Produced by David Widger




The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven Edition

VOLUME IV.


Contents

 THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
 LIONIZING
 X-ING A PARAGRAB
 METZENGERSTEIN
 THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
 THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
 HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
 A PREDICAMENT
 MYSTIFICATION
 DIDDLING
 THE ANGEL OF THE ODD
 MELLONTA TAUTA
 THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE
 THE OBLONG BOX
 LOSS OF BREATH
 THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
 THE BUSINESS MAN
 THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
 MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER
 THE POWER OF WORDS
 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
 THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
 SHADOW—A PARABLE




THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY


     What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.

      Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the
      world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of
      Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the
      main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there
      are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.
      For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only
      proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is
      indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public
      sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a
      history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred
      within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty
      thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,
      with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination
      into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should
      ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.

      By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am
      enabled to say, positively, that the borough of
      Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely
      the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of
      this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that
      species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at
      times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The
      date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its
      antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
      whatsoever.

      Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I
      confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude
      of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,
      some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which
      ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
      Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
      cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege
      Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro
      Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
      countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the
      summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not
      choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,
      and must refer the reader desirous of information to the
      “Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,
      also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,
      Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;
      wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of
      Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.

      Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
      foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,
      there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always
      existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the
      borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
      appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion
      of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the
      village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a
      mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,
      over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For
      this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe
      there is anything at all on the other side.

      Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved
      throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty
      little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,
      of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards
      from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small
      garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and
      twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely
      alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.
      Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is
      somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
      picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,
      red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board
      upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there
      are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves
      and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with
      very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
      quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,
      is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a
      trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of
      Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two
      objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly
      well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever
      they find room for the chisel.

      The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture
      is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs
      and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy
      feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only
      time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real
      time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
      middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
      extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the
      time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach
      with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the
      dial-plate of a watch.

      The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking
      fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot
      over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of
      the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old
      lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a
      sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress
      is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and
      very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,
      not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,
      and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings
      to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a
      bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In
      her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right
      she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there
      stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its
      tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.

      The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden
      attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have
      three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to
      their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes
      with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of
      mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
      dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and
      then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is
      occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the
      cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,
      which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him
      look as handsome as the cat.

      Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed
      chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is
      seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly
      puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge
      double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
      nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is
      somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like
      them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To
      say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch
      to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits
      with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,
      and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon
      a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.

      This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town
      Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,
      intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and
      have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger
      than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my
      sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,
      and have adopted these three important resolutions:

      “That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:”

      “That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”
      and—

      “That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages.”

      Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the
      steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of
      mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the
      borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which
      the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the
      leather-bottomed arm-chairs.

      The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of
      the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its
      faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There
      is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty
      is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
      Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the
      matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a
      thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of
      antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have
      been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
      just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the
      borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When
      the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its
      obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and
      responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond
      of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.

      All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less
      respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the
      most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of
      any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,
      and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.
      His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his
      eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other
      old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only
      double, but triple.

      I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:
      alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!

      There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that
      “no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that
      the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It
      wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when
      there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the
      ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
      universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a
      leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of
      dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the
      clock in the steeple.

      By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll
      object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive
      foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great
      rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was
      really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
      in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark
      snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide
      mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed
      anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What
      with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his
      face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done
      up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed
      black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of
      white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black
      stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black
      satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge
      _chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times
      as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from
      which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of
      fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the
      greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a
      sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!

      To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an
      audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right
      into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited
      no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day
      would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric
      handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
      swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous
      indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a
      fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the
      remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his
      steps.

      The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to
      get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a
      minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the
      midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and
      then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged
      himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town
      Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a
      state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at
      once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big
      _chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
      and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it
      so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so
      fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that
      there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the
      devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
      Vondervotteimittiss.

      There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
      unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for
      the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.
      The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
      pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his
      watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
      fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business
      to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had
      any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count
      the strokes of the bell as it sounded.

      “One!” said the clock.

      “Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every
      leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said
      his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”
      said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on
      the tails of the cat and pig.

      “Two!” continued the big bell; and

      “Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.

      “Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell.

      “Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the
      others.

      “Eleven!” said the big one.

      “Eleben!” assented the little ones.

      “Twelve!” said the bell.

      “Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their
      voices.

      “Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
      their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.

      “Thirteen!” said he.

      “Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,
      dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from
      over their left knees.

      “Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is
      Dirteen o’clock!!”

      Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
      Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of
      uproar.

      “Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been
      ongry for dis hour!”

      “Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has
      been done to rags for this hour!”

      “Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,
      “Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and
      they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in
      their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the
      whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.

      Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it
      seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing
      in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture
      took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the
      mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and
      kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking
      and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.
      But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up
      any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to
      their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,
      scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
      caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and
      running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
      altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is
      possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters
      still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the
      steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now
      and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the
      smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was
      lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the
      bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising
      such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On
      his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all
      time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the
      nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”

      Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in
      disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and
      fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore
      the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting
      that little fellow from the steeple.




LIONIZING


     —— all people went
     Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
                    —_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.

      I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
      author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
      is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
      Fum-Fudge.

      The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
      both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
      wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
      mastered before I was breeched.

      I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
      understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
      conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
      Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
      Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
      a half dozen of drams.

      When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
      with him into his study.

      “My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
      your existence?”

      “My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”

      “And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”

      “Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”

      “And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
      nose?”

      “A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
      variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
      pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
      have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
      commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
      protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”

      “Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
      thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
      positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
      hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]
      “Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
      you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
      than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
      downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God
      bless you!”

      As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
      accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
      by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
      a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
      forthwith.

      All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

      “Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

      “Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.

      “Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.

      “Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

      “Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.

      “Great man!” said Bentley.

      “Divine soul!” said Fraser.

      “One of us!” said Blackwood.

      “Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

      “What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

      “Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
      people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
      artist.

      The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
      Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
      This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
      of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

      I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

      “Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.

      “Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.

      “Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.

      “Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

      “What will you take for it?” asked the artist.

      “For his nose!” shouted her Grace.

      “A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.

      “A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.

      “A thousand pounds,” said I.

      “Beautiful!” said he, entranced.

      “A thousand pounds,” said I.

      “Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.

      “I do,” said I, blowing it well.

      “Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.

      “Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.

      “Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
      microscope.

      “None,” said I, turning it up.

      “Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
      beauty of the manœuvre.

      “A thousand pounds,” said I.

      “A thousand pounds?” said he.

      “Precisely,” said I.

      “A thousand pounds?” said he.

      “Just so,” said I.

      “You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he
      drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I
      engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
      ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the
      proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
      to dinner.

      We were all lions and _recherchés_.

      There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
      Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.

      There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,
      Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill
      Health.”

      There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
      philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

      There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
      bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
      intelligence and homoömeria.

      There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
      heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
      Homousios and Homouioisios.

      There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
      Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à
      la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange
      jellies _en mosaïques_.

      There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
      Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.
      George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
      Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
      Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
      eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.

      There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
      Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of
      Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
      the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.

      There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
      opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
      Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

      There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
      that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
      the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
      was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
      green horns.

      There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
      eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four
      orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
      of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;
      of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of
      Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
      tragedies of Homer Junior.

      There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all
      about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aëriforms,
      fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist
      and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about
      blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about
      cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about
      antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

      There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of
      myself;—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up
      my nose, and I spoke of myself.

      “Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.

      “Superb!” said his guests;—and next morning her Grace of
      Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

      “Will you go to Almack’s, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me
      under the chin.

      “Upon honor,” said I.

      “Nose and all?” she asked.

      “As I live,” I replied.

      “Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”

      “Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

      “Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”

      “Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two,
      and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to
      suffocation.

      “He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.

      “He is coming!” said somebody farther up.

      “He is coming!” said somebody farther still.

      “He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little
      love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice
      upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.

      “_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti.

      “_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto.

      “_Mille tonnerres!_” ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.

      “_Tousand teufel!_” growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.

      It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
      Bluddennuff.

      “Sir!” said I to him, “you are a baboon.”

      “Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “_Donner und Blitzen!_”

      This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
      Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called
      upon my friends.

      “_Bête!_” said the first.

      “Fool!” said the second.

      “Dolt!” said the third.

      “Ass!” said the fourth.

      “Ninny!” said the fifth.

      “Noodle!” said the sixth.

      “Be off!” said the seventh.

      At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.

      “Father,” I asked, “what is the chief end of my existence?”

      “My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in
      hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.
      You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none.
      You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant
      you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to
      the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no
      competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”




X-ING A PARAGRAB


      As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and
      as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows
      that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of
      the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor.
      Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of
      which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he
      justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his
      virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to
      convince him that it was ‘anything else.’

      I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and
      the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when,
      abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he
      migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some
      place of a similar title, out West.

      I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up
      his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the
      impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed
      in that particular section of the country. In establishing ‘The
      Tea-Pot’ he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel
      confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence
      in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in
      Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John
      Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there
      quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the
      ‘Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.’ It was solely,
      therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr.
      Bullet-head found himself in Alex—— suppose we call it Nopolis,
      ‘for short’—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to
      keep up his character for obst—for firmness, and remain. So
      remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,
      etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the
      ‘Gazette,’ and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued
      the first number of ‘The Alexan’—that is to say, of ‘The Nopolis
      Tea-Pot’—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the
      new paper.

      The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say
      severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as
      for the editor of ‘The Gazette,’ he was torn all to pieces in
      particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery
      that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon
      John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I
      cannot pretend to give all the ‘Tea-Pot’s’ paragraphs verbatim,
      but one of them runs thus:

      ‘Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way
      is a genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world
      coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’

      A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a
      bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups
      of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets.
      Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the
      dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:

      ‘We quote from “The Tea-Pot” of yesterday the subjoined
      paragraph: “Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh,
      goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” Why, the fellow is all O! That
      accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is
      neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We
      really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t
      an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he
      came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as
      much there as he does here? “O! it is pitiful.”’

      The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous
      insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the
      eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much
      incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have
      imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to
      desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write
      a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see
      that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was
      mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of
      Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he,
      Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole
      paragraph—aye! a whole article—in which that contemptible vowel
      should not once—not even once—make its appearance. But no;—that
      would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He,
      Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the
      caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a
      thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as
      O-wy as O-wy could be.

      Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great
      Touch-and-go, in the next ‘Tea-Pot,’ came out merely with this
      simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy
      affair:

      ‘The editor of the “Tea-Pot” has the honor of advising the editor
      of the “Gazette” that he (the “Tea-Pot”) will take an opportunity
      in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the “Gazette”)
      that he (the “Tea-Pot”) both can and will be _his own master_, as
      regards style;—he (the “Tea-Pot”) intending to show him (the
      “Gazette”) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with
      which the criticism of him (the “Gazette”) inspires the
      independent bosom of him (the “Tea-Pot”) by composing for the
      especial gratification (?) of him (the “Gazette”) a leading
      article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—the emblem
      of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of
      him (the “Gazette”) shall most certainly not be avoided by his
      (the “Gazette’s”) most obedient, humble servant, the “Tea-Pot.”
      “So much for Buckingham!”’

      In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather
      than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf
      ear to all entreaties for ‘copy,’ and simply requesting his
      foreman to ‘go to the d——l,’ when he (the foreman) assured him
      (the ‘Tea-Pot’!) that it was high time to ‘go to press’: turning
      a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up
      until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the
      composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—

      ‘So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another
      time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know
      you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your
      odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl—go!
      You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John don’t do so! You’ve _got_ to go,
      you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you
      here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re no
      homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a
      poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or
      frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you
      fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t frown so—don’t! Don’t
      hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord, John, how
      you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of
      an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!’

      Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great
      Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly,
      composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS.
      to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,
      retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.

      Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs
      to his ‘case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a
      commencement at ‘setting’ the MS. ‘up.’

      In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was ‘So,’—he
      made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph
      with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw
      himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but
      who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without
      the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his
      astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles,
      that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the
      bottom of an empty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o
      hole; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he
      found _that_, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar
      predicament. Awe-stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the
      foreman.

      ‘Sir!’ said he, gasping for breath, ‘I can’t never set up nothing
      without no o’s.’

      ‘What do you mean by that?’ growled the foreman, who was in a
      very ill humor at being kept so late.

      ‘Why, sir, there beant an o in the office, neither a big un nor a
      little un!’

      ‘What—what the d—l has become of all that were in the case?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but one of them ere “G’zette”
      devils is bin prowling ’bout here all night, and I spect he’s
      gone and cabbaged ‘em every one.’

      ‘Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt of it,’ replied the foreman,
      getting purple with rage ‘but I tell you what you do, Bob, that’s
      a good boy—you go over the first chance you get and hook every
      one of their i’s and (d——n them!) their izzards.’

      ‘Jist so,’ replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—‘I’ll be into
      ‘em, I’ll let ‘em know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that
      ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know—else there’ll be the
      d—l to pay, and—’

      ‘And not a bit of pitch hot,’ interrupted the foreman, with a
      deep sigh, and an emphasis on the ‘bit.’ ‘Is it a long paragraph,
      Bob?’

      ‘Shouldn’t call it a _wery_ long paragrab,’ said Bob.

      ‘Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to
      press,’ said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work;
      ‘just stick in some other letter for o; nobody’s going to read
      the fellow’s trash anyhow.’

      ‘Wery well,’ replied Bob, ‘here goes it!’ and off he hurried to
      his case, muttering as he went: ‘Considdeble vell, them ere
      expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to
      gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their gizzards! Vell!
      this here’s the chap as is just able for to do it.’ The fact is
      that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he
      was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way.

      The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in
      printing-offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but
      the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it
      almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the
      letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather
      the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in
      the old times—long enough to render the substitution in question
      an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have
      considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case
      of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed.

      ‘I shell have to x this ere paragrab,’ said he to himself, as he
      read it over in astonishment, ‘but it’s jest about the awfulest
      o-wy paragrab I ever did see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and
      to press it went x-ed.

      Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by
      reading in ‘The Tea-Pot,’ the following extraordinary leader:

      ‘Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther
      time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw
      yxu’re xut? Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur
      xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx!
      Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, yxu
      knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here,
      yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t gx yxu’re nx
      hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a
      pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr
      frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu
      fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t
      hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw
      yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse
      xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a
      bxwl!’

      The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article,
      is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by
      the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in
      the hieroglyphics; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head’s
      residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that
      gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could
      tell how; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.

      Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at
      length subsided; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a
      medley of opinion about this unhappy affair.

      One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.

      Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-uberance
      of fancy.

      A third admitted him X-entric, but no more.

      A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee’s design to X-press, in
      a general way, his X-asperation.

      ‘Say, rather, to set an X-ample to posterity,’ suggested a fifth.

      That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to
      all; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was
      some talk about lynching the other one.

      The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was,
      simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town
      mathematician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a
      problem. X, everybody knew, was an unknown quantity; but in this
      case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of
      X.

      The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having
      ‘X-ed the paragrab’), did not meet with so much attention as I
      think it deserved, although it was very openly and very
      fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt
      about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr.
      Bullet-head ‘never could be persuaded fur to drink like other
      folks, but vas continually a-svigging o’ that ere blessed XXX
      ale, and as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage,
      and made him X (cross) in the X-treme.’




METZENGERSTEIN


     Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.
                    —_Martin Luther_

      Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why
      then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to
      say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the
      interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the
      doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that
      is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I
      assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says
      of all our unhappiness—“_vient de ne pouvoir être seuls_.” {*1}

      But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which
      were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very
      essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The
      soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and
      intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps
      sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que
      la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux._”

      The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at
      variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so
      illustrious, mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. The
      origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an
      ancient prophecy—“A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as
      the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall
      triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”

      To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But
      more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to
      consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were
      contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs
      of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom
      friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might
      look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the
      palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal
      magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable
      feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What
      wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,
      should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
      families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of
      hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied
      anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful
      house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter
      animosity by the weaker and less influential.

      Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at
      the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,
      remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal
      antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of
      horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,
      nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the
      dangers of the chase.

      Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet
      of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the
      Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that
      time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long
      period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in
      a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
      principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.

      From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of
      his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,
      entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were
      seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were
      without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the
      “Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was
      never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit
      of fifty miles.

      Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so
      well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was
      afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,
      for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded
      Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most
      enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant
      treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals
      quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no
      punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove
      any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula.
      On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle
      Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous
      opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to
      the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and
      enormities.

      But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young
      nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast
      and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of
      Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which
      swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and
      majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,
      rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly
      seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the
      wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal
      supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the
      dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular
      war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled
      the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,
      again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days
      gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the
      strains of imaginary melody.

      But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the
      gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or
      perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of
      audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an
      enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the
      tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his
      rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood
      motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited
      rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

      On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became
      aware of the direction which his glance had, without his
      consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the
      contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming
      anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It
      was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent
      feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed
      the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it
      appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the
      fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming
      suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his
      attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming
      stables upon the windows of the apartment.

      The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned
      mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,
      the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its
      position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in
      compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now
      extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The
      eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human
      expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and
      the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full
      view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.

      Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door.
      As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the
      chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the
      quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as
      he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact
      position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless
      and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

      To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into
      the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered
      three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril
      of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a
      gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

      “Whose horse? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a
      querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware
      that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very
      counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

      “He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,
      “at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,
      all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of
      the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the
      old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.
      But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is
      strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow
      escape from the flames.

      “The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his
      forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of
      course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at
      the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

      “Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,
      and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,
      as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as
      you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable
      character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,
      “perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even
      the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”

      “You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,
      is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the
      case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence
      of a noble of your family.”

      “True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of
      the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and
      a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account
      of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,
      in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,
      into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but
      from the low tone of voice in which these latter were
      communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of
      the equerries.

      The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a
      variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,
      and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his
      countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber
      should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own
      possession.

      “Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter
      Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after
      the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had
      adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,
      down the long avenue which extended from the château to the
      stables of Metzengerstein.

      “No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead!
      say you?”

      “It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will
      be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

      A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How
      died he?”

      “In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his
      hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”

      “I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and
      deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

      “Indeed;” repeated the vassal.

      “Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the
      château.

      From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward
      demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von
      Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every
      expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of
      many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still
      less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the
      neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the
      limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was
      utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,
      and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually
      bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

      Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long
      time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our
      festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a
      hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”
      “Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic
      answers.

      These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious
      nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in
      time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count
      Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron
      might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he
      disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not
      wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to
      be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and
      merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to
      become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.

      The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the
      conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for
      the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his
      atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period
      immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,
      who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.
      Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)
      did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary
      ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were
      current among the multitude.

      Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired
      charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from
      every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like
      propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,
      a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead
      hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the
      young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that
      colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded
      with his own spirit.

      There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late
      events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania
      of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space
      passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and
      was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest
      expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no
      particular _name_ for the animal, although all the rest in his
      collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His
      stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with
      regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the
      owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the
      enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed,
      that although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he
      fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in
      arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no
      one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had,
      during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,
      actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of
      peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and
      high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting
      unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to
      the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the
      sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which
      intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and
      phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal
      caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from
      the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when
      the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the
      rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking
      eye.

      Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to
      doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on
      the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his
      horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little
      page, whose deformities were in everybody’s way, and whose
      opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas
      are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his
      master never vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and
      almost imperceptible shudder, and that, upon his return from
      every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of
      triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

      One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy
      slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting
      in hot haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An
      occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his
      return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his
      domestics, when, after some hours’ absence, the stupendous and
      magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were
      discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under
      the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

      As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a
      progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building
      were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly
      around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful
      object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved
      how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings
      of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought
      about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

      Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the
      main entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an
      unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an
      impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.

      The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,
      uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive
      struggle of his frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but
      no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated
      lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of
      terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded
      sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the
      shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge
      the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering
      staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid
      the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

      The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm
      sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building
      like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere,
      shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke
      settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal
      figure of—_a horse_.




THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER


      During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme
      southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles
      of a certain _Maison de Santé_ or private mad-house, about which
      I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had
      never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too
      good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a
      gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days
      before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look
      through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in
      the first place, and, in the second, a very usual horror at the
      sight of a lunatic. He begged me, however, not to let any mere
      courtesy towards himself interfere with the gratification of my
      curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I
      might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the
      next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be
      some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and
      mentioned my fears on this point. He replied that, in fact,
      unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur
      Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty
      might be found to exist, as the regulations of these private
      mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws. For
      himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the
      acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride
      up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the
      subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.

      I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a
      grass-grown by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself
      in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this
      dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the _Maison de
      Santé_ came in view. It was a fantastic château, much
      dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and
      neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,
      checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,
      grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.

      As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and
      the visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward,
      this man came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him
      cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur
      Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the
      old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity,
      dignity, and authority which was very impressive.

      My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect
      the establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance
      that he would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw
      him no more.

      When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
      exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of
      refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical
      instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,
      singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful
      woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me
      with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner
      subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in
      her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not
      unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited
      in my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and
      admiration.

      I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard
      was managed upon what is vulgarly termed the “system of
      soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—that even confinement
      was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,
      were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were
      permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the ordinary
      apparel of persons in right mind.

      Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said
      before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane;
      and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her
      eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my
      remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought
      would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She
      replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and
      even her original observations were marked with the soundest good
      sense, but a long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had
      taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity, and I
      continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with
      which I commenced it.

      Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit,
      wine, and other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon
      afterward leaving the room. As she departed I turned my eyes in
      an inquiring manner toward my host.

      “No,” he said, “oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most
      accomplished woman.”

      “I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of
      course you will know how to excuse me. The excellent
      administration of your affairs here is well understood in Paris,
      and I thought it just possible, you know—”

      “Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you
      for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find
      so much of forethought in young men; and, more than once, some
      unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence of
      thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former
      system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the
      privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused
      to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to
      inspect the house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system
      of exclusion; and none obtained access to the premises upon whose
      discretion I could not rely.”

      “While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating
      his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing
      system’ of which I have heard so much is no longer in force?”

      “It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded
      to renounce it forever.”

      “Indeed! you astonish me!”

      “We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary
      to return to the old usages. The danger of the soothing system
      was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages have been much
      overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a
      fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational
      humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid
      us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for
      yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing
      practice—with its details.”

      “Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth
      hand.”

      “I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which
      the patients were _menagés_—humored. We contradicted no fancies
      which entered the brains of the mad. On the contrary, we not only
      indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent
      cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so
      touches the feeble reason of the madman as the argumentum ad
      absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied themselves
      chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to
      accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it
      to be a fact—and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week
      than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this manner
      a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”

      “But was this species of acquiescence all?”

      “By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind,
      such as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards,
      certain classes of books, and so forth. We affected to treat each
      individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the
      word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each
      lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose
      confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to
      gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense
      with an expensive body of keepers.”

      “And you had no punishments of any kind?”

      “None.”

      “And you never confined your patients?”

      “Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing
      to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to
      a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect the rest, and
      there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with
      the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to
      the public hospitals.”

      “And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?”

      “Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its
      dangers. It is now, happily, exploded throughout all the _Maisons
      de Santé_ of France.”

      “I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I
      made sure that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for
      mania existed in any portion of the country.”

      “You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time
      will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is
      going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others.
      Believe nothing you hear, and only one-half that you see. Now
      about our _Maisons de Santé_, it is clear that some ignoramus has
      misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently
      recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take
      you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my
      opinion, and in that of every one who has witnessed its
      operation, is incomparably the most effectual as yet devised.”

      “Your own?” I inquired—“one of your own invention?”

      “I am proud,” he replied, “to acknowledge that it is—at least in
      some measure.”

      In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or
      two, during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of
      the place.

      “I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To
      a sensitive mind there is always more or less of the shocking in
      such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil your appetite for
      dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal a la Menehoult,
      with cauliflowers in _velouté_ sauce—after that a glass of Clos
      de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied.”

      At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a
      large _salle à manger_, where a very numerous company were
      assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They were, apparently,
      people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their
      habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking
      somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the _vielle
      cour_. I noticed that at least two-thirds of these guests were
      ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what
      a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many
      females, for example, whose age could not have been less than
      seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,
      bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms
      shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very few of the dresses
      were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the
      wearers. In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to
      whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but
      my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,
      with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much
      too large for her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive
      expression. When I had first seen her, she was attired, most
      becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in
      short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,
      caused me to recur to my original idea of the “soothing system,”
      and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive
      me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable
      feelings during the repast, at finding myself dining with
      lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris, that
      the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people,
      with a vast number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon
      conversing with several members of the company, my apprehensions
      were immediately and fully dispelled.

      The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable
      and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about
      it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a
      carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were
      without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely
      fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of
      our ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in
      itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three
      sides of the parallelogram, the door being at the other. There
      were no less than ten windows in all.

      The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and
      more than loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely
      barbaric. There were meats enough to have feasted the Anakim.
      Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an
      expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little
      taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to
      quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a
      multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were
      deposited upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was
      possible to find a place. There were several active servants in
      attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of the
      apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes,
      trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at
      intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises,
      which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford much
      entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.

      Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of
      the bizarre about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up
      of all kinds of persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts
      of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be
      quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly
      at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent appetite,
      did justice to the good cheer set before me.

      The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The
      ladies, as usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly
      all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of
      good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to
      speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;
      and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a
      favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were
      told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients.

      “We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat
      at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the
      way, is it not especially singular how often this particular
      crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely
      an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot.
      Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to
      polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”

      “And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long
      ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a
      donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite
      true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep
      him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but
      thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon
      his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his
      heels—so—so—”

      “Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
      interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please
      keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it
      necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style?
      Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon
      my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate
      imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”

      “Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus
      addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending.
      Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of
      taking wine with you.”

      Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much
      ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.

      “Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing
      myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.
      Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”

      At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in
      depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,
      containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,
      informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured
      me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set
      upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English
      fashion of dressing a hare.

      “Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not
      particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not
      find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,
      however, and try some of the rabbit.”

      There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what
      appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious
      morceau, which I can recommend.

      “Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and
      give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”

      “This what?” said I.

      “This rabbit _au-chat_.”

      “Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself
      to some of the ham.”

      There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the
      tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their
      rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their
      _cat-au-rabbit_ either.

      “And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of
      the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had
      been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a
      patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained
      himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in
      his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the
      middle of his leg.”

      “He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but
      not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,
      with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who
      took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with
      a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”

      Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb
      in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the
      popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the
      tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which
      lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of
      champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to
      Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the
      conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.

      “And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself
      for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree.
      I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed
      myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural
      airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only
      observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak
      thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B
      flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking
      a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled
      up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,
      why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you
      would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”

      “I have no doubt of it,” I said.

      “And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,
      who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed
      because he could not take himself between his own finger and
      thumb.”

      “And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular
      genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin.
      He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the
      cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means
      sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been
      very capital eating indeed!”

      “You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur
      Maillard.

      “Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho!
      ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,
      _mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not
      understand him to the letter.”

      “And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was
      Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He
      grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two
      heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the
      other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the
      top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the
      mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he
      would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a
      man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,
      and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap
      upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”

      Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his
      shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he
      ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his
      chair.

      “And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was
      Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in
      fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether
      irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a
      tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin.
      He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this
      manner—so—”

      Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,
      performed an exactly similar office for himself.

      “But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your
      Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;
      for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum?
      The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,
      as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common
      sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her
      acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some
      accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,
      she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious
      effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious!
      Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo
      dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

      “Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
      interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct
      yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table
      forthwith—take your choice.”

      The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame
      Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just
      given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed
      at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable
      in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was
      my beautiful girl of the little parlor.

      “Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was
      really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie
      Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young
      lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and
      wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of
      inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.
      You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and
      then so—so—and then—”

      “Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at
      once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,
      very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons
      were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle
      Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean
      Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly
      accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some
      portion of the main body of the _château_.

      My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but
      the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of
      reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all
      grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their
      seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for
      a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly
      nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time
      with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of
      the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,
      and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to
      inquire the cause of the disturbance.

      “A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to
      these things, and care really very little about them. The
      lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one
      starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at
      night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_
      yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;
      when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”

      “And how many have you in charge?”

      “At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”

      “Principally females, I presume?”

      “Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell
      you.”

      “Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics
      were of the gentler sex.”

      “It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were
      about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less
      than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very
      much, as you see.”

      “Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the
      gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.

      “Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole
      company at once.

      “Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great
      rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for
      nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to
      the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an
      excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,
      until the end of the entertainment.

      “And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending
      over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just
      spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,
      is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”

      “Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what
      can you mean?”

      “Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for
      granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,
      eh?”

      “_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old
      friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has
      her little eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old
      women—all _very_ old women—are more or less eccentric!”

      “To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure—and then the rest of these
      ladies and gentlemen—”

      “Are my friends and keepers,” interupted Monsieur Maillard,
      drawing himself up with _hauteur_,—“my very good friends and
      assistants.”

      “What! all of them?” I asked,—“the women and all?”

      “Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women;
      they are the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of
      their own, you know; their bright eyes have a marvellous
      effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”

      “To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd,
      eh?—they are a little queer, eh?—don’t you think so?”

      “Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very
      prudish, to be sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we
      please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing, you know—”

      “To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”

      “And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you
      know—a little strong—you understand, eh?”

      “To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I
      understand you to say that the system you have adopted, in place
      of the celebrated soothing system, was one of very rigorous
      severity?”

      “By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the
      treatment—the medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to
      the patients than otherwise.”

      “And the new system is one of your own invention?”

      “Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor
      Tarr, of whom you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are
      modifications in my plan which I am happy to acknowledge as
      belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I
      mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”

      “I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never
      even heard the names of either gentleman before.”

      “Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair
      abruptly, and uplifting his hands. “I surely do not hear you
      aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had never heard
      either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor
      Fether?”

      “I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the
      truth should be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I
      feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted with the works of
      these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their
      writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.
      Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have
      really—made me ashamed of myself!”

      And this was the fact.

      “Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my
      hand,—“join me now in a glass of Sauterne.”

      We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They
      chatted—they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand
      absurdities—the fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the
      trombones bellowed like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the
      whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the wines
      gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in
      petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some
      bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our
      conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an
      ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice
      of a fish from the bottom of Niagara Falls.

      “And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned
      something before dinner about the danger incurred in the old
      system of soothing. How is that?”

      “Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger
      indeed. There is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and,
      in my opinion as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Professor
      Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large
      unattended. A lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a
      time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His
      cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in
      view, he conceals his design with a marvellous wisdom; and the
      dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the
      metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of
      mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high
      time to put him in a straitjacket.”

      “But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your
      own experience—during your control of this house—have you had
      practical reason to think liberty hazardous in the case of a
      lunatic?”

      “Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no
      very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this
      very house. The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was then in
      operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved
      remarkably well—especially so—any one of sense might have known
      that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,
      that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough,
      one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and
      foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if
      they were the lunatics, by the lunatics themselves, who had
      usurped the offices of the keepers.”

      “You don’t tell me so! I never heard of any thing so absurd in my
      life!”

      “Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a
      lunatic—who, by some means, had taken it into his head that he
      had invented a better system of government than any ever heard of
      before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his
      invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the
      patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the
      reigning powers.”

      “And he really succeeded?”

      “No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange
      places. Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but
      the keepers were shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am
      sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”

      “But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This
      condition of things could not have long existed. The country
      people in the neighborhood—visitors coming to see the
      establishment—would have given the alarm.”

      “There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He
      admitted no visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a
      very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom he had no reason to
      be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of
      variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had
      gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his
      business.”

      “And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”

      “Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I
      can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly
      season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby
      clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The
      cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these
      madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived
      well, I can tell you.”

      “And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment
      which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”

      “Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have
      already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment
      was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was
      a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in
      fact it was delicious—it was—”

      Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of
      yells, of the same character as those which had previously
      disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from
      persons rapidly approaching.

      “Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most
      undoubtedly broken loose.”

      “I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now
      becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,
      before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the
      windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some
      persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room.
      The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and
      the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence.

      A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,
      to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board.
      I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the
      orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly
      too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their
      feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,
      broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they
      performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy
      superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.

      Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and
      glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been
      restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly
      settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a
      very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same
      moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to
      spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms
      outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all
      the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that
      happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible
      popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it
      proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that
      delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man
      croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every
      note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the
      continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old
      friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor
      lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,
      was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out
      incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”

      And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no
      resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was
      offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten
      windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in.
      But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with
      which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down
      among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and
      howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be
      chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of
      Good Hope.

      I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa
      and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during
      which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in
      the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this
      tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account
      of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been
      merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,
      some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the
      establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient.
      This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced
      me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,
      were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut
      up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more
      than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had
      generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which
      constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.
      The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping
      through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.

      The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been
      resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with
      Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital
      one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and
      gave no trouble at all—not the least.”

      I have only to add that, although I have searched every library
      in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,
      I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at
      procuring an edition.




THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.

LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.”
By Himself


      I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that
      Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that
      I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as
      well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels.
      But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary
      sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I
      cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my
      earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so
      constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to
      admit the naturalness of the interest which it has everywhere
      excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has
      inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who
      achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such
      landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore,
      in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling
      “Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,”) to
      give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first
      steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the
      pinnacle of human renown.

      Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My
      father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of
      his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city
      of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people
      of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which
      inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my
      own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the
      rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august
      mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first
      moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that
      ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the
      “Gad-Fly,” in the intervals of the important process just
      mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices,
      an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob,” (so
      called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which
      effusion the editor of the “Fly” was remunerated with a regal
      liberality by the firm of Thomas Bob & company, merchant-barbers.

      The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into
      me, I say, the divine _afflatus_. I resolved at once to become a
      great man, and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very
      evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.

      “Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It
      is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I
      would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon
      me and aid me to be great!”

      “My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened
      Thingum after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,”
      he said, raising me from my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my boy,
      you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You
      have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains.
      This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a
      lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a
      politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge wisely;—the trade
      of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as
      most of the editors are, by the by,—why you will kill two birds
      with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I
      will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming
      dictionary; and a copy of the ‘Gad-Fly.’ I suppose you would
      scarcely demand any more.”

      “I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with
      enthusiasm. “Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by
      making you the father of a genius.”

      Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately
      upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical
      labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate
      elevation to the editorial chair.

      In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The
      Oil-of-Bob” rather a draw-back than otherwise. Their splendor
      more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their
      excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with
      my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At
      length there came into my head one of those exquisitely original
      ideas which now and then _will_ permeate the brain of a man of
      genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into
      execution. From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very
      remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and
      altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them
      to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a
      translation of one Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable
      neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a
      parcel of brats. From another which contained a good many old
      plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same
      manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about
      “angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and “goblins damned,” and
      more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the
      composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a
      Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle
      exactly—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’
      wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I
      recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or
      two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and although a blind man
      has no business to write about light, still the verses were
      sufficiently good in their way.

      Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of
      them “Oppodeldoc,” (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up
      nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the
      four principal Magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and
      prompt pay. The result of this well conceived plan, however, (the
      success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life,)
      served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled,
      and gave the _coup-de-grace_ (as they say in France,) to my
      nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals.)

      The fact is, that each and every one of the Magazines in
      question, gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the
      “Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The “Hum-Drum” gave him a
      dressing after this fashion:

      “‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has sent us a long _tirade_
      concerning a bedlamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great
      many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed
      without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not
      to say _flat_. ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is entirely devoid
      of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not
      only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc,’
      (whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his
      twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert
      nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,
      however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the
      balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the
      ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”

      All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon
      “Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in
      small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of
      bitterness is there not involved!

      But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the
      “Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:

      “We have received a most singular and insolent communication from
      a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus
      desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so
      named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
      we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about
      ‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a
      Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for
      this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’
      No sir—no! We pay for nothing of _that_ sort. Apply to the
      ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These
      _periodicals_ will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may
      send them—and as undoubtedly _promise_ to pay for it.”

      This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this
      instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the
      “Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled
      “_periodicals_”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them
      to the heart.

      Scarcely less savage was the “Lollipop,” which thus discoursed:

      “Some _individual_, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’
      (to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often
      applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty _verses_ commencing
      after this fashion:

      Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
      Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.

      “‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is respectfully informed that
      there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the
      daily habit of composing better _lines_. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’
      will not _scan_. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to _count_. But why he
      should have conceived the idea that _we_, (of all others, _we!_)
      would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly
      beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good
      enough for the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the
      ‘Goosetherumfoodle’—things that are in the practice of publishing
      ‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’
      (whoever he is,) has even the assurance to demand _pay_ for this
      drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) know—is he aware that
      we could not be paid to insert it?”

      As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and
      smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered
      at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me
      left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience _compassion_ for
      the poor fellow. But the “Goosetherumfoodle” showed, if possible,
      less mercy than the “Lollipop.” It was the “Goosetherumfoodle”
      that said:

      “A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly
      enough to fancy that _we_ will print and _pay for_ a medley of
      incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to
      us, and which commences with the following most _intelligible_
      line:

      ‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven, first born.’

      “We say, ‘most _intelligible_.’ ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
      will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘_hail_’ can be
      ‘_holy light_’ We always regarded it as _frozen rain_. Will he
      inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same
      time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is,) and an
      ‘offspring?’—which latter term, (if we understand any thing about
      English,) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small
      babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant
      upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has
      the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only
      ‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) _pay for them!_

      “Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish
      this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his
      effusion, _verbatim et literatim_, as he has written it. We could
      inflict no punishment so severe, and we _would_ inflict it, but
      for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.

      “Let ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) send any future _composition_
      of like character to the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the
      ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ _They_ will ‘insert’ it. _They_ ‘insert’ every month
      just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with
      impunity.”

      This made an end of me; and as for the “Hum-Drum,” the
      “Rowdy-Dow,” and the “Lollipop,” I never could comprehend how
      they survived it. The putting _them_ in the smallest possible
      _minion_, (that was the rub—thereby insinuating their
      lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood looking down upon them in
      gigantic capitals!—oh it was _too_ bitter!—it was wormwood—it was
      gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared
      no pains to have the “Goosetherumfoodle” prosecuted. It might
      have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to
      Animals.” As for “Oppodeldoc,” (whoever he was), I had by this
      time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him
      no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got
      not a kick more than he deserved.

      The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in
      the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the
      second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the
      two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least,
      be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore,
      and determined to prosecute the “entirely original,” (as they say
      on the covers of the magazines,) at whatever cost of study and
      pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant
      stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” and
      resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in
      rivalry of what had already been done.

      With my first verse I had no material difficulty. It ran thus:

      “To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’”

      Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes
      to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had
      recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature
      thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

      _“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
      Is all sorts of a job._
                          “(Signed) Snob.”

      To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I
      “have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the
      mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its
      merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is
      impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I
      was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the
      only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My
      father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there
      were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I
      dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he
      did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due
      deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages
      of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with
      resignation.

      In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of
      seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with
      the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between
      brackets:

      _We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable
      stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their
      sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them
      without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on
      the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the
      “Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._

      P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which
      envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal
      interview?

      All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,
      rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it
      observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of
      mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of
      the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman
      at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly
      blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in
      him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and
      inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon
      the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat
      the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies
      of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no
      means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with
      much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few
      trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my
      esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the _tapis_,
      and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or
      to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that
      unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of
      the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon
      disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the
      personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated
      the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very
      little better than he should be. He had written infamous things.
      He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had
      composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a
      farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he
      had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon
      himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”
      Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the
      pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my
      unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that
      I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a
      rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon
      himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal
      interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be
      the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.)

      Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion
      of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to
      suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught
      to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the
      “Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon
      being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted
      contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief
      poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the
      ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”

      As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his
      eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing
      his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated
      elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he
      remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his
      forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had
      nearly made an end of what I had to say.

      Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much
      overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but
      keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the
      duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so
      alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the
      bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have
      altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a
      table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in
      the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to
      imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his
      features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.

      “Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending
      myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—_very?_”

      I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum.

      “Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more!
      Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very
      just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_
      contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom
      to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the
      _recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he
      emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are
      _paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse.
      In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to
      disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no
      doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of
      the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving
      our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange
      our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I
      really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this
      explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the
      tears stood in his eyes.

      Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause
      of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to
      apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect
      coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of
      the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat
      speech, I took leave.

      One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found
      myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by
      reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,
      it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number
      of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly
      satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,
      of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of
      the critiques.

      The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the
      deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,
      spoke as follows:

      “‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine
      surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In
      the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and
      excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit
      of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced
      rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’
      and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,
      but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
      celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,
      is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation
      of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth
      during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it
      disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is
      reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a
      half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as
      editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob
      and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the
      Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

      I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from
      a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is
      to say, my _nom de guerre_—in priority of station to that of the
      great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be
      deserved.

      My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the
      “Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and
      independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and
      subservience to the givers of dinners:

      “The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its
      contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the
      splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its
      literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the
      ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all
      other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine
      can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we
      can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and
      its subscription list has increased one-third during the last
      fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,
      for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.
      Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late
      ‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

      “Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,
      (besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,
      and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most
      valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by
      Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from
      the title of this incomparable _bijou_, that it bears any
      similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain
      contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears
      polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited
      universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the
      evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it
      in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr.
      Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum,
      (after whom he is named,) and otherwise connected with the most
      illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq.,
      is an opulent merchant in Smug. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

      This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more
      especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so
      proverbially pure as the “Toad.” The word “balderdash,” as
      applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly
      pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “_bijou_,” however,
      used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some
      degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They
      were not sufficiently _prononcés_, (as we have it in France).

      I had hardly finished reading the “Toad,” when a friend placed in
      my hands a copy of the “Mole,” a daily, enjoying high reputation
      for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and
      for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The
      “Mole” spoke of the “Lollipop” as follows:

      “We have just received the ‘Lollipop’ for October, and must say
      that never before have we perused any single number of any
      periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak
      advisedly. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow’ and the
      ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ must look well to their laurels. These
      prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,
      but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
      celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous
      expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a
      circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased
      one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,
      monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it
      upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than
      sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the
      ‘Dish-Clout.’

      “The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the
      eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,
      after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we
      prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who
      writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict
      will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,
      is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of
      this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the
      distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem
      is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as
      some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has
      already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the
      same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the
      compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”

      The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the
      “Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which
      occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might
      have been better written “_odious and_ contemptible _wretch,
      villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,
      I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,
      of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently
      _thought_ of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

      On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”
      the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent
      of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which
      spoke thus:

      “The ‘Lollipop!!’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the
      public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to
      rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the
      ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make
      any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may
      excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us
      the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its
      evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure
      it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its
      subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the
      last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for
      contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the
      fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than
      eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
      Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill
      Katy-Didn’t.’

      “The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,
      those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there
      are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,
      Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
      Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The
      world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of
      genius.

      “The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting
      universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,
      if possible, even more applause than it has received. The
      ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and
      art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,
      although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?)
      similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable
      penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the
      capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
      about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not
      to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,
      we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a
      scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_

      I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the
      concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the
      yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance
      with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of
      the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness
      of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for
      the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any
      one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real
      design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the
      “Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more
      pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words
      “penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were
      epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be
      worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst
      stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is
      meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who
      could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that
      of glorifying with feeble abuse?

      What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no
      business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble
      manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed
      themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be
      coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely
      “a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I
      made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out.

      Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I
      could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor
      of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at
      length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.

      I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory
      to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and
      demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him
      my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
      cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he
      really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided
      as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He
      declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me
      from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more
      especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and
      scholar.”

      Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really
      appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested
      to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,
      advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for
      the “Lollipop.”

      I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how
      it was expected that I should play him.

      Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)
      but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of
      astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas
      Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
      the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing
      tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise
      using-up the herd of poor-devil authors.

      I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly
      resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab
      desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in
      the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a
      specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of
      the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the
      “Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less
      onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_
      altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and
      well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of
      “Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New
      Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s
      Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”
      These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,
      throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that
      might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard
      phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
      longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through
      without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When
      called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap
      with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be
      reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more
      care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds
      in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a
      shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;
      where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was
      captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple
      expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the
      world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I
      was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of
      the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as
      a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the
      Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were
      up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some
      measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of
      accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis
      Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether
      stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any
      extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,
      whether on their heads, or on their heels.

      What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication
      of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to
      determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept
      himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously
      from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of
      him since.

      This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies
      appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took
      me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas
      Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford
      me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.

      “My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect
      your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When
      I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will
      make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my
      counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”

      “Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—_aper?_ (as we say in
      Latin)—who?—where?”

      “Your father,” said he.

      “Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”

      “You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and
      that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must
      cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”
      continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he
      _won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane
      him, or something of that kind.”

      “What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in
      the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by
      tweaking his nose?”

      Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then
      answered:

      “I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer
      sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far
      as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,
      upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the
      operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with
      your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to
      prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades.
      After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any
      more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice
      in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time
      the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an
      assault.”

      I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me
      personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.
      Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result
      was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little
      independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was,
      for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort; but at length, by
      carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters
      went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to
      be brought about. I say “thing”—be it observed—for they tell me
      the Latin for it is _rem_. By the way, talking of Latin, can any
      one tell me the meaning of _quocunque_—or what is the meaning of
      _modo?_

      My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth
      of the “Snapping-Turtle”:—that was all. The thing was _done_, and
      I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements
      afterwards, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the plan.
      They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink,
      and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus
      completed a Magazine article, I gave it, for appellation,
      “Fol-Lol, _by the Author of_ ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it
      to the “Goosetherumfoodle.” That journal, however, having
      pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly Notices to
      Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by
      Thingum Bob, Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ _and_
      Editor of the ‘Snapping-Turtle.’” With this amendment, I
      re-enclosed it to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and, while I awaited a
      reply, published daily, in the “Turtle,” six columns of what may
      be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the
      literary merits of the “Goosetherumfoodle,” as well as of the
      personal character of the editor of the “Goosetherumfoodle.” At
      the end of a week the “Goosetherumfoodle” discovered that it had,
      by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article, headed
      ‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle’ and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with
      a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of
      Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’”
      The “Goosetherumfoodle” deeply “regretted this very natural
      accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the _genuine_
      “Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the very next number of the Magazine.

      The fact is, I _thought_—I _really_ thought—I thought at the
      time—I thought _then_—and have no reason for thinking otherwise
      _now_—that the “Goosetherumfoodle” _did_ make a mistake. With the
      best intentions in the world, I never knew any thing that made as
      many singular mistakes as the “Goosetherumfoodle.” From that day
      I took a liking to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and the result was I
      soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not
      fail to expatiate upon them, in the “Turtle,” whenever a fitting
      opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar
      coincidence—as one of those positively _remarkable_ coincidences
      which set a man to serious thinking—that just such a total
      revolution of opinion—just such entire _bouleversement_, (as we
      say in French,)—just such thorough _topsiturviness_, (if I may be
      permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as
      happened, _pro_ and _con_, between myself on the one part, and
      the “Goosetherumfoodle” on the other, did actually again happen,
      in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar
      circumstances, in the case of myself and the “Rowdy-Dow,” and in
      the case of myself and the “Hum-Drum.”

      Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length
      consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus
      may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant
      and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now
      enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, “I have made
      history”—“_J’ai fait l’histoire_.”

      I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now
      record, my actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are
      familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to detail
      how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the “Lollipop”—how I merged
      this journal in the “Hum-Drum”—how again I made purchase of the
      “Rowdy-Dow,” thus combining the three periodicals—how, lastly, I
      effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all
      the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine, known
      everywhere as the

      “Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,
      and
      goosetherumfoodle.”

      Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the
      uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common
      newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the
      immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr.
      Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am
      meek and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it?—this
      indescribable something which men will persist in terming
      “genius?” I agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but _diligence_
      after all.

      Look at _me!_—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods,
      did I _not_ write? I knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered
      to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight
      oil. You should have seen me—you _should_. I leaned to the right.
      I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon
      end. I sat _tete baissée_, (as they have it in the Kickapoo,)
      bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all,
      I—_wrote_. Through joy and through sorrow, I—_wrote_. Through
      hunger and through thirst, I—_wrote_. Through good report and
      through ill report, I—_wrote_. Through sunshine and through
      moonshine, I—_wrote. What_ I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The
      _style!_—that was the thing. I caught it from
      Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—— and I am giving you a specimen of it now.




HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE


      “In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
                    —_Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler._

      I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora
      Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies
      ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
      vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the
      soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”
      which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my
      new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and
      the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
      orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should
      look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.
      Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
      Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
      expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about
      “blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
      first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!
      I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
      and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always
      calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as
      Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that
      consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia
      and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
      Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.

      As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
      Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
      secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
      Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
      Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the
      title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an
      empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)
      We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the
      fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,
      Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.
      Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.
      spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale
      Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny
      is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me
      the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.
      R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,
      Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
      Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,
      To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a
      decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have
      it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I
      can’t see what he means.

      Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
      exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met
      with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the
      members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers
      read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
      buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
      investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no
      investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to
      that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no
      fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no
      reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
      spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as
      cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I
      know better.]

      When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a
      better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how
      well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.
      E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in
      Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the
      finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
      pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
      model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice
      accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter
      to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
      goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political
      articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
      Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
      tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
      orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a
      third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely
      cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
      “Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”
      “Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and
      “Slang-Whang.”

      But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
      articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
      Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and
      what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of
      writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is
      only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the
      society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
      composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as
      the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to
      him the wishes of the society, he received me with great
      civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation
      of the whole process.

      “My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic
      appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green
      agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,
      “sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer
      of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with
      a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he
      continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and
      solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!
      Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume
      upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius
      ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may
      take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is
      never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to
      which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”

      He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
      conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
      too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
      seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.

      “It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you
      to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,
      yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let
      me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
      of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was
      out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,
      and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born
      and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an
      Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
      philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good
      spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
      flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.
      They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It
      was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands
      and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have
      believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of
      it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about
      a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
      well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The
      Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and
      indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
      then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss
      Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.
      It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the
      clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a
      funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out
      his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are
      the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,
      be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to
      you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss
      Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”

      “That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.

      “Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.
      But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing
      what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the
      sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
      consider the best for all purposes.

      “The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
      as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was
      a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if
      you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed
      up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will
      have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
      misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual
      fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an
      experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’
      you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the
      purpose.”

      Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
      go and hang myself forthwith.

      “Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat
      hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s
      pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions
      will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
      your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over
      by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.
      But to proceed.

      “Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
      tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,
      the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.
      But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately
      come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:
      Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.
      And never a paragraph.

      “Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.
      Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be
      all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very
      similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This
      is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too
      great a hurry to think.

      “The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big
      words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic
      schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
      objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named
      Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let
      slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
      trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say
      that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
      ‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe
      Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite
      and—and—and frank.

      “There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
      mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone
      heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into
      the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody
      else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
      A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.
      Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,
      and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote
      what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of
      Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a
      syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.
      Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say
      ‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may
      say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’
      You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to
      insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real
      meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
      say ‘bread and butter!’”

      I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I
      lived. He kissed me and continued:

      “As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,
      in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is
      consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,
      pertinent, and pretty.

      “Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and
      tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole
      business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It
      is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
      leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is
      necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least
      afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in
      the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down
      some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at
      random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in
      the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little
      scraps of either learning or _bel-esprit-ism_, which are the very
      thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well
      note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two
      divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,
      and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may
      require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.

      “PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three
      Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You
      may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You
      see it is not generally known, and looks _recherché_. You must be
      careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.

      “Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged
      without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,
      to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look
      quite as fresh as ever.

      “Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some
      persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
      others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!
      Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some
      thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so
      well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!

      “‘_The Epidendrum Flos Aeris_, of Java, bears a very beautiful
      flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
      suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance
      for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for
      the Piquant Expressions.

      “PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘_The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li_.’
      Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will
      evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and
      literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either
      get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There
      is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,
      Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.
      Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own
      ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!

      “‘_Aussi tendre que Zaire_’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to
      the frequent repetition of the phrase, _la tendre Zaire_, in the
      French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not
      only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and
      wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating
      (write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)
      was not altogether _aussi tendre que Zaire_. Write!

‘Van muerte tan escondida,
    Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
    No mestorne a dar la vida.’

      “That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!
      but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I
      shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back
      again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are
      struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!

      ‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,
      Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘

      “That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great
      hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been
      fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The
      application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss
      Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour
      and a half after you have been choked to death by that
      chicken-bone. Please to write!

      ‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn
      Durch sie—durch sie!’’

      “That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for
      thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
      cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or
      lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a
      well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with
      capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
      orange-jellies _en mosaïques_. Write! (You can get them that way
      at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!

      “Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be
      too _recherché_ or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so
      common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
      elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your
      proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some
      poor fellow whom you address while choking with that
      chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what
      you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,
      and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you
      can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
      anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great
      brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be
      down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase
      which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
      inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
      nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?

      “In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
      example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai
      palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in
      Hudibras—

        ‘For he that flies may fight again,
     Which he can never do that’s slain.’

      In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your
      Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.
      Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi
      ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow
      than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing
      like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case
      your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out
      the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the
      good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand
      your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take
      the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”

      These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
      topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.
      I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
      determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
      a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
      he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
      to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
      sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
      gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
      and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
      words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
      always remember them with gratitude.

      “My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
      eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
      your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
      that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
      yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
      hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
      couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
      assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
      money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
      five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the
      sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
      those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
      moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
      departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
      abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
      allowed.

      It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
      some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
      view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
      Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
      to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
      character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
      was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
      Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
      however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
      arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
      the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
      the substance and result.




A PREDICAMENT


What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?—COMUS.

      It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
      goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets
      were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children
      were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
      bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they
      caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be
      possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus
      it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and
      anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative
      contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,
      and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,
      the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,
      harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,
      the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and
      heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
      may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly
      enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously
      ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold
      an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but
      I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat,
      what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs
      danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed
      aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the
      recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in
      relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the
      commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable
      Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

      In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but
      faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
      had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribbon tied
      fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches
      in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and
      her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured
      innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite
      with all.

      And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee?
      I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to
      be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of
      age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be
      called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like
      pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had
      endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual
      with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet.
      He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a
      stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat
      which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and
      illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well
      cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up
      out of the dirt with both hands.

      There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
      already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person
      was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky
      Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of
      which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a
      sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green
      agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored
      auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the
      poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus
      it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,
      and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.

      Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
      respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the
      populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On
      a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic
      cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered
      into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
      my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the
      giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.
      The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny
      prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my
      guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing
      monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and
      uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the
      ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury to my
      orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and
      emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river
      Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.

      I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they
      went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I
      could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose
      supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early
      affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the
      continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps
      designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime,
      an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and
      also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without
      notice. It appeared to me—indeed I was quite confident of the
      fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some moments,
      carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say
      that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called
      Pompey’s attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me.
      There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat
      had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the
      intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted
      intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was
      somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said
      the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very
      powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.

      The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three
      or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit.
      We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One
      little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
      staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or
      misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of
      the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I
      thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many
      false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I
      resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm
      of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one
      remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was
      followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone
      remained behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and
      encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and
      unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold
      upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
      The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey
      stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He
      stumbled and fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell
      forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in
      the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon
      the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my
      revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by
      the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black,
      and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every
      manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry
      and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me
      piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that sigh! It
      sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached
      that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of
      regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled
      among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that
      it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris
      of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live
      when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord
      from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.

      Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
      aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there
      were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber
      proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a
      height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the
      energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to
      this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other
      cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to
      it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod from the
      machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay
      there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and
      determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.

      “You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.
      You will stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one
      of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the
      other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your
      shoulders.”

      He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I
      could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
      prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
      paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey
      that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon
      his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings—ossi
      tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful
      friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the
      enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread itself out
      before my eyes.

      Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not
      describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of
      Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I
      will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable
      adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in
      regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the
      city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the
      delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the
      aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the
      dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the
      street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the
      French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of
      an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock
      from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of
      these hands, the longest of which could not have been less than
      ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in
      breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges
      appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some
      others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below,
      and soon became absorbed in contemplation.

      From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of
      Pompey, who declared that he could stand it no longer, and
      requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was
      unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He
      replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon
      the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain
      words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus
      e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his
      words little better than an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he
      appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.

      It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I
      was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was
      startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle
      pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I
      felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my
      feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit
      directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the
      room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning
      my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,
      that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock
      had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my
      neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back
      at once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my
      head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so
      fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a
      rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
      is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with
      all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might
      as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down
      it came, closer and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but
      he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him “an ignorant
      old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said
      “bow-wow-wow,” and that I had told her “on no account to stir
      from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to expect from my
      associates.

      Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now
      discovered the literal import of that classical phrase) had not
      stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career. Down and still
      down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch
      in my flesh, and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At
      one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr.
      Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood
      receiving his invaluable instructions. And then again the sweet
      recollection of better and earlier times came over me, and I
      thought of that happy period when the world was not all a desert,
      and Pompey not altogether cruel.

      The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my
      sensations now bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most
      trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal
      click-clak, click-clak, click-clak of the clock was the most
      melodious of music in my ears, and occasionally even put me in
      mind of the graceful sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod. Then
      there were the great figures upon the dial-plate—how intelligent
      how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to
      dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who
      performed the most to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady
      of breeding. None of your swaggerers, and nothing at all
      indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette to
      admiration—whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavor to
      hand her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her
      exertions—and it was not until then that I fully perceived my
      lamentable situation. Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried
      itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a sense of
      exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the
      moment, could not help repeating those exquisite verses of the
      poet Miguel De Cervantes:

     Vanny Buren, tan escondida
     Query no te senty venny
     Pork and pleasure, delly morry
     Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!

      But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient
      to startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure
      of the machine, were absolutely starting from their sockets.
      While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them,
      one actually tumbled out of my head, and, rolling down the steep
      side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along
      the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so
      much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which
      it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just
      under my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been
      ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a winking and
      blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my
      eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its
      manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was also
      exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always
      exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I
      was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I would or
      not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just
      under my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping
      out of the other eye. In falling it took the same direction
      (possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of the
      gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.

      The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there
      was only a little bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were
      those of entire happiness, for I felt that in a few minutes, at
      farthest, I should be relieved from my disagreeable situation.
      And in this expectation I was not at all deceived. At twenty-five
      minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge
      minute-hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible
      revolution to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not
      sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much
      embarrassment at length make a final separation from my body. It
      first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodge, for a few
      seconds, in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge,
      into the middle of the street.

      I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most
      singular—nay, of the most mysterious, the most perplexing and
      incomprehensible character. My senses were here and there at one
      and the same moment. With my head I imagined, at one time, that
      I, the head, was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia—at another I
      felt convinced that myself, the body, was the proper identity. To
      clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for my
      snuff-box, but, upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch
      of its grateful contents in the ordinary manner, I became
      immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency, and threw the box at
      once down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction,
      and smiled me an acknowledgement in return. Shortly afterward it
      made me a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without
      ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it was astonished
      at my wishing to remain alive under such circumstances. In the
      concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto—

     Il pover hommy che non sera corty
      And have a combat tenty erry morty;

      thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the combat, not
      perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest the battle with
      inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my
      getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that
      Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet
      been able to find out. The fellow opened his mouth from ear to
      ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were endeavoring to crack
      nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he
      made one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after
      the scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes—

      Andrew O’Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly,

      and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the
      shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my
      eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are these the
      picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured by
      the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold—is that the departed
      spirit, the shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I
      perceive sitting with a grace so melancholy, in the corner?
      Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of
      Schiller—

      “Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun
       Duk she! duk she!”

      Alas! and are not her words too true?

      “And if I died, at least I died
       For thee—for thee.”

      Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf.
      Dogless, niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy
      Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas—nothing! I have done.




MYSTIFICATION


     Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none
     o’ them.
                    —NED KNOWLES.

