such extent that I could, by dint
of much exertion, supply myself with food from
an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor.
I saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been
238
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
removed. I say, to my horror — for I was con-
sumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it ap-
peared to be the design of my persecutors to
stimulate, for the food in the dish was meat
pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my
prison. It was some thirty or forty feet over-
head, and constructed much as the side walls.
In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted
my whole attention. It was the painted figure
of Time as he is commonly represented, save
that, in lieu of a scythe, he held what, at a casual
glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of
a huge pendulum, such as we see on antique
clocks. There was something, however, in the
appearance of this machine which caused me to
regard it more attentively. While I gazed
directly upward at it, (for its position was im-
mediately over my own,) I fancied that I saw
it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy
was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of
course slow. I watched it for some minutes,
somewhat in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied
at length with observing its dull movement, I
turned my eyes upon the other objects in the
cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and, look-
ing to the floor, I saw several enormous rats
traversing it. They had issued from the well,
which lay just within view to my right. Even
239
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
then, while I gazed, they came up in troops,
hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the
scent of the meat. From this it required much
effort and attention to scare them away.
It might have been half an hour, perhaps even
an hour, (for I could take but imperfect note of
time) before I again cast my eyes upward.
What I then saw, confounded and amazed me.
The sweep of the pendulum had increased in ex-
tent by nearly a yard. As a natural consequence,
its velocity was also much greater. But what
mainly disturbed me, was the idea that it had per-
ceptibly descended. I now observed — with what
horror it is needless to say — that its nether ex-
tremity was formed of a crescent of glittering
steel, about a foot in length from horn to horn;
the horns upward, and the under edge evidently
as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor also, it
seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge
into a solid and broad structure above. It was
appended to a weighty rod of brass, and the
whole hissed as it swung through the air.
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared
for me by monkish ingenuity in torture. My
cognizance of the pit had become known to the
inquisitorial agents — the pit, whose horrors had
been destined for so bold a recusant as myself —
the pit, typical of hell, and regarded by rumor .
as the Ultima Thule of all their punishments.
The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the
240
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, or
entrapment into torment, formed an important
portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon
deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of
the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and
thus (there being no alternative) a different and
a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I half
smiled in my agony as I thought of such applica-
tion of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours
of horror more than mortal, during which I
counted the rushing oscillations of the steel!
Inch by inch — line by line — with a descent
only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages
— down and still down it came! Days passed—
it might have been that many days passed —
ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with
its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel
forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed — I
wearied heaven with my prayer for its more
speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and
struggled to force myself upward against the
sweep of the fearful cimeter. And then I fell
suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering
death, as a child at some rare bawble.
There was another interval of utter insensi-
bility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into
life, there had been no perceptible descent in the
pendulum. But it might have been long; for I
knew there were demons who took note of my
241
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
swoon, and who could have arrested the vibra-
tion at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt
very — oh, inexpressibly — sick and weak, as if
through long inanition. Even amid the agonies
of that period the human nature craved food.
With painful effort I outstretched my left arm
as far as my bonds permitted, and took posses-
sion of the small remnant which had been spared
me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within
my lips, there rushed to my mind a half-formed
thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business
had I with hope? It was, as I say, a half-formed
thought: man has many such, which are never
completed. I felt that it was of joy — of hope;
but I felt also that it had perished in its forma-
tion. In vain I struggled to perfect — to regain
it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile
— an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right
angles to my length. I saw that the crescent was
designed to cross the region of the heart. It
would fray the serge of my robe — it would re-
turn and repeat its operations — again — and
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide
sweep, (some thirty feet or more) and the hissing
vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very
walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would
be all that, for several minutes, it would accom-
plish. And at this thought I paused. I dared
242
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon
it with a pertinacity of attention — as if in so
dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of the
steel. I forced myself to ponder upon the sound
of the crescent as it should pass across the gar-
ment — upon the peculiar thrilling sensation
which the friction of cloth produces on the
nerves. I pondered upon all this frivolity until
my teeth were on edge.
Down — steadily down it crept. I took a
frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward
with its lateral velocity. To the right — to the
left — far and wide — with the shriek of a
damned spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy
pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed and
howled, as the one or the other idea grew pre-
dominant.
