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THE LIBRARY 


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THE early editions of the sibel works of the late jy 
Edgar A. Poe not only show many curious variations of | 
text in poems which he pretended afterwards to re-| 
print “verbatim et literatim,” but contain whole poems 
which are not to be found in the current editions of his 
writings. His first publication, ‘‘ Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, 
and Minor Poems ” (Baltimore: Hatch & Dunning, 1829), |! 
a quarto pamphlet of seventy-one pages, has among the 
‘*Minor Poems” two or three with which the general 
reader is unacquainted. Here is one on page 65: 


SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. 


I. 
Thy soul shall find itself alone 

*Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone— 
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 

Into thine hour of secrecy: 


) i 
Be silent in that solitude 

: Which is not loneliness—for then 

The spirits of the dead who stood 
Pa In life before thee are again’ 
In death around thee—and their will 
P Shall overshadow thee: be still. 

TT 
The night—tho’ clear—shall frown— 
.. And the stars shall not look down, 
; ? From their high thrones in the Heaven, 
j 


With light like Hope to mortals given— 
But their red orbs, without beam, 

4 To thy weariness shall seem 

As a burning and a fever 

Which would cling to thee for ever: 


Iv. > 
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— 
Now are visions ne’er to vanish— 
From thy spirits shall they pass 
No more—like dew-drops from the grass: 


v. 
_.* . The breeze—the breath of God—is still— 
~ And the mist upon the hill 
Shadowy—shadowy— yet unbroken, 
Is a symbol and a token— 
How it hangs upon the trees, 
A mystery of mysteries! 


— 


5 Fe ‘On page 68 may be found the following : 


¢ 


Pal 


I v PLT, sis ye Ry. 8 ; 
In.~ ard & the report of the reoeks« death of ai 
sister of Kdgar Allan Poe, a Baltimora corresponiient : 
of the Boston Journal wrtes: ‘* Rosalie Mackenzie ' 
Poe, the only sister of the poet, resided tn my famtly | 
for some years. At the breaking out of the War she 
was with her foster mother, Mrs. Mackenzie, near 
Richmond, Va., one of the wealthiest and most prom- 
inent families of Virginia. When the war closed she 
came to Baltimore in deplorable circumstances. The 
war had reduced the circumsiances of the Mackenzie 
family so as (0 preveni them from further providing 
for her. Having relaiives here with whom she couid 
Siay, she was co.unfortably provided for by these rel- 
auve3. She remained soing years, and becoming 
aissatisfied returned to Richmond, Va. Her stay was 
very brief, She returned again to Bakimore, and 
Was welzomed among her relatives, and was for a 
long (imoe a member of tne wriie.’3 family. Her 
oealth faiiing, she being about 67 years of age, she 
was prevaled upon by .riepds and relatives to acceps 
a lifetime home inthe Epiphany Church home at 

-| Wasbington city. Sae consented, and ihe nee@essary |! 
money v.as pald to tbe hone and "sbe became an in- 
mate. Tuer2 soe resided un:il ber death, which oc- 
curred in August, 1874, at tbe age of 60, and ts buried 
ai Washington in the grave-yaru of the home.’? 

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70S 


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THE WORKS 


OF THE LATE 


EDGAR ALLAN POE: 


NOTICES OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 


BY 


N. P. WILLIS, J. R. LOWELL, AND R. W. GRISWOLD, 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 


VOL. II. 
POEMS AND MISCELLANIES. 


NEW YORK: 
J. 8S. REDFIELD, CLINTON HALL. 
1850. 


ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
J. S. REDFIELD, 


in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court, for the Southern District 
of New York. 


JUN 28 'STA ui sse il 


U OF M BInNueRY JUN 8 64 


PREFACE TO THE POEMS. 