      The Baron Ritzner von Jung was a noble Hungarian family, every
      member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any
      certain records extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of
      some description—the majority for that species of _grotesquerie_
      in conception of which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a
      vivid, although by no means the most vivid exemplifications. My
      acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau
      Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made
      public, threw me during the summer months of the year 18—. Here
      it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and here, with
      somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental
      conformation. In later days this insight grew more clear, as the
      intimacy which had at first permitted it became more close; and
      when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all
      that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron
      Ritzner von Jung.

      I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within
      the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I
      remember still more distinctly, that while he was pronounced by
      all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the
      world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion.
      That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed
      impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But,
      letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe
      that, from the first moment of his setting foot within the limits
      of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners,
      persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community which
      surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet
      at the same time the most indefinite and altogether
      unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his residence at the
      university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by
      all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as
      “that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the
      Baron Ritzner von Jung.”

      Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He
      was then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was
      impossible to form a guess respecting his age by any data
      personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was
      twenty-one years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome
      man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his face was somewhat
      angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his nose
      a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the
      mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently
      protruded, and rested the one upon the other, after such a
      fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most
      complex, combination of human features, conveying so entirely,
      and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity and
      repose.

      It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said,
      that the Baron was one of those human anomalies now and then to
      be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the
      business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind
      gave him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance
      afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects into
      effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during that
      renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron
      Ritzner von Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which
      overshadowed his character. I truly think that no person at the
      university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him to
      be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at
      the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of
      Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology.
      This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and
      unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and
      buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at least
      plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The
      beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that
      consummate ability (resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge
      of human nature, and a most wonderful self-possession,) by means
      of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he
      was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and
      partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for
      their prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and
      dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming
      mortification, which upon each such failure of his praise worthy
      endeavors, would suffuse every lineament of his countenance, left
      not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms
      of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was
      no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the
      sense of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his
      own person to the absurdities to which he had given rise. In no
      instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual
      mystific escape the natural consequence of his manoevres—an
      attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and person.
      Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend
      appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even
      his own household have for a moment associated other ideas than
      those of the rigid and august with the memory of the Baron
      Ritzner von Jung.

      During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that
      the demon of the _dolce far niente_ lay like an incubus upon the
      university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating and
      drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were
      converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of
      them all more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron.
      Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and long, and never
      unfruitful of events.

      Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly
      daybreak, and an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The
      company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron
      and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high
      connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an
      exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra
      German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions
      some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four
      desperate and fatal rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and
      impulse; and thus the conversation, during the greater part of
      the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the
      times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in
      the earlier portion of the evening, at length seemed to be
      aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,
      and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the
      beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms
      with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an
      affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm
      from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even
      myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of those
      very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the
      entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign
      contempt which it deserves.

      Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of
      which my readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it
      bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical
      sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of even more
      than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party.
      This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in
      every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he
      was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a
      particular set at the university, a reputation for deep
      metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent.
      As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at G——n. I
      forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands;
      but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it
      was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the
      duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most
      especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he
      rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the
      grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded
      food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware;
      although, in the present instance, I saw clearly that something
      of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my friend, and that
      Hermann was its especial object.

      As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I
      perceived the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At
      length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon
      by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron
      replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of
      sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with
      a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in
      his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting
      farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember.
      “Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung, although in the
      main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself
      and to the university of which you are a member. In a few
      respects they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would
      say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of giving you
      offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that
      your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a
      gentleman.”

      As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were
      turned upon the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red;
      then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover it,
      when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be
      seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the
      quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I
      had never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and
      when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood
      erect, confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of
      countenance in so short a period I certainly never saw before.
      For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and that
      he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,
      and his face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained
      silent, apparently striving to master his emotion. Having at
      length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood
      near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you
      have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing
      yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I
      have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,
      however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is
      an observation so directly offensive as to allow me but one line
      of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is due to the presence
      of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest.
      You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I
      deviate slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in
      similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the
      moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to
      consider, for an instant, the reflection of your person in yonder
      mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being done,
      there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this
      decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil
      all the spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your
      insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your real
      person will be obviated.”

      With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against
      the mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the
      reflection of his person with great precision, and of course
      shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once
      started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and
      Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron
      whispered me that I should follow him and make an offer of my
      services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of
      so ridiculous a piece of business.

      The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and _ultra recherché_
      air, and, taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly
      forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded to discuss, with
      the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar
      character” of the insult he had received. After a tiresome
      harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book
      shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello,
      and entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading
      aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can just remember
      the titles of some of the works. There were the “Ordonnance of
      Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by
      Favyn, and a treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” by Andiguier.
      He displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of
      Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a
      precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and
      bound by Derome. But he requested my attention particularly, and
      with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in
      barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and having the
      quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this
      he read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning
      “Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”
      about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his
      own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not one syllable of the
      whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having
      finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I
      thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire
      confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would abide
      by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and
      sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:

      Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it
      incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest convenience, an
      explanation of this evening’s occurrences at your chambers. In
      the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to
      arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps
      preliminary to a meeting.

      With sentiments of perfect respect,

      Your most humble servant,
      JOHANN HERMAN.

      “_To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,
      August 18th, 18_—.”

      Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this
      epistle. He bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave
      countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused the cartel, he
      wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.

      “SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your
      note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the
      propriety of the explanation you suggest. This being admitted, I
      still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar
      nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered
      on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology,
      as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable
      shadows, of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that
      extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to
      the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long and so
      pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore,
      of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any
      sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur
      Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of
      “_Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se_,” in
      his “_Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque_.” The nicety of your
      discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,
      I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me
      referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your
      request, as a man of honor, for explanation.

      “With sentiments of profound respect,

      “Your most obedient servant,
      “VON JUNG.”

      “The Herr Johann Hermann,
      August 18th, 18—”

      Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,
      which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous
      self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per
      applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished
      reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,
      to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in
      question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great
      care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my
      character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron
      von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in
      that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of
      the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally
      satisfactory nature.

      Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He
      seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of
      course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an
      inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex
      scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked
      me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little
      purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning.
      He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my
      surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd
      account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the
      mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared _prima facie_,
      was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;
      that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to
      present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and
      even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning
      existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every
      second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series
      of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern
      times.

      The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the
      treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the
      adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of
      his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest
      attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.
      Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand
      deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand
      anything and everything in the universe that had ever been
      written about the _duello_.




DIDDLING

CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES.


      Hey, diddle diddle
      The cat and the fiddle

      Since the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote
      a Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has
      been much admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a
      small way. The other gave name to the most important of the Exact
      Sciences, and was a great man in a great way—I may say, indeed,
      in the very greatest of ways.

      Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is
      sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing
      _diddling_, is somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however,
      at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by
      defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself—but man, as an animal
      that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would have been
      spared the affront of the picked chicken.

      Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken,
      which was clearly “a biped without feathers,” was not, according
      to his own definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any
      similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no
      animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hen-coop of
      picked chickens to get over that.

      What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling
      is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats
      and pantaloons. A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a
      man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. “Man was made to mourn,”
      says the poet. But not so:—he was made to diddle. This is his
      aim—his object—his end. And for this reason when a man’s diddled
      we say he’s “_done_.”

      Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the
      ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity,
      audacity, _nonchalance_, originality, impertinence, and grin.

      _Minuteness:_—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a
      small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper
      at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation,
      he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes
      what we term “financier.” This latter word conveys the diddling
      idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may
      thus be regarded as a banker _in petto_—a “financial operation,”
      as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to
      “Flaccus”—as a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that
      of a pig.

      _Interest:_—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to
      diddle for the mere _sake_ of the diddle. He has an object in
      view—his pocket—and yours. He regards always the main chance. He
      looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to
      yourself.

      _Perseverance:_—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily
      discouraged. Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about
      it. He steadily pursues his end, and

      ‘Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto,’

      so he never lets go of his game.

      _Ingenuity:_—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness
      large. He understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he
      not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he
      would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.

      _Audacity:_—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He
      carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would
      not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a little more prudence
      Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less
      blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a pound or two more brains,
      Charles the Twelfth.

      _Nonchalance:_—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all
      nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a
      flurry. He is never put out—unless put out of doors. He is
      cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—“calm as a smile from Lady
      Bury.” He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient
      Baiæ.

      _Originality:_—Your diddler is original—conscientiously so. His
      thoughts are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another.
      A stale trick is his aversion. He would return a purse, I am
      sure, upon discovering that he had obtained it by an unoriginal
      diddle.

      _Impertinence:_—Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets
      his arms a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in his trowsers’ pockets.
      He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns. He eats your
      dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your
      nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.

      _Grin:_—Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this
      nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily work is
      done—when his allotted labors are accomplished—at night in his
      own closet, and altogether for his own private entertainment. He
      goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes.
      He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon
      the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no
      hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason _à priori_, and a
      diddle would be no diddle without a grin.

      The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the
      Human Race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we
      can trace the science back to a very remote period of antiquity.
      The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never
      dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to
      speak of the “old saws,” therefore, I shall content myself with a
      compendious account of some of the more “modern instances.”

      A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for
      instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses.
      At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She
      is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble
      individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her
      views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted
      to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her
      expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and
      receipt, leaves her address, with a request that the article be
      sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a profusion
      of bows from the shopkeeper. The night arrives and no sofa. A
      servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole
      transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold—no money
      received—except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the
      nonce.

      Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus
      afford every facility for a trick of this kind. Visitors enter,
      look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one
      wish to purchase, or to inquire the price of an article, a bell
      is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient.

      Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed
      individual enters a shop, makes a purchase to the value of a
      dollar; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his
      pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so says to the
      shopkeeper—

      “My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending
      the bundle home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing
      less than a five dollar bill, even there. However, you can send
      four dollars in change with the bundle, you know.”

      “Very good, sir,” replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at
      once, a lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. “I
      know fellows,” he says to himself, “who would just have put the
      goods under their arm, and walked off with a promise to call and
      pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon.”

      A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite
      accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:

      “Ah! This is my bundle, I see—I thought you had been home with
      it, long ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you
      the five dollars—I left instructions with her to that effect. The
      change you might as well give to me—I shall want some silver for
      the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a good
      quarter?—three, four—quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you
      met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way.”

      The boy doesn’t loiter at all—but he is a very long time in
      getting back from his errand—for no lady of the precise name of
      Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles himself, however,
      that he has not been such a fool as to leave the goods without
      the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air,
      feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks him what
      has become of the change.

      A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship,
      which is about to sail, is presented by an official looking
      person with an unusually moderate bill of city charges. Glad to
      get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties pressing upon
      him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about
      fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is handed him
      by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a
      diddler, and the original collection a diddle.

      And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is
      casting loose from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand,
      is discovered running toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly,
      he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up something from the
      ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and—“Has
      any gentleman lost a pocketbook?” he cries. No one can say that
      he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues,
      when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat,
      however, must not be detained.

      “Time and tide wait for no man,” says the captain.

      “For God’s sake, stay only a few minutes,” says the finder of the
      book—“the true claimant will presently appear.”

      “Can’t wait!” replies the man in authority; “cast off there, d’ye
      hear?”

      “What _am_ I to do?” asks the finder, in great tribulation. “I am
      about to leave the country for some years, and I cannot
      conscientiously retain this large amount in my possession. I beg
      your pardon, sir,” [here he addresses a gentleman on shore,] “but
      you have the air of an honest man. _Will_ you confer upon me the
      favor of taking charge of this pocket-book—I _know_ I can trust
      you—and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very
      considerable sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding
      you for your trouble—”

      “_Me!_—no, _you!_—it was you who found the book.”

      “Well, if you _must_ have it so—_I_ will take a small reward—just
      to satisfy your scruples. Let me see—why these notes are all
      hundreds—bless my soul! a hundred is too much to take—fifty would
      be quite enough, I am sure—”

      “Cast off there!” says the captain.

      “But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole,
      _you_ had better—”

      “Cast off there!” says the captain.

      “Never mind!” cries the gentleman on shore, who has been
      examining his own pocket-book for the last minute or so—“never
      mind! _I_ can fix it—here is a fifty on the Bank of North
      America—throw the book.”

      And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked
      reluctance, and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while
      the steamboat fumes and fizzes on her way. In about half an hour
      after her departure, the “large amount” is seen to be a
      “counterfeit presentment,” and the whole thing a capital diddle.

      A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is
      to be held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of
      a free bridge. A diddler stations himself upon this bridge,
      respectfully informs all passers by of the new county law, which
      establishes a toll of one cent for foot passengers, two for
      horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some grumble but
      all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some
      fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a
      great crowd of people is an excessively troublesome thing.

      A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler’s
      promises to pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the
      ordinary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases one or
      two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his
      soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a
      bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with
      the diddler’s dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay
      is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his
      escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when
      up jumps the diddler’s dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler
      is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd
      behavior of his dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel
      the obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation
      shall be forthcoming.

      A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a
      diddler’s accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her
      assistance, and, giving his friend a comfortable thrashing,
      insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He bows, with
      his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bids her adieu.
      She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be introduced
      to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do
      so. “Is there no way, then, sir,” she murmurs, “in which I may be
      permitted to testify my gratitude?”

      “Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a
      couple of shillings?”

      In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon
      fainting outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her
      purse-strings and delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a
      diddle minute—for one entire moiety of the sum borrowed has to be
      paid to the gentleman who had the trouble of performing the
      insult, and who had then to stand still and be thrashed for
      performing it.

      Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler
      approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of
      tobacco. These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined
      them, he says:

      “I don’t much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me
      a glass of brandy and water in its place.” The brandy and water
      is furnished and imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the
      door. But the voice of the tavern-keeper arrests him.

      “I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and
      water.”

      “Pay for my brandy and water!—didn’t I give you the tobacco for
      the brandy and water? What more would you have?”

      “But, sir, if you please, I don’t remember that you paid me for
      the tobacco.”

      “What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?—Didn’t I give you back
      your tobacco? Isn’t that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect
      me to pay for what I did not take?”

      “But, sir,” says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say,
      “but sir—”

      “But me no buts, sir,” interrupts the diddler, apparently in very
      high dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his
      escape.—“But me no buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon
      travellers.”

      Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is
      not its least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being
      really lost, the loser inserts in one of the daily papers of a
      large city a fully descriptive advertisement.

      Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement,
      with a change of heading, of general phraseology and address. The
      original, for instance, is long, and verbose, is headed “A
      Pocket-Book Lost!” and requires the treasure, when found, to be
      left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being headed
      with “Lost” only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry Street, as
      the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is
      inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day,
      while in point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours
      after the original. Should it be read by the loser of the purse,
      he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own
      misfortune. But, of course, the chances are five or six to one,
      that the finder will repair to the address given by the diddler,
      rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The
      former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.

      Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped,
      some where in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value.
      For its recovery, she offers some forty or fifty dollars
      reward—giving, in her advertisement, a very minute description of
      the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that, on its
      restoration at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward
      would be paid instanter, without a single question being asked.
      During the lady’s absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a
      ring is heard at the door of No. so and so, in such and such
      Avenue; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for and
      is declared to be out, at which astounding information, the
      visitor expresses the most poignant regret. His business is of
      importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the
      good fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as
      well that he should call again. “By no means!” says the servant;
      and “By no means!” says the lady’s sister and the lady’s
      sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith. The ring is
      clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder nearly
      thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some little
      dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they
      happen to have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of
      her diamond ring—a fac-simile made out of real pinch-beck and
      unquestionable paste.

      But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none
      to this essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or
      inflections, of which this science is susceptible. I must bring
      this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and this I cannot do
      better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather
      elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the theatre, not
      very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success,
      in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A
      middle-aged gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is
      remarkably precise, cautious, staid, and deliberate in his
      demeanor. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain,
      unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample waistcoat, made
      with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking shoes, and
      pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your
      well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable “man of
      business,” _par excellence_—one of the stern and outwardly hard,
      internally soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high
      comedies—fellows whose words are so many bonds, and who are noted
      for giving away guineas, in charity, with the one hand, while, in
      the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost fraction of a
      farthing with the other.

      He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house.
      He dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits
      are methodical—and then he would prefer getting into a private
      and respectable small family, piously inclined. Terms, however,
      are no object—only he must insist upon settling his bill on the
      first of every month, (it is now the second) and begs his
      landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not on any
      account to forget his instructions upon this point—but to send in
      a bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o’clock, on the first day
      of every month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the
      second.

      These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a
      reputable rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is
      nothing he more despises than pretense. “Where there is much
      show,” he says, “there is seldom any thing very solid behind”—an
      observation which so profoundly impresses his landlady’s fancy,
      that she makes a pencil memorandum of it forthwith, in her great
      family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.

      The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this,
      in the principal business six-pennies of the city—the pennies are
      eschewed as not “respectable”—and as demanding payment for all
      advertisements in advance. Our man of business holds it as a
      point of his faith that work should never be paid for until done.

      “WANTED.—The advertisers, being about to commence extensive
      business operations in this city, will require the services of
      three or four intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal
      salary will be paid. The very best recommendations, not so much
      for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected. Indeed, as the
      duties to be performed involve high responsibilities, and large
      amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of those
      engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty
      dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply,
      therefore, who is not prepared to leave this sum in the
      possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most
      satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young gentlemen piously
      inclined will be preferred. Application should be made between
      the hours of ten and eleven A. M., and four and five P. M., of
      Messrs.

      “Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs & Co.,
      “No. 110 Dog Street.”

      By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has
      brought to the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and
      Company, some fifteen or twenty young gentlemen piously inclined.
      But our man of business is in no hurry to conclude a contract
      with any—no man of business is ever precipitate—and it is not
      until the most rigid catechism in respect to the piety of each
      young gentleman’s inclination, that his services are engaged and
      his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper
      precaution, on the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs,
      Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning of the first day of the
      next month, the landlady does not present her bill, according to
      promise—a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of the
      house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her severely,
      could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two
      for that purpose.

      As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running
      hither and thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of
      business most emphatically, a “hen knee high”—by which some
      persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is n. e. i.—by
      which again the very classical phrase _non est inventus_, is
      supposed to be understood. In the meantime the young gentlemen,
      one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before,
      while the landlady purchases a shilling’s worth of the Indian
      rubber, and very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that
      some fool has made in her great family Bible, on the broad margin
      of the Proverbs of Solomon.




THE ANGEL OF THE ODD

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.


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

     “This folio of four pages, happy work
     Which not even critics criticise,”

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

      “The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper
      mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was
      playing at ‘puff the dart,’ which is played with a long needle
      inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin
      tube. He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and
      drawing his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force,
      drew the needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a
      few days killed him.”

      Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly
      knowing why. “This thing,” I exclaimed, “is a contemptible
      falsehood—a poor hoax—the lees of the invention of some pitiable
      penny-a-liner—of some wretched concoctor of accidents in
      Cocaigne. These fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of
      the age, set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable
      possibilities—-of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a
      reflecting intellect (like mine,” I added, in parenthesis,
      putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my nose,) “to
      a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it seems
      evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these ‘odd
      accidents’ is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part,
      I intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the
      ‘singular’ about it.”

      “Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!” replied one of the
      most remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for a
      rumbling in my ears—such as a man sometimes experiences when
      getting very drunk—but, upon second thought, I considered the
      sound as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty
      barrel beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I should have
      concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and
      words. I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few
      glasses of Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me no
      little, so that I felt nothing of trepidation, but merely
      uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement, and looked carefully
      around the room for the intruder. I could not, however, perceive
      any one at all.

      “Humph!” resumed the voice, as I continued my survey, “you mus pe
      so dronk as de pig, den, for not zee me as I zit here at your
      zide.”

      Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose,
      and there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a
      personage nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His
      body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or something of that
      character, and had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether
      extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the
      purposes of legs. For arms there dangled from the upper portion
      of the carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward
      for hands. All the head that I saw the monster possessed of was
      one of those Hessian canteens which resemble a large snuff-box
      with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen (with a funnel
      on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set
      on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and
      through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a
      very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling
      and grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible
      talk.

      “I zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and
      not zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de
      goose, vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de
      troof—dat it iz—eberry vord ob it.”

      “Who are you, pray?” said I, with much dignity, although somewhat
      puzzled; “how did you get here? and what is it you are talking
      about?”