Down — certainly, relentlessly down! It
vibrated within three inches of my bosom! I
struggled violently — furiously—to free my
left arm. This was free only from the elbow to
the hand. I could reach the latter from the
platter beside me to my mouth, with great effort,
but no farther. Could I have broken the fasten-
ings above the elbow, I would have seized and
attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as
well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!
Down — still unceasingly — still inevitably
down! I gasped and struggled at each vibra-
tion. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep.
243
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls
with the eagerness of the most unmeaning de-
spair; they closed themselves spasmodically at the
descent, although death would have been a re-
lief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in
every nerve to think how slight a sinking of the
machinery would precipitate that keen, glisten-
ing axe upon my bosom. It was hope that
prompted the nerve to quiver—the frame to
shrink. It was hope — the hope that triumphs
on the rack—that whispers to the death-con-
demned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would
bring the steel in actual contact with my robe;
and with this observation there suddenly came
over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of
despair. For the first time during many hours
— or perhaps days—I thought. It now oc-
curred to me, that the bandage, or surcingle,
which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by
no separate cord. The first stroke of the razor-
like crescent athwart any portion of the band
would so detach it that it might be unwound
from my person by means of my left hand. But
how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the
steel! The result of the slightest struggle, how
deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the min-
ions of the torturer had not foreseen and provided
for this possibility? Was it probable that the
bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the
244
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
pendulum? Dreading to find my faint, and, as
it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so far
elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view of
my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs
and body close in all directions — save in the
path of the destroying crescent.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into
its original position, when there flashed upon
my mind what I cannot better describe than
as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance
to which I have previously alluded, and of which
a moiety only floated indeterminately through
my brain when I raised food to my burning lips.
The whole thought was now present — feeble,
scarcely sane, scarcely definite — but still entire.
I proceeded at once, with the nervous energy of
despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of the
low framework upon which I lay, had been
literally swarming with rats. They were wild,
bold, ravenous — their red eyes glaring upon me
as if they waited but for motionlessness on my
part to make me their prey. “To what food,” I
thought, “ have they been accustomed in the
Well?”
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts
to prevent them, all but a small remnant of the
contents of the dish. I had fallen into an
habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the
platter; and, at length, the unconscious uni-
245
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
formity of the movement deprived it of effect.
In their voracity the vermin frequently fastened
their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the
particles of the oily and spicy viand which
now remained I thoroughly rubbed the bandage
wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand
from the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first, the ravenous animals were startled
and terrified at the change — at the cessation of
movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many
sought the well. But this was only for a moment.
I had not counted in vain upon their voracity.
Observing that I remained without motion, one
or two of the boldest leaped upon the frame-
work, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed
the signal for a general rush. Forth from the
well they hurried in fresh troops. They clung to
the wood — they overran it, and leaped in hun-
dreds upon my person. The measured move-
ment of the pendulum disturbed them not at all.
Avoiding its strokes, they busied themselves with
the anointed bandage. They pressed — they
swarmed upon me in ever accumulating heaps.
They writhed upon my throat; their cold lips
sought my own; I was half stifled by their
thronging pressure; disgust, for which the world
has no name, swelled my bosom, and chilled, with
a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one minute,
and I felt that the struggle would be over.
Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage.
246
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
I knew that in more than one place it must
be already severed. With a more than human
resolution I lay still.
Nor had I erred in my calculations — nor had
I endured in vain. I at length felt that I was
free. The surcingle hung in ribbons from my
body. But the stroke of the pendulum al-
ready pressed upon my bosom. It had divided
the serge of the robe. It had cut through the
linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a
sharp sense of pain shot through every nerve.
But the moment of escape had arrived. At a
wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumul-
tuously away. With a steady movement —
cautious, sidelong, shrinking, and slow — I slid
from the embrace of the bandage and beyond
the reach of the cimeter. For the moment, at
least, I was free.
Free! — and in the grasp of the Inquisition!
I had scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of
horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when
the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and I
beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force,
through the ceiling. This was a lesson which I
took desperately to heart. My every motion
was undoubtedly watched. Free! — I had but
escaped death in one form of agony to be de-
livered unto worse than death in some other.