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

E. A. P. 


t 


CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 


PAPO PL 


PREFACE TO THE POEMB)ié 06.4655 5b 0000d0e6oe0n ce eedesseceseuce. il 
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TENOR E56 sis viclcae Gews e ae sdeeaceune LidCGe Mie, Meee nietawesee. Le 
TIVO joes peieein mmo cates One oa sibel as aud anaea Ooxetousen 168 
Pe VALENTIN ac-b so Ddida Goes Vie eRS Rw KORA Chew a awe bees eee 
THE COUIGEUM cy tosis Se sieis Gk Ke ie a wae ade Bw a iat eee teases’. 10 
To HELeEn,...... ee eee ere rer es emiaa ioe aut ‘agae AT 
LO! a wae cae seeds mel aaine eee eens awvens 19 
UW UREOME oo oiteen cite Se caticeus as ates wile teehee eels Saawiewtars Sebastes 20 
THe BELLs,..... aa ok GS wae aie Baye Sie wis Se en ee ee eee seea 28 
AN ENIGMA,..... cc cccccecace CiSewsecciwie ceases SVs cisees eu. (20 
ANNABEL LEE,.......0.000- ease Skea e Oauce ad Selees oubas ee er 27 
To My Moruer,....... Ee es eT eee wand eaeke gates 28 
Tae Hauntep Patacg,...... e bieiea dt Osten or ee ee ere acca eeraN 29 
THE CONQUEROR WORM,.....cccccccecscecce Pate ste cs seteives oo 


To One mm PARADISE,.......0000: oeewss sala a wtetaeeiae are Leeeee wer 33 
Tue VALLEY oF UNREST,.......... bea maaaes saehee ews ceva O4 
Tne: CITY IN THE SEAji 6 oie ss Ss os des atass earet a Siew iva Kenweke 35 
Tue SLEEPER, ..... 20000. Ee ee re ere mere ete ee Jen. “OT 
SILENCE, .....0000. OT i eee reer re eee Miveeeee: OF 
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BRIDAL BALLAD, oii ooh ho ote es ota ete Retna ee es 5 wearers ee 52 
Ph se crac even dey wee webs BOS Ste eNs Uw a Wee See ae ee er eate 53 
DCENES FaOM>“ VOLITIAN, 44k asteaa ted Gedeid siewseis satel eekes 54 
Sonnet—To SciENck,...... B28 Boge dich ates eoree sicastoe eae Sawenaeey. 4a 
AL AARAAF,... 6. Sutil elena trae re See re eee 78 
To tue River itkaruews MEG Tae Koa Sweatt wk otek ee 95 
WAMERLAN Ey ccd sen Sse cee seed wasaw awe Ee ee er mee Te Ue iéeas. 706 
To Cou ata. bate eS wae wae laa inte igs Wenger ai © eta Grea nla acs Meee ere ae 104 
A. DREAMS ids eees acewre oe eee SG tamaete oe GUase AG ek aw ae eee 105 
ROMANCE a:é- sae waeuwawersac sows esata Bi dicate: ws Beata carder be Ae eee 106 
HAIRY: AND, oGsciutaded sodebed ala kee is Kira Shi ow arpa alae ear agra 107 
THe LakE—To ——,....... aeusia se weow baie cities «eeu sien ee 109 
WONG sinh :c.cereate eae eereaee sine aa caemes ee ee (actecewde- FLO 
To ML. Bieksd cde tewete hese Gade Me he eaien Suissa ene tends 111 
PURER @viacves h.ecos0s wares se einShete veiw wlite se hie wen berth eee aee 114 
RatTIONALE OF VERSE,....... diese dene onus Sue ge Bee ela ele ees i Rewie's 215 
PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION,......eee06 ee eee ee Ce ea A) 
Power oF WORDS, ......00-+e0- balk Siatee ale NaC wae Sena als Seas 271 
Tue CoLLoquy oF Monos AND UNA,......cccccccccccoccccsceccee 276 
Tue CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION,......ccsececccccsecse 286 
DHADO Wa og sae ec oe BO eo hes wou eee ee eos Chee ee ean 282 
SILENCE.) gs oa a dowels Wwe seen we ugea dan we ewe ated cee meso 200 
PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE) 6606 6.44:36s00 ees 8 6ds Sse Z5 66a we ESS 299 
A. TACE OF 6) BRUSAEEM, <u ieals cs Mau sel iste d See eo Oa eS eee oa O08 