      “Az vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the figure, “dat iz none of your
      pizzness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat
      I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I
      com’d here for to let you zee for yourzelf.”

      “You are a drunken vagabond,” said I, “and I shall ring the bell
      and order my footman to kick you into the street.”

      “He! he! he!” said the fellow, “hu! hu! hu! dat you can’t do.”

      “Can’t do!” said I, “what do you mean?—I can’t do what?”

      “Ring de pell,” he replied, attempting a grin with his little
      villanous mouth.

      Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat
      into execution; but the ruffian just reached across the table
      very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the
      neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the
      arm-chair from which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded;
      and, for a moment, was quite at a loss what to do. In the
      meantime, he continued his talk.

      “You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you
      shall know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”

      “And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always
      under the impression that an angel had wings.”

      “Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing?
      Mein Gott! do you take me vor a shicken?”

      “No—oh no!” I replied, much alarmed, “you are no
      chicken—certainly not.”

      “Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again
      mid me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing,
      und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel
      ab _not_ te wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”

      “And your business with me at present is—is—”

      “My pizzness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low bred buppy you
      mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!”

      This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an
      angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay
      within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either
      he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I
      accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which protected
      the dial of the clock upon the mantel-piece. As for the Angel, he
      evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard
      consecutive raps upon the forehead as before. These reduced me at
      once to submission, and I am almost ashamed to confess that
      either through pain or vexation, there came a few tears into my
      eyes.

      “Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened
      at my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry
      zorry. You mos not trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te
      wine. Here, trink dis, like a goot veller, und don’t gry
      now—don’t!”

      Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was
      about a third full of Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured
      from one of his hand bottles. I observed that these bottles had
      labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed
      “Kirschenwasser.”

      The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little
      measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my Port
      more than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen
      to his very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount
      all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was
      the genius who presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and
      whose business it was to bring about the _odd accidents_ which
      are continually astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my
      venturing to express my total incredulity in respect to his
      pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at length I
      considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him
      have his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while
      I merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused
      myself with munching raisins and filliping the stems about the
      room. But, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior
      of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched
      his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a
      threat of some character which I did not precisely comprehend,
      and finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the
      language of the archbishop in Gil-Blas, “_beaucoup de bonheur et
      un peu plus de bon sens_.”

      His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of
      Lafitte that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy,
      and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty
      minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an
      appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that
      I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had
      expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was
      agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of directors of the
      company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing upward at the
      clock on the mantel-piece, (for I felt too drowsy to take out my
      watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five
      minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to
      the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had
      never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently
      safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.

      Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward
      the time-piece and was half inclined to believe in the
      possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of my
      ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three;
      for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I
      betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke,
      when, to my utter amazement, it _still_ wanted twenty-seven
      minutes of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that
      it had ceased running. My watch informed me that it was half past
      seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too late for
      my appointment. “It will make no difference,” I said: “I can call
      at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what
      can be the matter with the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered
      that one of the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the
      room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd, had flown
      through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in
      the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested
      the revolution of the minute hand.

      “Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A
      natural accident, such as _will_ happen now and then!”

      I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour
      retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand
      at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages
      of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” I unfortunately fell asleep
      in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.

      My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of
      the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside
      the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum
      puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the
      contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long
      harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my
      gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer,
      which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long
      necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at
      length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to perceive that a
      rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_
      in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the
      hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils;
      the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the
      blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief
      period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from
      my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd,
      however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of
      this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a
      huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose
      whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me
      of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which hitherto had
      been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his
      head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no
      more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of
      the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated and had the
      misfortune to fracture my arm.

      This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more
      serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off
      by the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that,
      finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow
      disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her
      wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a
      reluctant consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude
      and adoration. She blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into
      close contact with those supplied me, temporarily, by Grandjean.
      I know not how the entanglement took place, but so it was. I
      arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath,
      half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an
      accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but
      which the natural sequence of events had brought about.

      Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less
      implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief
      period; but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my
      betrothed in an avenue thronged with the _élite_ of the city, I
      was hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows,
      when a small particle of some foreign matter, lodging in the
      corner of my eye, rendered me, for the moment, completely blind.
      Before I could recover my sight, the lady of my love had
      disappeared—irreparably affronted at what she chose to consider
      my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted. While I
      stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident, (which might
      have happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while
      I still continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel
      of the Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had
      no reason to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much
      gentleness and skill, informed me that I had a drop in it, and
      (whatever a “drop” was) took it out, and afforded me relief.

      I now considered it high time to die, (since fortune had so
      determined to persecute me,) and accordingly made my way to the
      nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes, (for there
      is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), I threw myself
      headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate being a
      solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of
      brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his
      fellows. No sooner had I entered the water than this bird took it
      into its head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of
      my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal
      design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of
      my coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the
      nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would
      admit. But my evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full
      speed, with my nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon
      the purloiner of my property, I suddenly perceived that my feet
      rested no longer upon _terra-firma_; the fact is, I had thrown
      myself over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed
      to pieces but for my good fortune in grasping the end of a long
      guide-rope, which depended from a passing balloon.

      As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the
      terrific predicament in which I stood or rather hung, I exerted
      all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the
      æronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain.
      Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me.
      Meantime the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more
      rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to
      my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were
      suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which
      seemed to be lazily humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived
      the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning with his arms folded, over
      the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he
      puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself
      and the universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely
      regarded him with an imploring air.

      For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he
      said nothing. At length removing carefully his meerschaum from
      the right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to
      speak.

      “Who pe you,” he asked, “und what der teuffel you pe do dare?”

      To this piece of impudence, cruelty and affectation, I could
      reply only by ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!”

      “Elp!” echoed the ruffian—“not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself,
      und pe tam’d!”

      With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwasser
      which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to
      imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with
      this idea, I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the
      ghost with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the
      Angel, who bade me hold on.

      “Old on!” he said; “don’t pe in te urry—don’t. Will you pe take
      de odder pottle, or ave you pe got zober yet and come to your
      zenzes?”

      I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the
      negative, meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the
      other bottle at present—and once in the affirmative, intending
      thus to imply that I _was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my
      senses. By these means I somewhat softened the Angel.

      “Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, “at te last? You pelief, ten,
      in te possibilty of te odd?”

      I again nodded my head in assent.

      “Und you ave pelief in _me_, te Angel of te Odd?”

      I nodded again.

      “Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk and te vool?”

      I nodded once more.

      “Put your right hand into your left hand preeches pocket, ten, in
      token ov your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd.”

      This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible
      to do. In the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall
      from the ladder, and, therefore, had I let go my hold with the
      right hand, I must have let go altogether. In the second place, I
      could have no breeches until I came across the crow. I was
      therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the
      negative—intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I
      found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his
      very reasonable demand! No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking
      my head than—

      “Go to der teuffel, ten!” roared the Angel of the Odd.

      In pronouncing these words, he drew a sharp knife across the
      guide-rope by which I was suspended, and as we then happened to
      be precisely over my own house, (which, during my peregrinations,
      had been handsomely rebuilt,) it so occurred that I tumbled
      headlong down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room
      hearth.

      Upon coming to my senses, (for the fall had very thoroughly
      stunned me,) I found it about four o’clock in the morning. I lay
      outstretched where I had fallen from the balloon. My head
      grovelled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet
      reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the
      fragments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a
      newspaper, some broken glass and shattered bottles, and an empty
      jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the
      Angel of the Odd.

      [Mabbott states that Griswold “obviously had a revised form” for
      use in the 1856 volume of Poe’s works. Mabbott does not
      substantiate this claim, but it is surely not unreasonable. An
      editor, and even typographical errors, may have produced nearly
      all of the very minor changes made in this version. (Indeed, two
      very necessary words were clearly dropped by accident.) An editor
      might have corrected “Wickliffe’s ‘Epigoniad’” to “Wilkie’s
      ‘Epigoniad’,” but is unlikely to have added “Tuckerman’s
      ‘Sicily’” to the list of books read by the narrator. Griswold was
      not above forgery (in Poe’s letters) when it suited his purpose,
      but would have too little to gain by such an effort in this
      instance.]




MELLONTA TAUTA

TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY’S BOOK:


      I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine, an article
      which I hope you will be able to comprehend rather more
      distinctly than I do myself. It is a translation, by my friend,
      Martin Van Buren Mavis, (sometimes called the “Poughkeepsie
      Seer”) of an odd-looking MS. which I found, about a year ago,
      tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare Tenebrarum—a sea
      well described by the Nubian geographer, but seldom visited
      now-a-days, except for the transcendentalists and divers for
      crotchets.

      Truly yours,

      EDGAR A. POE

{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}

ON BOARD BALLOON “SKYLARK”

      _April_, 1, 2848

      Now, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to suffer the
      infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you distinctly that
      I am going to punish you for all your impertinences by being as
      tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as unsatisfactory as
      possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with
      some one or two hundred of the canaille, all bound on a pleasure
      excursion, (what a funny idea some people have of pleasure!) and
      I have no prospect of touching terra firma for a month at least.
      Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do. When one has nothing to do,
      then is the time to correspond with ones friends. You perceive,
      then, why it is that I write you this letter—it is on account of
      my ennui and your sins.

      Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I
      mean to write at you every day during this odious voyage.

      Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium? Are
      we forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the
      balloon? Will nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of
      progress? The jog-trot movement, to my thinking, is little less
      than positive torture. Upon my word we have not made more than a
      hundred miles the hour since leaving home! The very birds beat
      us—at least some of them. I assure you that I do not exaggerate
      at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it actually
      is—this on account of our having no objects about us by which to
      estimate our velocity, and on account of our going with the wind.
      To be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have a chance of
      perceiving our rate, and then, I admit, things do not appear so
      very bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode of travelling, I cannot
      get over a kind of giddiness whenever a balloon passes us in a
      current directly overhead. It always seems to me like an immense
      bird of prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its
      claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise, and so nearly
      overhead that its drag-rope actually brushed the network
      suspending our car, and caused us very serious apprehension. Our
      captain said that if the material of the bag had been the
      trumpery varnished “silk” of five hundred or a thousand years
      ago, we should inevitably have been damaged. This silk, as he
      explained it to me, was a fabric composed of the entrails of a
      species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully fed on mulberries—a
      kind of fruit resembling a water-melon—and, when sufficiently
      fat, was crushed in a mill. The paste thus arising was called
      papyrus in its primary state, and went through a variety of
      processes until it finally became “silk.” Singular to relate, it
      was once much admired as an article of female dress! Balloons
      were also very generally constructed from it. A better kind of
      material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down
      surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called
      euphorbium, and at that time botanically termed milk-weed. This
      latter kind of silk was designated as silk-buckingham, on account
      of its superior durability, and was usually prepared for use by
      being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a substance
      which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha now
      in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called Indian
      rubber or rubber of twist, and was no doubt one of the numerous
      fungi. Never tell me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.

      Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this moment knocked
      a man overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that
      swarm in ocean below us—a boat of about six thousand tons, and,
      from all accounts, shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques
      should be prohibited from carrying more than a definite number of
      passengers. The man, of course, was not permitted to get on board
      again, and was soon out of sight, he and his life-preserver. I
      rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an age so enlightened
      that no such a thing as an individual is supposed to exist. It is
      the mass for which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talking of
      Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is not so
      original in his views of the Social Condition and so forth, as
      his contemporaries are inclined to suppose? Pundit assures me
      that the same ideas were put nearly in the same way, about a
      thousand years ago, by an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on
      account of his keeping a retail shop for cat peltries and other
      furs. Pundit knows, you know; there can be no mistake about it.
      How very wonderfully do we see verified every day, the profound
      observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by
      Pundit)—“Thus must we say that, not once or twice, or a few
      times, but with almost infinite repetitions, the same opinions
      come round in a circle among men.”

      April 2.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle
      section of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this
      species of telegraph was first put into operation by Horse, it
      was considered quite impossible to convey the wires over sea, but
      now we are at a loss to comprehend where the difficulty lay! So
      wags the world. Tempora mutantur—excuse me for quoting the
      Etruscan. What would we do without the Atalantic telegraph?
      (Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient adjective.) We lay to a few
      minutes to ask the cutter some questions, and learned, among
      other glorious news, that civil war is raging in Africa, while
      the plague is doing its good work beautifully both in Yurope and
      Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent
      light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was accustomed
      to regard War and Pestilence as calamities? Do you know that
      prayers were actually offered up in the ancient temples to the
      end that these evils (!) might not be visited upon mankind? Is it
      not really difficult to comprehend upon what principle of
      interest our forefathers acted? Were they so blind as not to
      perceive that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only
      so much positive advantage to the mass!

      April 3.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the
      rope-ladder leading to the summit of the balloon-bag, and thence
      survey the surrounding world. From the car below you know the
      prospect is not so comprehensive—you can see little vertically.
      But seated here (where I write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned
      open piazza of the summit, one can see everything that is going
      on in all directions. Just now there is quite a crowd of balloons
      in sight, and they present a very animated appearance, while the
      air is resonant with the hum of so many millions of human voices.
      I have heard it asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit will have
      it) Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut,
      maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in all
      directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favorable
      current was attained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his
      contemporaries, who looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort
      of madman, because the philosophers (?) of the day declared the
      thing impossible. Really now it does seem to me quite
      unaccountable how any thing so obviously feasible could have
      escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages the
      great obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the
      so-called men of science. To be sure, our men of science are not
      quite so bigoted as those of old:—oh, I have something so queer
      to tell you on this topic. Do you know that it is not more than a
      thousand years ago since the metaphysicians consented to relieve
      the people of the singular fancy that there existed but two
      possible roads for the attainment of Truth! Believe it if you
      can! It appears that long, long ago, in the night of Time, there
      lived a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo possibly) called Aries
      Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events propagated what
      was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He
      started with what he maintained to be axioms or “self-evident
      truths,” and thence proceeded “logically” to results. His
      greatest disciples were one Neuclid, and one Cant. Well, Aries
      Tottle flourished supreme until advent of one Hog, surnamed the
      “Ettrick Shepherd,” who preached an entirely different system,
      which he called the a posteriori or inductive. His plan referred
      altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing,
      and classifying facts-instantiae naturae, as they were affectedly
      called—into general laws. Aries Tottle’s mode, in a word, was
      based on noumena; Hog’s on phenomena. Well, so great was the
      admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first
      introduction, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he
      recovered ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth
      with his more modern rival. The savans now maintained the
      Aristotelian and Baconian roads were the sole possible avenues to
      knowledge. “Baconian,” you must know, was an adjective invented
      as equivalent to Hog-ian and more euphonious and dignified.

      Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I
      represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority; and you
      can easily understand how a notion so absurd on its very face
      must have operated to retard the progress of all true
      knowledge—which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive
      bounds. The ancient idea confined investigations to crawling; and
      for hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog
      especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking, properly
      so called. No man dared utter a truth to which he felt himself
      indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the truth was
      even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the
      time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They
      would not even look at the end. “Let us see the means,” they
      cried, “the means!” If, upon investigation of the means, it was
      found to come under neither the category Aries (that is to say
      Ram) nor under the category Hog, why then the savans went no
      farther, but pronounced the “theorist” a fool, and would have
      nothing to do with him or his truth.

      Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system
      the greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series
      of ages, for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be
      compensated for by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of
      investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these
      Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our
      own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with
      that of the wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an
      object the better the more closely he holds it to his eyes. These
      people blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded
      Hoggishly, their “facts” were by no means always facts—a matter
      of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they were
      facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When
      they proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely
      as straight as a ram’s horn, for they never had an axiom which
      was an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not to see
      this, even in their own day; for even in their own day many of
      the long “established” axioms had been rejected. For example—“Ex
      nihilo nihil fit”; “a body cannot act where it is not”; “there
      cannot exist antipodes”; “darkness cannot come out of light”—all
      these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted
      without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which I
      speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to
      persist in putting faith in “axioms” as immutable bases of Truth!
      But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy
      to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in
      general. Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I
      will go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we
      have it! Here is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and
      lately translated from the Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to
      have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit says it is
      decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, Logic. The
      author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or
      Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some
      importance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us
      glance at the treatise!

      Ah!—“Ability or inability to conceive,” says Mr. Mill, very
      properly, “is in no case to be received as a criterion of
      axiomatic truth.” What modern in his senses would ever think of
      disputing this truism? The only wonder with us must be, how it
      happened that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at any
      thing so obvious. So far good—but let us turn over another paper.
      What have we here?—“Contradictories cannot both be true—that is,
      cannot co-exist in nature.” Here Mr. Mill means, for example,
      that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree—that it cannot be
      at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask him
      why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing else
      than this—“Because it is impossible to conceive that
      contradictories can both be true.” But this is no answer at all,
      by his own showing, for has he not just admitted as a truism that
      “ability or inability to conceive is in no case to be received as
      a criterion of axiomatic truth.”

      Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their
      logic is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and
      fantastic altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile
      proscription of all other roads of Truth, of all other means for
      its attainment than the two preposterous paths—the one of
      creeping and the one of crawling—to which they have dared to
      confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.

      By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled
      these ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their
      two roads it was that the most important and most sublime of all
      their truths was, in effect, attained? I mean the truth of
      Gravitation. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his
      three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all laws which led
      the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of
      all physical principle—to go behind which we must enter the
      Kingdom of Metaphysics: Kepler guessed—that is to say imagined.
      He was essentially a “theorist”—that word now of so much
      sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have
      puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by which of the
      two “roads” a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than
      usual secrecy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed
      mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which
      resulted from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics.

      One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it
      not passing strange that, with their eternal prattling about
      roads to Truth, these bigoted people missed what we now so
      clearly perceive to be the great highway—that of Consistency?
      Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to deduce
      from the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency
      must be an absolute truth! How plain has been our progress since
      the late announcement of this proposition! Investigation has been
      taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task,
      to the true and only true thinkers, the men of ardent
      imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout
      of scorn with which my words would be received by our progenitors
      were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder?
      These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply
      corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared, little by little, of
      their dross of inconsistency—until, finally, a perfect
      consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit,
      because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an
      unquestionable truth.

      April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the
      new improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious,
      manageable, and in every respect convenient are our modern
      balloons! Here is an immense one approaching us at the rate of at
      least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be crowded
      with people—perhaps there are three or four hundred
      passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile,
      looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a
      hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling
      after all. Do you remember our flight on the railroad across the
      Kanadaw continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—that was
      travelling. Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but
      flirt, feast and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you
      remember what an odd sensation was experienced when, by chance,
      we caught a glimpse of external objects while the cars were in
      full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one mass. For my part,
      I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow
      train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have
      glass windows—even to have them open—and something like a
      distinct view of the country was attainable.... Pundit says that
      the route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some
      measure marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he goes
      so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are still
      discernible—traces referable to a period quite as remote as that
      mentioned. The track, it appears was double only; ours, you know,
      has twelve paths; and three or four new ones are in preparation.
      The ancient rails were very slight, and placed so close together
      as to be, according to modern notions, quite frivolous, if not
      dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track—fifty
      feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part,
      I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in
      very remote times, as Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer,
      to my mind, than that, at some period—not less than seven
      centuries ago, certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw
      continents were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have been
      driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent.

      April 5.—I am almost devoured by _ennui_. Pundit is the only
      conversible person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of
      nothing but antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the
      attempt to convince me that the ancient Amriccans governed
      themselves!—did ever anybody hear of such an absurdity?—that they
      existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the
      fashion of the “prairie dogs” that we read of in fable. He says
      that they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that
      all men are born free and equal—this in the very teeth of the
      laws of _gradation_ so visibly impressed upon all things both in
      the moral and physical universe. Every man “voted,” as they
      called it—that is to say meddled with public affairs—until at
      length, it was discovered that what is everybody’s business is
      nobody’s, and that the “Republic” (so the absurd thing was
      called) was without a government at all. It is related, however,
      that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly,
      the self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this
      “Republic,” was the startling discovery that universal suffrage
      gave opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any
      desired number of votes might at any time be polled, without the
      possibility of prevention or even detection, by any party which
      should be merely villainous enough not to be ashamed of the
      fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery sufficed to render
      evident the consequences, which were that rascality must
      predominate—in a word, that a republican government could never
      be any thing but a rascally one. While the philosophers, however,
      were busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen
      these inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new
      theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of
      the name of Mob, who took every thing into his own hands and set
      up a despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous
      Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This
      Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said to have been the most
      odious of all men that ever encumbered the earth. He was a giant
      in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the gall of a bullock
      with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He died,
      at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him.
      Nevertheless, he had his uses, as every thing has, however vile,
      and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger
      of forgetting—never to run directly contrary to the natural
      analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it
      upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the
      “prairie dogs,” an exception which seems to demonstrate, if
      anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of
      government—for dogs.