With that thought I rolled my eyes nervously
around on the barriers of iron that hemmed me
247
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
in. Something unusual—some change which,
at first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it
was obvious, had taken place in the apartment.
For many minutes of a dreamy and trembling
abstraction I busied myself in vain, unconnected
conjecture. During this period, I became aware,
for the first time, of the origin of the sulphurous
light which illumined the cell. It proceeded from
a fissure, about half an inch in width, extending
entirely around the prison at the base of the
walls, which thus appeared and were completely
separated from the floor. I endeavored, but of
course in vain, to look through the aperture.
As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of
the alteration in the chamber broke at once upon
my understanding. I have observed that, al-
though the outlines of the figures upon the walls
were sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed
blurred and indefinite. These colors had now
assumed, and were momentarily assuming, a
startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave
to the spectral and fiendish portraitures an
aspect that might have thrilled even firmer nerves
than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild and
ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand
directions, where none had been visible before,
and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that
I could not force my imagination to regard as
unreal.
Unreal! – Even while I breathed there came
248
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
to my nostrils the breath of the vapor of heated
iron! A suffocating odor pervaded the prison!
A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes
that glared at my agonies! A richer tint of
crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors
of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath!
There could be no doubt of the design of my
tormentors — oh, most unrelenting! Oh, most
demoniac of men! I shrank from the glowing
metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought
of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea
of the coolness of the well came over my soul like
balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw
my straining vision below. The glare from the
enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses.
Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to
comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At
length it forced—it wrestled its way into my
soul — it burned itself in upon my shuddering
reason. Oh, for a voice to speak! — oh, horror!
— oh, any horror but this! With a shriek, I
rushed from the margin, and buried my face in
my hands — weeping bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I.
looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague.
There had been a second change in the cell—
and now the change was obviously in the form.
As before, it was in vain that I at first endeavored
to appreciate or understand what was taking
place. But not long was I left in doubt. The
249
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my
two-fold escape, and there was to be no more
dallying with the King of Terrors. The room
had been square. I saw that two of its iron
angles were now acute — two, consequently,
obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased
with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an
instant the apartment had shifted its form into
that of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped
not here — I neither hoped nor desired it to stop.
I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom
as a garment of eternal peace. “Death,” I said,
“any death but that of the pit!” Fool! might
I not have known that into the pit it was the
object of the burning iron to urge me? Could
I resist its glow? or if even that, could I with-
stand its pressure? And now, flatter and flatter
grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that left me no
time for contemplation. Its centre, and, of
course, its greatest width, came just over the
yawning gulf. I shrank back — but the closing
walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length
for my seared and writhing body there was no
longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of
the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony
of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and
final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered
upon the brink—I averted my eyes —
There was a discordant hum of human voices!
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets!
250
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
There was a harsh grating as of a thousand
thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An
outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, faint-
ing, into the abyss. It was that of General
Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo.
The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.
251
HOP-FROG
(FRANCE)
NEVER knew any one 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 min-
isters were all noted for their accomplishments as
jokers. They all took after the king, too, in
being large, corpulent, oily men, as well as in-
imitable jokers. Whether people grow fat by
joking, or whether there is something in fat it-
self 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 “ghosts” 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's Gar-
gantua to the Zadig of Voltaire; and, upon the
whole, practical jokes suited his taste far bet-
ter than verbal ones.
At the date of my narrative, professing jesters
252
HOP-FROG
had not altogether gone out of fashion at court.
Several of the great continental “powers” still
retained their “fools,” who wore motley, with
caps and bells, and who were expected to be al-
ways 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 mon-
archs 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 unwieldly —
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 con-
253
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
sent of the seven ministers, on account of his in-
ability to walk as other men do. In fact, Hop-
Frog could only get along by a sort of inter-
jectional 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 distor-
tion of his legs, could move only with great pain
and difficulty along a road or floor, the prodig-
ious muscular power which nature seemed to have
bestowed upon his arms, by way of compensa-
tion for deficiency in the lower limbs, enabled
him to perform many feats of wonderful dexter-
ity, where trees or ropes were in question, or any-
thing else to climb. At such exercises he cer-
tainly 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, (al-
though of exquisite proportions, and a marvel-
lous dancer) had been forcibly carried off from
their respective homes in adjoining provinces,
254
HOP-FROG
and sent as presents to the king, by one of his
ever-victorious generals.
|Under these circumstances it is not to be won-
dered 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 Trip-
petta many services, but she, on account of her
grace and exquisite beauty (although a dwarf)
was universally admired and petted; so she pos-
sessed much influence, and never failed to use it,
whenever she could, for the benefit of Hop-
Frog.