      April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk,
      through our captain’s spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a
      degree, looking very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a
      misty day. Alpha Lyrae, although so very much larger than our
      sun, by the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its
      atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the
      last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing
      between these two orbs began even to be suspected. The evident
      motion of our system in the heavens was (strange to say!)
      referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of the
      galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of
      gravity common to all the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to
      be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was
      declared to be revolving, our own performing the circuit in a
      period of 117,000,000 of years! We, with our present lights, our
      vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it
      difficult to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its
      first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to
      this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first instance; but,
      this being the case, he should have at least adhered to analogy
      in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested;
      so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however,
      dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding
      orbs taken together. The question might then have been asked—“Why
      do we not see it?”—we, especially, who occupy the mid region of
      the cluster—the very locality near which, at least, must be
      situated this inconceivable central sun. The astronomer, perhaps,
      at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity;
      and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the
      central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its
      failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of
      glorious suns glaring in all directions about it? No doubt what
      he finally maintained was merely a centre of gravity common to
      all the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must have been let
      fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of
      gravity, but it does this in connection with and in consequence
      of a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest
      of the system. The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an
      infinity of straight lines; but this idea of the circle—this idea
      of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we consider as
      merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the practical,
      idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we
      have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles
      with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose
      our system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the
      centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human imaginations
      but attempt to take a single step toward the comprehension of a
      circuit so unutterable! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say
      that a flash of lightning itself, travelling forever upon the
      circumference of this inconceivable circle, would still forever
      be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our sun along
      such a circumference—that the direction of our system in such an
      orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest
      degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a
      proposition not to be entertained; and yet these ancient
      astronomers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into believing
      that a decisive curvature had become apparent during the brief
      period of their astronomical history—during the mere point—during
      the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years! How
      incomprehensible, that considerations such as this did not at
      once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that of the
      binary revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a common
      centre of gravity!

      April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a
      fine view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much
      interest the putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels
      in the new temple at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think
      that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so
      little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a mechanical
      ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult,
      too, to conceive the vast masses which these people handle so
      easily, to be as light as our own reason tells us they actually
      are.

      April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw
      spoke us to-day and threw on board several late papers; they
      contain some exceedingly curious information relative to
      Kanawdian or rather Amriccan antiquities. You know, I presume,
      that laborers have for some months been employed in preparing the
      ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor’s principal
      pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally
      speaking, an island time out of mind—that is to say, its northern
      boundary was always (as far back as any record extends) a
      rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was
      gradually widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile.
      The whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies
      materially. The entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight
      hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them
      twenty stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason)
      being considered as especially precious just in this vicinity.
      The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally
      uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to
      be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our
      antiquarians have never yet been able to obtain from the site any
      sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions)
      wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the
      manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants.
      Nearly all that we have hitherto known of them is, that they were
      a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the
      continent at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, a knight of
      the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilized, however,
      but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of
      their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many
      respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for building
      what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated “churches”—a kind
      of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by
      the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the
      island became, nine tenths of it, church. The women, too, it
      appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the
      region just below the small of the back—although, most
      unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the
      light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women
      have in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd,
      very—like something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary.

      Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us
      respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that
      while digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you
      know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a
      cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several
      hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received,
      apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it.
      On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!)
      an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies.
      Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden
      box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several
      documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters
      of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt
      that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe
      called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are
      filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c.
      I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the
      marble slab:—

          This Corner Stone of a Monument to
                  The Memory of
                GEORGE WASHINGTON
          Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies
                    on the
             19th Day of October, 1847
          The anniversary of the surrender of
                 Lord Cornwallis
          to General Washington at Yorktown
                 A. D. 1781
            Under the Auspices of the
          Washington Monument Association of
                the city of New York

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

      Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter
      or not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for
      my own amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however,
      and throw it into the sea.

      Yours everlastingly,
       PUNDITA.




THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE.


And stepped at once into a cooler clime.—_Cowper_.

      Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “The Andromache”?
      {*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan.
      _L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!

      A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
      indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru.
      From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De
      L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.

      That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau
      he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
      loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

      He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
      restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
      moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo!
      the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men!
      But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of
      the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
      oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as
      servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc
      expired in a paroxysm of disgust.

      “Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

      “He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
      an air of _hauteur_.

      “Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I
      have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no
      actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into
      execution.”

      “No _what?_” said his majesty—“come, sir, strip!”

      “Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_
      strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de
      Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and
      Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of
      the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest
      _robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of
      the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I
      should have in drawing off my gloves?”

      “Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
      thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou
      wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
      thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou
      sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen
      drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty
      dimensions.”

      “Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with
      impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging
      this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au
      revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
      presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman
      in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged
      his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his
      identity, he took a bird’s eye view of his whereabouts.

      The apartment was superb. Even De L’Omelette pronounced it _bien
      comme il faut_. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its
      height—ah, that was appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly
      none—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His
      Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a
      chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the
      city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung
      a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there
      poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never
      worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never
      dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a
      bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God
      Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.

      The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these
      were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty
      was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_
      French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was _not_
      colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De
      L’Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes,
      raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.

      But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the
      same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,
      for did he not paint the—? and was he not consequently damned?
      The paintings—the paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on
      those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices
      of the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth
      and the porphyry walls?

      But the Duc’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,
      as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the
      ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C’est vrai que de
      toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!_ The Duc De
      L’Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which
      a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most
      ghastly of all fires!

      _Le pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious,
      the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that
      hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy
      of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings
      of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!—there!—upon the
      ottoman!—who could _he_ be?—he, the _petitmaître_—no, the
      Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
      pale countenance, _si amèrement?_

      _Mais il faut agir_—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints
      outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L’Omelette is
      himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points
      also. The Duc had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six
      hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. He measures two points,
      and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.
      _Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!

      _Mais il joue!_—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an
      excellent memory. He had dipped in the “_Diable_” of Abbé
      Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un
      jeu d’écarté._”

      But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more
      desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he
      not skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club
      Vingt-un? “_Si je perds_,” said he, “_je serai deux fois perdu_—I
      shall be doubly damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
      shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les
      cartes soient préparées!_”

      His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence.
      A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace
      thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The
      Duc cut.

      The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king!
      No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine
      habiliments. De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.

      They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts
      heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

      “_C’est à vous à faire_,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
      bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.

      His Majesty looked chagrined.

      Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes;
      and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “_que s’il
      n’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le
      Diable._”




THE OBLONG BOX.


      Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the
      city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain
      Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),
      weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to
      arrange some matters in my state-room.

      I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a
      more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my
      acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that
      of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained
      feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student
      at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the
      ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of
      misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he
      united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human
      bosom.

      I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,
      upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he
      had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.
      The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,
      one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so
      exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one
      person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three
      state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in
      one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally
      inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I
      busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous
      conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It
      was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less
      pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the
      enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
      wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of
      course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of
      so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but
      here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,
      although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring
      one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then
      overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to
      myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something
      to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and
      this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the
      Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my
      curiosity for the nonce.

      Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever
      girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never
      yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,
      however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her
      as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,
      therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.

      On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt
      and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I
      waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of
      being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.
      was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until
      to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”

      The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the
      wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to
      circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather
      thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and
      that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This
      I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as
      “the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for
      them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return
      home and digest my impatience at leisure.

      I did not receive the expected message from the captain for
      nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went
      on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing
      was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party
      arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two
      sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
      customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to
      these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not
      even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,
      upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in
      a few hurried words, made us acquainted.

      Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,
      in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly
      astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not
      long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a
      reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,
      when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When
      beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared
      into the regions of the purely ideal.

      The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a
      decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was
      not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in
      exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated
      my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
      and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her
      state-room with Mr. W.

      My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that
      was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.
      After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong
      pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.
      Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time
      were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.

      The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet
      in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it
      attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;
      and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the
      accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be
      remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,
      would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he
      had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now
      here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain
      nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and
      a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at
      Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of
      Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently
      settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It
      was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of
      his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a
      march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my
      very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved
      to quiz him well, now and hereafter.

      One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go
      into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and
      there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
      floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
      wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
      was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
      disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On
      the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New
      York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled
      with care.”

      Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the
      artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address
      as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my
      mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get
      farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in
      Chambers Street, New York.

      For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although
      the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,
      immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers
      were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I
      must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,
      and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
      party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,
      even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I
      was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could
      make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms
      during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,
      although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any
      person on board.

      Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she
      was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.
      She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to
      my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to
      coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say
      “amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I
      soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The
      gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little
      while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent
      looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great
      wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.
      Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution
      at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a
      dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had
      married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride
      was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these
      expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt
      indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking
      leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so
      intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of
      the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be
      sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in
      his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent
      quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.
      Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own
      delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the
      meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in
      the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up
      alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said
      to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse
      herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main
      cabin.

      My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,
      by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of
      enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite
      himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the
      natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied
      him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,
      quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last
      Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.

      One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my
      wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,
      however (which I considered quite natural under the
      circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and
      that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,
      and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I
      thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put
      on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series
      of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just
      to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the
      butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My
      first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said
      something about the “peculiar shape of _that_ box”; and, as I
      spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him
      gently with my forefinger in the ribs.

      The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry
      convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me
      as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my
      remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his
      brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from
      their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as
      if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and
      boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with
      gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In
      conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to
      uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.

      I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to
      himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At
      length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was
      quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of
      his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest
      of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide
      with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me
      to say nothing on this head to any person on board.

      Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of
      Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I
      was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been
      nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at
      night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to
      sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or
      dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s
      three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the
      main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As
      we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a
      little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and
      whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door
      between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the
      trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a
      position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as
      the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on
      account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite
      distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were
      situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights
      (not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about
      eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the
      state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she
      remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and
      went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had
      separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent
      divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the
      extra state-room.

      There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.
      During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after
      the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was
      attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of
      her husband. After listening to them for some time, with
      thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in
      translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the
      artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and
      mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some
      soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.

      In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment
      when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine
      when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the
      lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,
      by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the
      wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very
      gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there
      was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either
      occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a
      low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be
      nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were
      not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to
      resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have
      been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.
      Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein
      to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic
      enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his
      eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,
      however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have
      been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain
      Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of
      which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon
      the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by
      means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his
      state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from
      hers.

      We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,
      when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We
      were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had
      been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made
      snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay
      to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.

      In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship
      proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and
      shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,
      however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our
      after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough
      of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one
      immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men
      overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard
      bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the
      foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail
      and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading
      the sea much more steadily than before.

      The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its
      abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly
      strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the
      afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by
      the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of
      it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before
      we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet
      of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps
      choked and nearly useless.

      All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to
      lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as
      could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that
      remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable
      to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak
      gained on us very fast.

      At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as
      the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of
      saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke
      away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece
      of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping
      spirits.

      After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the
      longboat over the side without material accident, and into this
      we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This
      party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,
      finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day
      after the wreck.

      Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,
      resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.
      We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a
      miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the
      water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.
      Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and
      myself, with a negro valet.

      We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively
      necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our
      backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing
      more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when
      having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up
      in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that
      the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his
      oblong box!

      “Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,
      “you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale
      is almost in the water now.”

      “The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!
      Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight
      will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother
      who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I
      implore you to put back for the box!”

      The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal
      of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely
      said:

      “Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,
      or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about
      to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”

      As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the
      boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by
      almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung
      from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and
      rushing frantically down into the cabin.

      In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being
      quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea
      which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
      but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the
      tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate
      artist was sealed.

      As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for
      as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the
      companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared
      gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in
      the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns
      of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his
      body. In another instant both body and box were in the
      sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.

      We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted
      upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained
      unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.

      “Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that
      an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some
      feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself
      to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”

      “They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that
      like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the
      salt melts.”

      “The salt!” I ejaculated.

      “Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the
      deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate
      time.”

      We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune
      befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,
      in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense
      distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained
      here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
      obtained a passage to New York.

      About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to
      meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,
      naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of
      poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.

      The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and
      a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a
      most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the
      fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),
      the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was
      frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
      deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her
      mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the
      universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was
      well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned
      the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.

      In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being
      first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of
      salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on
      board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s
      decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
      engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some
      person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased
      lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,
      originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was
      now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,
      of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best
      of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had
      been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers
      on board.

      My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
      inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is
      a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a
      countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an
      hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.




LOSS OF BREATH


O breathe not, etc.
                    —Moore’s _Melodies_

      The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
      untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
      ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
      holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.
      Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
      but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
      lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
      gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
      barred them for the fifth part of a century....

      “Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
      morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
      whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
      quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
      upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
      close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
      decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
      ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
      extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
      breath.

      The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
      are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
      never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
      could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
      have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
      consternation—my despair!

      There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
      deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
      of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
      Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
      véritable_.

      Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
      the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
      conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
      discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.
      Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
      bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
      coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
      a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
      could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
      out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.

      Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
      instance of the ill consequences attending upon
      irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
      with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
      earth—being very calm, yet breathless.

      Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
      entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
      life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.
      Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
      overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
      powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
      conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
      destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
      that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
      singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
      communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
      guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
      but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.

      Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
      in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
      kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
      of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
      but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
      obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
      shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
      the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
      water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
      itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
      obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.

      Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
      heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
      now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
      to the scene of my disaster.

      Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
      search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
      obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
      found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
      might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
      points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
      Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
      are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
      point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
      such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
      it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
      have since found to be the case.

      Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
      contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
      only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
      of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
      here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
      Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
      should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
      necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
      appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.
      What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
      and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
      with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
      return.

      My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
      after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
      scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
      sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
      accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
      Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
      liberty of recommending.

      With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
      some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
      arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
      already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
      might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
      unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
      to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
      upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
      the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
      committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
      good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
      or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
      tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
      unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
      monotonously throughout.

      I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
      marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
      proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
      conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
      make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
      for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
      question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
      most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
      tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
      observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It
      is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such
      passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the
      showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in
      any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered
      the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke
      of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never
      suspected me of having lost my breath.

      Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very
      early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be
      understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last
      importance required my immediate personal attendance in that
      city.

      The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight
      the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without
      making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed
      between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a
      size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to
      take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling
      asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for
      relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of
      the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory
      faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the
      question.

      As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
      outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his
      shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my
      civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were
      dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
      began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he
      communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead
      man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and
      responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right
      eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.

      Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),
      believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
      physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and
      found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
      pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a
      determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the
      future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the
      present.

      I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by
      which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting
      with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,
      under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
      driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after
      me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
      head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and
      extraordinary.

      The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that
      my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little
      trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon
      of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and
      receipt for ten dollars.

      The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
      immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs
      of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
      apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his
      suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately
      correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and
      removed several of my viscera for private dissection.

      The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
      endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,
      and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the
      surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my
      faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new
      galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man
      of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,
      from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help
      feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to
      me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at
      conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,
      that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply
      to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
      circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian
      pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

      Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
      remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a
      garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with
      drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
      tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door
      on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to
      silence and to meditation.

      I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken
      had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.
      Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating
      some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom
      before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
      vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with
      a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on
      my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the
      paltry consideration of my nose.

      But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
      throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the
      cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the
      loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my
      body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,
      at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking
      across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,
      and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
      disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the
      window.

      The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was
      at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected
      for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long
      continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
      unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
      to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
      cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
      the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
      driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
      who were drunk.

      As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
      vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.
      Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
      alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
      aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
      the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
      of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
      they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
      making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
      communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
      and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.

      It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
      course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
      inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
      stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
      sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
      about my neck. The drop fell.

      I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
      here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
      upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
      such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
      should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
      composed a treatise upon getting drunk.

      I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
      I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
      left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
      I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
      jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
      proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
      in the coach.

      For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
      worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
      extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.
      The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
      of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
      of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
      his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”

      When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
      to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
      the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
      a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.

      Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
      one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
      interred in a public vault.

      Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
      and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—

      Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—

      struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.

      I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.
      The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
      with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
      coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
      and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
      the mortality within.

      “This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
      and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
      an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
      to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
      being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
      rhinoceros.

      “His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
      circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
      forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
      and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
      poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
      pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
      conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
      never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
      has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
      days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
      suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
      was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.
      He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
      the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
      patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
      attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
      deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.

      “But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
      receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
      remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
      familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
      commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
      view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
      nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
      ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
      my soliloquy.

      “Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
      would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
      his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
      originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
      poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
      him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
      “South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
      pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
      the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
      walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
      Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.
      He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
      like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably
      a—”

“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be
so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you
not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know
any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you
do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is
really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to
expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do
not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread
of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should
undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one
person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by,
and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this
place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible
accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your
windows—some short while ago—about the time you were
stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,”
eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always
too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give
me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked,
consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they
took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of
them!—heard all you said about me—every word a
lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et
cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”

      It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
      discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced
      that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I
      soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the
      identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with
      my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter
      beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold
      upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in
      which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with
      his explanations.

      In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which
      has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many
      difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which
      only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many
      persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their
      possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however
      troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages
      to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves
      from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
      Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was
      at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to
      the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,
      I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
      opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is
      from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most
      anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they
      feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.

      Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my
      grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to
      model my reply.

      “Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster
      and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it
      has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost
      thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
      old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be
      sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single
      breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
      calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the
      superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”

      Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
      Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
      protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with
      which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I
      failed to take the fullest advantage.

      Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered
      me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I
      gave him afterward a receipt.

      I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in
      a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be
      thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the
      details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new
      light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of
      physical philosophy.

      To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
      answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but
      I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as
      possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and
      at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
      sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this
      moment, of incurring.

      We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
      escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of
      our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,
      the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and
      origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and
      justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It
      was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
      that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
      parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.

      I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in
      a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again
      recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that
      indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield
      against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt
      nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
      among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven
      would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with
      good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word
      “Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great
      plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
      attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in
      his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a
      shrine and temple “to the proper God.”

      LYTTLETON BARRY.




THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP

A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.


     _Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!_
     _La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau._
                    —CORNEILLE.

      I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the
      acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier
      General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one _did_ introduce me to the
      gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very
      well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some
      place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably
      forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon
      my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
      prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
      constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and
      I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
      mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once
      into a pitiable state of agitation.

      There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, _remarkable_,
      although this is but a feeble term to express my full
      meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in
      question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence
      singularly commanding. There was an _air distingué_ pervading the
      whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high
      birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I
      have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head
      of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more
      richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty
      black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of
      his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these
      latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they
      were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all
      events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a
      mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and
      the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between
      them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing
      clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my
      acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair
      was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a
      deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was
      perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of
      interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.

      The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever
      saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its
      wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great
      advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
      of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble
      Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I
      never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were
      admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These
      were, indeed, the _ne plus ultra_ of good legs. Every connoisseur
      in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither
      too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I
      could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os
      femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the
      rear of the _fibula_ which goes to the conformation of a properly
      proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend
      Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet
      Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

      But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty
      as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to
      believe that _the remarkable_ something to which I alluded just
      now,—that the odd air of _je ne sais quoi_ which hung about my
      new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the
      supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be
      traced to the _manner_;—yet here again I could not pretend to be
      positive. There _was_ a primness, not to say stiffness, in his
      carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of
      rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,
      observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least
      little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or
      constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted
      dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,
      _hauteur_—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the
      dignity of colossal proportion.

      The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my
      ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a _remarkable_
      man—a _very_ remarkable man—indeed one of the _most_ remarkable
      men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the
      ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.