On some grand state occasion — I forget
what — the king determined to have a masquer-
ade; and whenever a masquerade, or anything
of that kind, occurred at our court, then the
talents both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta were
sure to be called in play. Hop-Frog, in espe-
cial, was so inventive in the way of getting
up pageants, suggesting novel characters, and
arranging costume, for masked balls, that noth-
in could be done, it seems, without his assis-
tance.
The night appointed for the fête had arrived.
A gorgeous hall had been fitted up, under Trip-
petta's eye, with every kind of device which could
possibly give éclat to a masquerade. The whole
court was in a fever of expectation. As for cos-
255
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
tumes 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 rôles 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 ministers.
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 resource, they sent for Trip-
petta and Hop-Frog.
When the two little friends obeyed the sum-
mons of the king, they found him sitting at his
wine with the seven members of his cabinet coun-
cil; 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 feel-
ing. 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; “swal-
low 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
256
HOP-FROG
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! haſ 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 excit-
able brain was not more powerful than instan-
taneous. 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 min-
ister, a very fat man.
“Yes,” said the king; “come, Hop-Frog, lend
us your assistance. Characters, my fine fellow;
we stand in need of characters—all of us —
ha! haſ hal” 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.
257
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“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-
ful 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 vio-
lently from him, and threw the contents of the
brimming goblet in her face.
The poor girl got up as 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 a half a
minute, during which the falling of a leaf, or of
258
PHOP-FROG
a feather, might have been heard. It was in-
terrupted 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 fix-
edly 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 re-
lieved 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 hav-
ing drained another bumper with no very per-
ceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog entered at once,
and with spirit, into the plans for the masquer-
ade.
259
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
“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 alto-
gether. 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 ex-
cellent sport if well enacted.”
“We will enact it,” remarked the king, draw-
ing 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,” pro-
ceeded the dwarf; “ leave all that to me. The
resemblance shall be so striking that the com-
pany of masqueraders will take you for real
260
HOP-FROG
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 increas-
ing the confusion by their jangling. You are
supposed to have escaped, en masse, from your
keepers. Your majesty cannot conceive the ef-
fect 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 inimi-
table.”
“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
261
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
feathers; but the suggestion was at once over-
ruled 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 flaw. 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 fash-
ion 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.
262
HOP-FROG
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 im-
possible 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 chan-
delier. Additional sconces were set in various
parts of the hall, out of the way; and a flambeau,
emitting sweet odor, was placed in the right hand
of each of the 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 masquer-
aders) before making their appearance. No
sooner had the clock ceased striking, however,
than they rushed, or rather rolled in, all together
—for the impediment 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-
263
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
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 immedi-
ately upon his entrance; and, at the dwarf's sug-
gestion, 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 closely 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
264
HOP-FROG
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, begin-
ning to regard the whole matter as a well-con-
trived 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 re-
turned, as he went, to the centre of the room —
leaped, with the agility of a monkey, upon the
king's head — and thence clambered a few feet
up the chain — holding down the torch to ex-
amine 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
265
OLD-WORLD ROMANCE
ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in
mid-air between the skylight and the floor. Hop-
Frog, clinging to the chain as it rose, still main-
tained his relative position in respect to the eight
maskers, and still (as if nothing were the matter)
continued to thrust his torch down towards them,
as though endeavoring to discover who they were.
So thoroughly astonished were the whole com-
pany 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 be-
fore attracted the attention of the king and his
councillors, when the former threw the wine in
the face of Trippetta. But, on the present oc-
casion, 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 up-
turned 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,
266
HOP-FROG
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 man-
ner 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, to-
gether, they effected their escape to their own
country; for neither was seen again.
SFD 9 1921
267

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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