      “In _that_ point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect
      desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my
      friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me
      with the mystery of his tone.

      “A downright fire-eater, and _no_ mistake. Showed _that_, I
      should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight
      away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my
      friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and
      thunder, and all that!—_prodigies_ of valor!—heard of him of
      course?—you know he’s the man—”

      “Man alive, how _do_ you do? why, how _are_ ye? _very_ glad to
      see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my
      companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but
      profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so
      still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor
      beheld a finer set of teeth: but I _must_ say that I was sorry
      for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the
      whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly
      excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

      However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet
      Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated
      this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a
      long _tête-à-tête_, and I was not only pleased but
      _really_—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man
      of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he
      forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then
      most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the
      Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper
      sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in
      truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that
      the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,
      and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid
      march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,
      this was a point to which he invariably came back.

      “There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a
      wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and
      rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon
      every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular
      trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between
      London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
      influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon
      literature—which will be the immediate result of the great
      principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure
      you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most
      wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I
      believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most _useful_—the
      most truly _useful_—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
      up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more
      figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.
      Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”

      Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say
      that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,
      with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep
      sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age
      of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been
      altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate
      inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier
      General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous
      events _quorum pars magna fuit_, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo
      campaign.

      The first opportunity which presented itself, and which
      (_horresco referens_) I did not in the least scruple to seize,
      occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where
      I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
      only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
      communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,
      I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very
      flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about
      Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was
      clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,
      and then commenced, _sotto voce_, a brisk _tête-à-tête_.

      “Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;
      “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you
      _knew_ all about _him!_ This is a wonderfully inventive age!
      Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
      Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
      Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s
      the man—”

      “Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,
      and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our
      ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;
      he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the
      extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the
      divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the
      pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.
      There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and
      listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the
      balance of that very capital discourse.

      Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
      Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
      merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
      affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
      Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a
      very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
      making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the
      slips, and completely overlooked the stage.

      “Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the
      purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”

      “Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever
      behold a finer figure?”

      “Never, madam, but _do_ tell me—”

      “Or so inimitable grace?”

      “Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me—”

      “Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”

      “Madam!”

      “Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be
      so good as to look at that leg!”

      “The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.

      “Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
      that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so
      on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!
      great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of
      valor! _Never heard!_” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my
      soul! why, he’s the man—”

                         “——mandragora
     Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
     Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
     Which thou owd’st yesterday!”

      here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my
      face all the time, in a way that I _couldn’t_ stand, and I
      _wouldn’t_. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went
      behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such
      a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.

      At the _soirée_ of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was
      confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.
      Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
      pretty hostess for a _vis-à-vis_, than I propounded those
      questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
      to my peace.

      “Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
      affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
      those Kickapoos!—we are playing _whist_, if you please, Mr.
      Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
      _the_ age, one may say—_the_ age _par excellence_—speak
      French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—_no hearts_, Mr.
      Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
      that!—prodigies of valor! _Never heard!!_—why, bless me, he’s the
      man—”

      “Mann!—_Captain_ Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
      interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
      about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I _must_ hear—do tell—go on,
      Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
      a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
      have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
      I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
      that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
      Smith.

      Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
      luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
      a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
      angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.

      “Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
      zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
      business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
      those Indians!—_do_ turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
      you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
      age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
      desperado—prodigies of valor—_never heard!_—can’t believe it—I
      shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
      man—”

      “Man-_Fred_, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
      Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
      Man-_Fred_, I say, and not at all by any means Man-_Friday_.”
      Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
      and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
      purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
      poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
      promptness, that the true title was Man-_Friday_, and not by any
      means Man-_Fred_, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
      was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
      a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
      Bas-Bleus.

      Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
      to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
      for I knew that here at least I should get something like
      definite information.

      “Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
      his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
      affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
      think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
      honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
      by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”

      “Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”

      “Hem!—oh well!—quite _la même cho-o-ose_, as we say in France.
      Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
      thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
      you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
      conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
      Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
      he’s the ma-a-an—”

      “_Mr_. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “_is_ he the man in the
      mask?”

      “No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”

      This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
      left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
      call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
      ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.

      In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
      touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
      me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
      upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
      solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
      there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
      positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
      or Montesquieu.

      It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
      pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
      by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
      visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
      the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
      large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
      close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
      humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.

      “Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
      one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
      between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
      of my existence.

      “Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”

      I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
      the farthest extremity of the room.

      “God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
      “what—what—what—why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you
      don’t know me at all.”

      What _could_ I say to all this—what _could_ I? I staggered into
      an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
      solution of the wonder.

      “Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
      re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
      performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
      analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
      single leg, however, apparent.

      “Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
      me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
      leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
      stood up before my eyes.

      “And a bloody action it _was_,” continued the thing, as if in a
      soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
      Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
      I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is
      decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
      want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you
      to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.

      “We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,
      slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,
      but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”

      “Bosom!” said I.

      “Pompey, will you _never_ be ready with that wig? Scalping is a
      rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital
      scratch at De L’Orme’s.”

      “Scratch!”

      “Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a _good_ set of these you had
      better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I
      swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big
      Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”

      “Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”

      “O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !
      Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a
      belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how
      well I see with the eyes of his make.”

      I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me
      was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet
      Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of
      Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in
      the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still
      puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily
      cleared up.

      “Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do
      believe you would let me go out without my palate.”

      Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his
      master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,
      and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a
      very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.
      The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the
      General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he
      again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and
      strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.

      “D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I
      positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not
      only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut
      off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s
      equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this
      description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here
      the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest
      pleasure in so doing.”

      I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of
      him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of
      affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had
      troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet
      Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man
      that was used up_.




THE BUSINESS MAN


Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.

      I am a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing,
      after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than
      your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding
      it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit.
      These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in
      what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a
      positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the
      obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the _outré_. What
      definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as
      “methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a systematical Will o’ the Wisp”?

      My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they
      are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was
      a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall
      not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I
      was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round
      two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little
      spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
      bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A
      bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty
      an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that
      positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the
      distinguished man of business that I am.

      If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your
      geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater
      the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.
      Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,
      any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of
      pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into
      some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at
      variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business
      whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell
      these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.
      If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
      manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any
      of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,
      or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a
      lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the
      usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,
      according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.

      Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.
      My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are
      well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of
      accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.
      Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with
      the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
      indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,
      who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at
      last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the
      rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in
      autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
      believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put
      me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the
      counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and
      commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital
      bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,
      that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my
      button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most
      violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my
      organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just
      touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all
      that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a
      thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable
      hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of
      business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been
      the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female
      who had originally put these means within my reach.

      The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of
      age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should
      have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother
      talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The
      grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,
      and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without
      dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these
      eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius
      of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the
      first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself
      doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s
      Walking-Advertisement line.

      I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,
      only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading
      feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions
      as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which
      made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor
      whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that
      individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in
      some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.
      The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person
      about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the
      suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in
      the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer
      to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this
      proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves
      the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we
      quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought
      overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of
      the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud
      satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My
      bill ran thus:

_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors.
To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.

July 10.   to promenade, as usual and customer brought home   $00 25
July 11.   To do do do                                            25
July 12.   To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold
           for invisible green                                    25
July 13.   To one lie, first class, extra quality and size;
           recommended milled satinet as broadcloth,              75
July 20.   To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey,
           to set off gray Petersham                              02
Aug. 15.   To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer
           106 in the shade)                                      25
Aug. 16.   Standing on one leg three hours, to show off
           new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per
           hour                                                   37½
Aug. 17.   To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought
           (fat man)                                              50
Aug. 18.   To do do (medium size)                                 25
Aug. 19.   To do do (small man and bad pay)                        6
           TOTAL                                               $2 95½


      The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate
      charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this
      was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the
      cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good
      reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.
      The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
      penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what
      manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a
      sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon
      the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be
      done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling
      me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in
      any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
      Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the
      most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary
      occupations.

      My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here
      again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,
      and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never
      dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober
      routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,
      have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
      which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual
      business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks
      or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of
      putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as
      stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.
      The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
      As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one
      of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in
      contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or
      tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way
      up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an
      ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch
      Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,
      either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t
      afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
      hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can
      we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be
      irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally
      corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!
      I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I
      felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of
      their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into
      jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well
      avoid cutting my connection when I came out.

      The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to
      adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the
      delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with
      a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those
      stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into
      me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of
      men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,
      the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a
      well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many
      serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very
      decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,
      in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just
      copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the
      necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of
      which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a
      thing that don’t lie.

      “Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.
      Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll
      answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a
      running account with each.

      “Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his
      toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.
      Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the
      damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock
      down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get
      rid of Bag—no system at all.

      “Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting
      in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean
      one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw
      the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the
      box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull
      it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
      winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of
      finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over
      into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally
      splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,
      and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.

      “Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in
      Journal—fifty cents—which see.

      “Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of
      five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.
      Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”

      Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less
      than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases
      of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these
      extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.

      It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is
      nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the
      profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,
      discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so
      that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so
      that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell
      that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best
      expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I
      turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it
      for some years.

      The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a
      fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.
      Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in
      sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or
      an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,
      that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never
      was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no
      brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in
      this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but
      my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected
      my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,
      and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I
      took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I
      could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known
      as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me
      tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
      got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my
      business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I
      never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up
      with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered
      no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of
      course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous
      inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but
      corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have
      neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.

      I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I
      was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat
      analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My
      location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I
      had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite
      fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a
      long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was
      this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end
      at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright
      boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a
      rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and
      looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
      with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then
      came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I
      was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the
      profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t
      stand—so we quarrelled and parted.

      I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may
      say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward
      business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a
      music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but
      to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a
      hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,
      more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll
      along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the
      street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and
      grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.
      Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,
      with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some
      grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for
      my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to
      permit of my “going on” under a shilling.

      At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not
      quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I
      labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American
      streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,
      and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.

      I was now out of employment for some months, but at length
      succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in
      the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether
      unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to
      make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of
      these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred
      to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom
      Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded
      and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,
      Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,
      forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I
      always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and
      receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a
      letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it
      was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to
      open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had
      to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
      Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to
      hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took
      to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to
      hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.

      My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I
      have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,
      really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has
      become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for
      relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought
      before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The
      Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having
      passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all
      with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a
      premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate
      succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the
      word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,
      that the House concurred in it nem. con.

      As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole
      estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only
      afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they
      fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that
      I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so
      indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a
      legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have
      discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force
      three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the
      animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
      the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,
      therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on
      the Hudson.




THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN


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

      No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
      Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
      of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
      to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
      Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
      sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
      I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
      doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
      exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
      mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
      Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
      man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
      the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
      his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
      the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
      Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
      possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
      even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
      the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
      that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
      fortuitous conditions, may be happy.

      With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
      thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
      uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
      part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
      less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
      well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
      himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
      life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
      of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
      to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
      summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
      rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
      chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
      of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
      “attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
      He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
      class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
      instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
      principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
      ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
      held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
      proportioned to the spirituality of this object.

      I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
      profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
      grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
      order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
      necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
      illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
      devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
      upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
      discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
      been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
      amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
      entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
      appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
      attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
      one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
      fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
      whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
      his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
      of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
      of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
      end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
      set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
      rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
      was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
      similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
      upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
      as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
      hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}

      When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
      wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
      the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
      immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
      all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
      amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
      thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
      citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
      supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
      busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
      ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
      devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
      specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
      and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
      institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
      actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
      ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
      figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
      even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
      amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
      thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
      twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
      hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
      forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
      that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
      broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
      conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
      least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
      opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
      his superabundance.

      I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
      up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
      discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
      nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
      poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
      aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
      The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
      to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
      peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
      his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
      whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
      perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
      advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
      of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
      moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
      became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
      its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
      neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
      which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
      ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
      earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
      genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
      that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
      many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
      inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
      unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
      of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
      that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
      productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
      capable.

      Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
      lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
      other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
      impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
      sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
      limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
      at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
      the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
      poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
      expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
      conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
      But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
      most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
      neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
      of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
      creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
      most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
      field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
      endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
      should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
      superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
      the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
      he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
      Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
      concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
      adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
      perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
      the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.

      “Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
      In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
      towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
      the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
      combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
      has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
      reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
      enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
      defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
      component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
      the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
      susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
      attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
      not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
      composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
      this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
      Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
      Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
      improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
      which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
      exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
      sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
      than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
      gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
      saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
      nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
      principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
      is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
      him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
      Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
      affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
      demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
      artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
      such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
      constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
      reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
      a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
      investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
      instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
      a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
      mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
      every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
      admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
      composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
      the identical emendation.

      I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
      is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
      therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
      was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
      Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
      improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
      as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
      alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
      effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
      viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
      easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
      closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
      general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
      topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
      importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
      to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
      it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
      of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
      scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
      more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
      the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.

      In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
      quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
      well treated this theme.

      “There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
      landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
      recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
      to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
      hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
      into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
      which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
      the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
      style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
      and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
      order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
      The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
      tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
      various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
      retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
      old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
      Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
      against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
      mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
      This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
      design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
      balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
      passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
      evidence of care and human interest.”

      “From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will
      understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling
      the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never
      so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends
      upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in
      respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice
      relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of
      speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which
      guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style
      of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and
      incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or
      miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
      apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of
      genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains
      to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
      Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which
      consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
      understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier
      merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be
      apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the
      excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.
      Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
      instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are
      told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus
      Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive
      Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,
      and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists
      of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
      scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
      in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
      reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
      admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the
      sublime.

      “Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”
      continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of
      pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is
      just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally
      so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is
      incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.
      There may be an object in full keeping with the principle
      suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in
      possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm
      to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a
      merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of
      very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining
      the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his
      designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey
      the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in
      bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of
      interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness
      and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in
      the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent
      the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to
      reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.
      Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be
      harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape
      whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and
      magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or
      superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin
      to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while
      the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
      Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but
      which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of
      the angels that hover between man and God.”

      It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical
      embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the
      open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in
      the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in
      the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of
      ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,
      lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted
      wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from
      the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of
      positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De
      Staël.




MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER


      Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general
      attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has
      been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.
      Yet the question of its _modus operandi_ is still undetermined.
      Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as
      decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical
      genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative
      understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a
      _pure machine_, unconnected with human agency in its movements,
      and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of
      the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were
      they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it
      would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any
      similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have
      been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on
      Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among
      these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,
      the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV
      when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,
      into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table
      was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and
      drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,
      a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on
      the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.
      Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his
      whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the
      edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone
      as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to
      the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its
      former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In
      this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair
      of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and
      opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to
      her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,
      closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped
      his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original
      position.

      The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy
      the following account of it from the _Letters_ before mentioned
      of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the
      Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.

      “One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,
      Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of
      answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a
      magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand
      in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready
      prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator
      takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,
      and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer
      shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician
      then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with
      his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts
      it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the
      proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the
      wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an
      appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the
      magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to
      return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all
      containing different questions, to which the magician returns the
      most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin
      plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each
      other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each
      side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the
      drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the
      magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes
      his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is
      returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer
      together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the
      machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,
      during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The
      inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions
      acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to
      the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”

      The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the
      size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal
      that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says
      Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and
      drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head
      and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled
      the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the
      sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical
      structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in
      the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its
      wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and
      curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper
      movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck
      stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.
      {*1}

      But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the
      calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an
      engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical
      and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the
      exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its
      power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a
      machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually
      print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the
      slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,
      be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is
      altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By
      no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we
      assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the
      Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations
      without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical
      calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.
      Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and
      inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,
      and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.
      And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its
      final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to
      no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,
      we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so
      arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance
      with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue
      its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards
      the required solution, since these movements, however complex,
      are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.
      But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him
      there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess
      necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular
      disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate
      their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first
      move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an
      algebraical question, and their great difference will be
      immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second
      step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It
      is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.
      But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second
      move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it
      proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations
      remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a
      consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a
      consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of
      the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.
      But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the
      _uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,
      _no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would
      advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable
      judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be
      granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in
      themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and
      disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is
      then no analogy whatever between the operations of the
      Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.
      Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we
      must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the
      most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original
      projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring
      it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose
      effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the
      conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for
      promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this
      point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton
      are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter
      is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The
      only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is
      brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as
      well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player
      for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an
      opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.

      The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron
      Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards
      disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to
      its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was
      exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental
      cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.
      Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United
      States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by
      its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of
      all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on
      this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen
      by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,
      however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board
      should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while
      the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in
      the costume of the player since it came into the possession of
      Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image
      of automaton}

      At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or
      folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within
      about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom
      and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen
      habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large
      box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The
      exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of
      the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,
      or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a
      game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the
      floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it
      moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the
      Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on
      which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the
      top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.
      The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length
      before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an
      apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back
      of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches
      square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in
      the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the
      Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To
      judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into
      five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two
      drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the
      cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of
      the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of
      the spectators.

      Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their
      view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch
      of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut
      above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of
      all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,
      pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely
      together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance
      into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes
      now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the
      figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the
      one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and
      shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same
      time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,
      which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of
      machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel
      closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets
      fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The
      door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The
      exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the
      cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are
      apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles
      and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having
      opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set
      of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them
      perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as
      cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.
      3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and
      the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,
      (that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six
      inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The
      main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box
      visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the
      main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no
      machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,
      and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the
      compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and
      also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the
      compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.
      Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and
      door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main
      compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly
      all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle
      behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently
      disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving
      the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,
      and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A
      door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the
      figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of
      the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be
      crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now
      thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,
      at one and the same time, every individual portion of the
      Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the
      interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if
      ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the
      extreme.

      M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original
      position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a
      game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This
      challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the
      antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’
      side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from
      obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this
      table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them
      generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess
      board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares
      painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the
      exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom
      the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the
      Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking
      also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he
      arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now
      proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of
      keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,
      winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the
      left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now
      commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of
      the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not
      finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist
      still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has
      seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is
      the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.
      It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his
      own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at
      the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as
      the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the
      Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the
      antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the
      representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary
      that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.
      He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the
      chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,
      on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the
      Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is
      occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and
      to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.
      He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to
      induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are
      more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,
      mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,
      he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the
      spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.

      The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm
      are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved
      and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the
      piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers
      receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,
      however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,
      the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this
      occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its
      movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if
      the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot
      whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its
      cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton
      pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard
      in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and
      then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,
      and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a
      false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box
      with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and
      replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,
      assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves
      his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon
      the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,
      suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,
      the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game
      being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism
      of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then
      rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.

      There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the
      Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion
      too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,
      was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was
      employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine
      and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter
      himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means
      operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke
      confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall
      say nothing at present more than we have already said. In
      relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we
      have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,
      and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to
      any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The
      supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were
      the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would
      disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will
      suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box
      during the whole of the exhibition.

      The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at
      least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,
      was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The
      author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the
      machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the
      opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow
      cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among
      the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of
      the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When
      the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body
      within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the
      machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the
      door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being
      then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says
      the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within
      any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too
      obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and
      accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.

      In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in
      which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.
      Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated
      by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught
      boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could
      be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the
      chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the
      evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly
      than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,
      and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the
      wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by
      suffering a close examination of the top of the box.

      These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others
      equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a
      course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to
      blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it
      altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a
      Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled
      “An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”
      This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet
      to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural
      Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and
      satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are
      undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for
      Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory
      explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very
      cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,
      made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite
      impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the
      adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross
      misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference
      employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as
      we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute
      explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many
      pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so
      shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,
      concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one
      part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the
      mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can
      be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently
      endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of
      this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the
      box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,
      however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in
      which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of
      the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in
      the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made
      to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived
      at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is
      managed, it is of course concealed at every step from
      observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be
      effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are
      actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods
      by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the
      one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.
      But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the
      partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether
      unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of
      proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the
      wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the
      necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,
      with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the
      pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the
      author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to
      show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the
      observation of the spectators.

      In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,
      in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are
      effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the
      nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our
      result.

      It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,
      that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the
      exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from
      which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the
      first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes
      round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the
      back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.
      He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to
      the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he
      opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays
      the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main
      compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he
      now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the
      main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is
      observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before
      the drawer.

      Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into
      the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His
      body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.
      (the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip
      _en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as
      occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the
      main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man
      within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye
      cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness
      within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the
      cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the
      cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were
      there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back
      door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought
      his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it
      altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,
      however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.
      Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This
      being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not
      resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as
      to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the
      person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly
      occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of
      the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the
      machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied
      by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty
      to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its
      back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators
      are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to
      view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same
      time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the
      space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the
      front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in
      shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine
      around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in
      his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,
      brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the
      doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up
      into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above
      the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats
      himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is
      seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.
      In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the
      Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast
      he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm
      and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just
      beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily
      reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his
      right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and
      eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound
      _echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and
      actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this
      mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the
      machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of
      about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the
      spectators’ right) of the main compartment.

      In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have
      purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the
      partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended
      that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism
      within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected
      in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,
      however performed, it is performed out of the view of the
      spectators. Our result is founded upon the following
      _observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of
      Maelzel. {*5}

      I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of
      time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the
      antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in
      all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily
      brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the
      antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the
      moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals
      longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when
      regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that
      regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other
      words, that the Automaton is not a _pure machine._

      2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion
      is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion
      agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of
      the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two
      seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any
      instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.
      Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding
      move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the
      Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,
      until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.
      Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself
      begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an
      error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of
      the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the
      motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel
      has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move
      corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,
      that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did
      not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the
      antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.

      This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in
      performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the
      Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,
      2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who
      sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not
      regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards
      the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.

      3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the
      machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always
      win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be
      made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same
      principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would
      enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game
      of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one
      that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in
      the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the
      operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.
      If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,
      (what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving
      it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more
      absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would
      afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure
      machine—the very argument we now adduce.

      4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we
      never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.
      It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so
      circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would
      be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of
      the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in
      meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted
      these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions
      proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But
      the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies
      precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When
      engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of
      setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are
      moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,
      he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head
      shake and the eyes roll.

      5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an
      examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is
      lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the
      interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In
      scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,
      that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,
      it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed
      their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted
      for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent
      examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were
      attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The
      introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been
      intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their
      operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must
      necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at
      once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to
      the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to
      give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the
      direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure
      machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its
      mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose
      of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous
      of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the
      _simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were
      brought about.

      6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of
      the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but
      very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no
      ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human
      face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll
      unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the
      lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in
      an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.
      Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do
      better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of
      the question, when we consider that the whole time of the
      ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his
      machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like
      appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata
      are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and
      peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The
      rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,
      his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the
      features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate
      expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so
      entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,
      that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the
      fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous
      to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to
      convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata
      were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.
      Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he
      intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same
      artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt
      also through design) originally made it. What this design was it
      is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its
      motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its
      operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)
      than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey
      the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.

      7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,
      the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in
      any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a
      system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,
      that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,
      cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or
      any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same
      as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the
      operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of
      exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.

      8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the
      Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the
      same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the
      Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,
      are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a
      pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it
      is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure
      machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could
      there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,
      than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the
      other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be
      of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,
      than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will
      naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this
      thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,
      although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,
      indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to
      represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the
      more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a
      consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of
      his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his
      words may.

      9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has
      thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind
      it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned
      above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of
      convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled
      with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be
      apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of
      the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and
      unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very
      slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This
      circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more
      remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily
      slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should
      require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when
      the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position
      upon the closing of the back door.

      10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the
      size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.
      Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The
      body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no
      means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer
      ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake
      may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as
      is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,
      to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,
      his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of
      the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a
      sitting position.

      11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely
      three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two
      feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for
      the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and
      the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man
      in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person
      concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may
      prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon
      them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is
      apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the
      spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it
      when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very
      thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those
      who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about
      three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the
      exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be
      included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make
      the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are
      referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress
      the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can
      be accommodated within the box.

      12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with
      _cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A
      portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only
      partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the
      changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the
      rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,
      and the partition between the main compartment, and the space
      behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,
      the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if
      indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any
      circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to
      deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the
      movements of the person within.

      13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered
      to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some
      distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would
      be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,
      is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would
      intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude
      the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be
      easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or
      by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The
      true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were
      the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would
      be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick
      car, the breathings of the man concealed.

      14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the
      machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we
      have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so
      _deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,
      he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never
      opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of
      cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first
      pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first
      shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of
      cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of
      chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now
      if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.
      Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary
      to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible
      arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes
      infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that
      he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does
      _so _deviate as to falsify the solution.

      15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during
      exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many
      employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have
      been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of
      the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition
      room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure
      machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed
      any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and
      when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table
      of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that
      so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see
      through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which
      the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the
      arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents
      itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.
      Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote
      from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about
      two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches
      shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from
      the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio
      different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on
      one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on
      the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the
      candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of
      ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against
      which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by
      the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the
      rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of
      radiation all upon different levels.

      16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,
      it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the
      suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game
      at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken
      seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.
      This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,
      although all others of the suite played well. Similar
      observations have been made since the Automaton has been
      purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends
      him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other
      than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the
      automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable
      stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or
      not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he
      is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,
      although frequently visible just before and just after the
      exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond
      with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house
      now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er
      was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no
      exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to
      many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of
      the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of
      _Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without
      farther comment, to the reader.

      17. The Turk plays with his _left_ arm. A circumstance so
      remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it
      whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the
      fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not
      to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.
      The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,
      but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is
      obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as
      this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall
      lead us to the truth.

      The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand
      cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,
      considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would
      cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left
      arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the
      right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human
      organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in
      the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right
      and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally
      refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this
      peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine
      some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man
      _would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of
      themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few
      more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The
      Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other
      circumstances could the man within play with his right—a
      _desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the
      Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery
      which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie
      just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man
      within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and
      awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly
      compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or
      else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither
      case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the
      contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the
      left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man
      within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,
      without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the
      figure.

      We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged
      against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.




THE POWER OF WORDS


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

      AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is
      to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge 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 be happy in being
      cognizant of all.

      AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the
      acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever
      blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.

      OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?

      AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one
      thing unknown even to Him.

      OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last
      all things be known?

      AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force
      the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep
      slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual
      vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden
      walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining
      bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?

      OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no
      dream.

      AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered
      that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford
      infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to
      know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench
      it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my
      Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left
      the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the
      throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies
      and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and
      triple-tinted suns.

      OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me
      in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted
      to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during
      mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to
      say that the Creator is not God?

      AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

      OINOS. Explain.

      AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures
      which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing
      into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,
      not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative
      power.

      OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered
      heretical in the extreme.

      AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

      OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of
      what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain
      conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of
      creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there
      were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what
      some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of
      animalculæ.

      AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of
      the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which
      has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the
      first law.

      OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of
      nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these
      stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?

      AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to
      the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought
      can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our
      hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in
      so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.
      This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to
      every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for
      ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the
      mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special
      effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the
      subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine
      in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle
      the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere
      circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a
      given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
      the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the
      results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw
      that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through
      the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of
      the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this
      species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for
      indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its
      advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him
      who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians
      paused.

      OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

      AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest
      beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of
      infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the
      algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in
      tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the
      air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote
      epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse
      given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing
      that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite
      understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the
      remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in
      their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and
      onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other
      words, in their creation of new—until he found them
      reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the
      Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any
      epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these
      numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he
      could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
      retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power
      of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this
      faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is
      of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety
      of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself
      exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.

      OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

      AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;
      but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the
      ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is
      thus the great medium of creation.

      OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

      AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the
      source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—

      OINOS. God.

      AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair
      Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of
      the Earth.

      OINOS. You did.

      AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind
      some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an
      impulse on the air?

      OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your
      wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the
      greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our
      flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its
      fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.

      AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three
      centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at
      the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate
      sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of
      all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions
      of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.




THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA


Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._
     “These things are in the near future.”

      _ Una._ “Born again?”

      _ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These
      were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
      pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until
      Death himself resolved for me the secret.

      _Una._ Death!

      _Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,
      too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes.
      You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the
      Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how
      singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror
      to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!

      _Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How
      often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
      nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
      bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!” That earnest
      mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms—how
      vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first
      up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its
      strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of
      that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus,
      in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy
      then.

      _Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine,
      forever now!

      _ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I
      have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
      burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark
      Valley and Shadow.

      _ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos
      in vain? I will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall
      the weird narrative begin?

      _Una._ At what point?

      _Monos._ You have said.

      _Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
      propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
      then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence
      with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you,
      you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed
      down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.

      _ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general
      condition at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the
      wise among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in the
      world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term
      “improvement,” as applied to the progress of our civilization.
      There were periods in each of the five or six centuries
      immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous
      intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth
      appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly
      obvious—principles which should have taught our race to submit to
      the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their
      control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking
      upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in
      the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that
      intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of
      all—since those truths which to us were of the most enduring
      importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in
      proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason
      bears no weight—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a
      step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the
      philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the
      tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a
      distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the
      infant condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—living and
      perishing amid the scorn of the “utilitarians”—of rough pedants,
      who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been
      properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets,
      pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when
      our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days
      when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was
      happiness—holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers ran
      undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes,
      primæval, odorous, and unexplored.

      Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to
      strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most
      evil of all our evil days. The great “movement”—that was the cant
      term—went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the
      Arts—arose supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the
      intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could
      not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish
      exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her
      elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an
      infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the
      origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with
      abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other
      odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the
      face of analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning voice
      of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
      Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy
      were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading
      evil—Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime
      huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank
      before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was
      deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And
      methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and
      of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it
      appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the
      perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its
      culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that
      taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle position between
      the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely have
      been disregarded—it was now that taste alone could have led us
      gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the
      pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas
      for the μουσικη which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
      education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since both were
      most desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or
      despised. {*1}

      Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
      truly!—“que tout notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au
      sentiment;” and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
      natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old
      ascendancy over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But
      this thing was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of
      knowledge the old age of the world drew on. This the mass of
      mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected
      not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to
      look for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. I had
      imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the
      simple and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the
      astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent
      mother of all Arts. In history {*2} 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 {*3} which alone could efface
      its rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the
      verdure and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of
      Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for
      man:—for man the Death purged—for man to whose now exalted
      intellect there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
      redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still for
      the material, man.

      _Una._ Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but
      the epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we
      believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely warrant
      us in believing. Men lived; and died individually. You yourself
      sickened, and passed into the grave; and thither your constant
      Una speedily followed you. And though the century which has since
      elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus together once more,
      tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of duration,
      yet, my Monos, it was a century still.

      _Monos._ Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity.
      Unquestionably, it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied
      at heart with anxieties which had their origin in the general
      turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some
      few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with
      ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while
      I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after some days there
      came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
      torpor; and this was termed Death by those who stood around me.

      Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of
      sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the
      extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and
      profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer
      noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the
      mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by
      external disturbances.

      I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased
      to beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses
      were unusually active, although eccentrically so—assuming often
      each other’s functions at random. The taste and the smell were
      inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and
      intense. The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened
      my lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
      flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old
      Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The
      eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered no complete
      impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls
      could not roll in their sockets but all objects within the range
      of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
      distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or
      into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than
      those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the
      former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I
      appreciated it only as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the
      matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in
      shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at the same
      time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in
      action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision,
      not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification
      more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but
      pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest
      physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon
      my eyelids, at first only recognised through vision, at length,
      long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual
      delight immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
      perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the
      passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree wrought
      into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain there was some
      little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or pleasure
      none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear with all
      their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every
      variation of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no
      more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the
      sorrows which gave them birth; while the large and constant tears
      which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which
      broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
      this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders spoke
      reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with loud
      cries.

      They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark figures which
      flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
      vision they affected me as forms; but upon passing to my side
      their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and
      other dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of wo. You
      alone, habited in a white robe, passed in all directions
      musically about me.

      The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed
      by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when
      sad real sounds fall continuously within his ear—low distant
      bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal intervals, and mingling
      with melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a
      heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the oppression of
      some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a moaning
      sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more
      continuous, which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown
      in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into
      the room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted
      into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary
      and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great
      measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp, (for
      there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain
      of melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the
      bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side,
      breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my
      brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with
      the merely physical sensations which circumstances had called
      forth, a something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that, half
      appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and sorrow; but
      this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and seemed
      indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away,
      first into extreme quiescence, and then into a purely sensual
      pleasure as before.

      And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
      appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
      exercise I found a wild delight—yet a delight still physical,
      inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the
      animal frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve
      thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up
      in the brain, that of which no words could convey to the merely
      human intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it
      a mental pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of
      man’s abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization of this
      movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the firmamental
      orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the
      irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches
      of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The
      slightest deviations from the true proportion—and these
      deviations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of
      abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense.
      Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the
      individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty
      in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective
      momentary errors of each. And this—this keen, perfect,
      self-existing sentiment of duration—this sentiment existing (as
      man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently
      of any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense,
      upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and
      certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of the
      temporal Eternity.

      It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had
      departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the
      coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the
      tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these
      strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they
      ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my
      vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself
      from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my
      frame, and was followed by total loss of the idea of contact. All
      of what man has termed sense was merged in the sole consciousness
      of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration. The
      mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the
      deadly Decay.

      Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and
      the sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a
      lethargic intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in
      operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware
      of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una,
      I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the
      noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those
      movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me
      within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse, which
      bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped
      heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
      and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.

      And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose,
      there rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched
      narrowly each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record
      of its flight—without effort and without object.

      A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more
      indistinct, and that of mere locality had, in great measure,
      usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in
      that of place. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had
      been the body, was now growing to be the body itself. At length,
      as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is
      Death imaged)—at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the
      deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into
      awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams—so to me, in the
      strict embrace of the Shadow came that light which alone might
      have had power to startle—the light of enduring Love. Men toiled
      at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp
      earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of
      Una.

      And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been
      extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into
      quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had returned to
      dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length
      utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead—instead of all
      things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats Place and Time. For
      that which was not—for that which had no form—for that which had
      no thought—for that which had no sentience—for that which was
      soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion—for all this
      nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave was still a
      home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.




THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION


Πυρ σοι προσοισω.
     I will bring fire to thee.
                    —EURIPIDES—_Androm._

      EIROS.
      Why do you call me Eiros?

      CHARMION.
      So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too,
      my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.

      EIROS.
      This is indeed no dream!

      CHARMION.
      Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I
      rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational. The film of
      the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart and
      fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired and,
      to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and
      wonders of your novel existence.

      EIROS.
      True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the
      terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
      rushing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my
      senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their
      perception of the new.

      CHARMION.
      A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and
      feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what
      you undergo—yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have
      now suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in
      Aidenn.

      EIROS.
      In Aidenn?

      CHARMION.
      In Aidenn.

      EIROS.
      Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of
      all things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future
      merged in the august and certain Present.

      CHARMION.
      Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of
      this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the
      exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward—but
      back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that
      stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us
      converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the
      world which has so fearfully perished.

      EIROS.
      Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream.

      CHARMION.
      Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?

      EIROS.
      Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there
      hung a cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your
      household.

      CHARMION.
      And that last hour—speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked
      fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out
      from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—at that
      period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you
      was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the
      speculative philosophy of the day.

      EIROS.
      The individual calamity was as you say entirely unanticipated;
      but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion
      with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even
      when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in
      the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of
      all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of the earth
      alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin,
      speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical
      knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors of
      flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well
      established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites
      of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either
      in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had
      long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
      tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
      substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was
      not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets
      were accurately known. That among them we should look for the
      agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many
      years considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild
      fancies had been, of late days, strangely rife among mankind;
      and, although it was only with a few of the ignorant that actual
      apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a
      new comet, yet this announcement was generally received with I
      know not what of agitation and mistrust.

      The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and
      it was at once conceded by all observers, that its path, at
      perihelion, would bring it into very close proximity with the
      earth. There were two or three astronomers, of secondary note,
      who resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I cannot
      very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon the
      people. For a few short days they would not believe an assertion
      which their intellect so long employed among worldly
      considerations could not in any manner grasp. But the truth of a
      vitally important fact soon makes its way into the understanding
      of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical
      knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was
      not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of very
      unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
      perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material
      increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration
      in its color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were
      discarded and all interests absorbed in a growing discussion,
      instituted by the philosophic, in respect to the cometary nature.
      Even the grossly ignorant aroused their sluggish capacities to
      such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect—their
      soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the
      sustenance of loved theory. They sought—they panted for right
      views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose in the
      purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed
      down and adored.

      That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would
      result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly
      lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely
      permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was
      demonstrated, that the density of the comet’s nucleus was far
      less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a
      similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point
      strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror.
      Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the
      biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a
      directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been
      known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought
      about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
      enforced every where conviction; and that the comets were of no
      fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved
      all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great
      calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices
      and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors which
      were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet—were now
      altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion,
      reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The
      feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.

      What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of
      elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological
      disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and
      consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic and electric
      influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would
      in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on,
      their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent
      diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as
      it came. All human operations were suspended.

      There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when
      the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
      previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
      lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all
      the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was
      gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
      within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge
      even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no
      longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its
      historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a
      hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical
      phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and
      a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable
      rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame,
      extending from horizon to horizon.

      Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear
      that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we
      lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity
      of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was
      apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through
      it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we
      gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight
      of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown
      before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.

      Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was
      now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change
      had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild
      signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of
      pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and
      an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that
      our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this
      atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be
      subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of
      investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror
      through the universal heart of man.

      It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a
      compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of
      twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in
      every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the
      principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely
      necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most
      powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the
      contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or
      flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
      ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we
      had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of
      the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a
      total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,
      all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;—the entire fulfilment,
      in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
      horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy
      Book.

      Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of
      mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired
      us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In
      its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the
      consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away
      with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid
      modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously
      through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all
      men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening
      heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the
      destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I
      speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
      moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and
      penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before
      the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a
      shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM;
      while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed,
      burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose
      surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the
      high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.




SHADOW—A PARABLE


Yea, though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow._
                    —_Psalm of David_.

      Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall
      have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For
      indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known,
      and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen
      of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and
      some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in
      the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

      The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense
      than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many
      prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea
      and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad.
      To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown
      that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek
      Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the
      alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at
      the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the
      red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the
      skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only
      in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations,
      and meditations of mankind.

      Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a
      noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a
      company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save
      by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the
      artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened
      from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut
      out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless
      streets—but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be
      so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can
      render no distinct account—things material and
      spiritual—heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense of
      suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that terrible state of
      existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly
      living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie
      dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs—upon
      the household furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and
      all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all things save
      only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel.
      Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus
      remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror
      which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which
      we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own
      countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
      companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way—which
      was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are madness;
      and drank deeply—although the purple wine reminded us of blood.
      For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of
      young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the
      genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in
      our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague,
      and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
      of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment
      as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to
      die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed
      were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the
      bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the
      depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice
      the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they
      ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable
      draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and
      so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the
      sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and
      undefined shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
      might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
      neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And
      quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length
      rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But
      the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the
      shadow neither of man nor of God—neither God of Greece, nor God
      of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the
      brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the
      door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became
      stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
      was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young
      Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen
      the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not
      steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually
      into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos,
      speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and
      its appellation. And the shadow answered, “I am SHADOW, and my
      dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those
      dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian
      canal.” And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
      horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the
      tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one
      being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their
      cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in
      the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand
      departed friends.