A TALE or THE RaGGED MOounrAINS,.......+.0000- sea anla Maree eee 


THe SPECTACLES,........000- Re ee ee ee re rt ae ere ee 322 
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THE OBLONG BOX, }. sii eiaxcwrntndns 8 Ow ae wd a ee wae errs See wae oe ee eu 351 
KING PEST se Sek eases eee wees Sh lative ana occu aw ea teaiee eee Pr ee 
THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK,.....cceccccsccces eee ere aetee- 010 
(THE DEViL-IN THE BELERY; 2 fo0kk 4 v0s bu ea eees eis oeteees aan 883 
LIONIZING,.. 2.00005 ciiopieteks aan eeen eta peewee aed ene ies 892 
Tue MAN OF THE CROWD,.......ccccseccee snake ea orl aaa ada .-. 398 
Never Bet tHe Devi, Your HEap,.......... Sieh areas eer re ee 408 
THou ABT THE Man,............ eaceares sud ialb waa wins cect eadave ees 418 
THE SSEHINS, oo oatcsdsoeueeoaees en re gee are eee iets otek 433 
Some WorDS WITH A Mummy,. ee -avGyeacbii aed ula alana oe tid’a eee wee 438 
Hop-FRoc,.......... Widsivid ecu avvide etry ete ane AM aee We eatk Oa wens ea wee 455 
Four Beasts In ONE; THE HOMO CAMELEOPARD,......00.ccceeeeees 465 
Way THE LitrLtE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING,........ 473 
BON BON 44.5 siaiine tS chines seu bau eens wacaw aw esa teas Sniiwoewe 219 


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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE RAVEN. - 


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


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ;—vainly I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 
Nameless here for evermore. 


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
“Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— 
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is and nothing more.” 


8 THE RAVEN. 


Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the 
door ; 


Darkness there and nothing more. 


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 
fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 
before; ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “ Le- 
nore $” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “ Le- 
nore |”— 

Merely this and nothing more. 


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


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 


ie, Se, gee SO, | i i ee 


THE RAVEN. ' . 9 


“ Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “ art sure 
no craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly 
shore— 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore !” 
Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 


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


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


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is its only stock and store 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Yollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of ‘ Never—nevermore.’ ” 


But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 
door ; | 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
1* 


10 THE RAVEN, 


Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 
yore 
Meant in croaking “ Nevermore.” 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 
censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels 
he hath sent thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore !” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 


“Prophet !” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil :— 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— 

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implure— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead ?—tell me—tell me, I implore !” 
Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 


“Prophet!” said I, “ thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both 
adore— 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

- It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 


—— a a, Giip.,. Ia aa | ee, , mee eee, Oe eS ee 


THE RAVEN. 11 


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shricked, 


upstarting — 

“Get thee back into the sembess and the Night’s Plutonian 
shore ! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 
spoken ! 


Leave my loneliness unbroken !—quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 
my door !” 
Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 


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


12 “LENORE. 


LENORE. 


Au, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever ! 

Let the bell toll !—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river ; 

And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear ?—weep now or never 
more ! 

See ! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore ! 

Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung !— 

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— 

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. 


‘‘ Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her 
pride, | 

‘‘ And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she 
died! | 

“ How shall the ritual, then, be read ?—the requiem how be sung 

‘‘By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous 
tongue 

‘‘ That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young ?” 


Peccavimus ; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song 

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! 

The sweet Lenore hath “ gone before,’’ with Hope, that flew 
beside, 

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy 
bride— _ 


HYMN. ~ 18 


For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, 
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— 
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. 


‘¢ Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, 

‘ But waft the angel on her flight with a Pan of old days! 

“Let no bell toll !—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, 

‘Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd 
Earth. 

“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is 
riven— 

‘¢From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— 

‘‘From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of 
Heaven.” 


HYMN. 


AT morn—at noon—at twilight dim— 
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! 
In joy and wo—in good and ill— 
Mother of God, be with me still! 
When the Hours flew brightly by, 
And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
My soul, lest it should truant be, 

Thy grace did guide to thine and thee ; 
Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast 
Darkly my Present and my Past, 

Let my Future radiant shine 

With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 


14 * A VALENTINE. 


A VALENTINE. 


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


[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line 
in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third 
letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the 
end. The name will thus appear. | 


THE COLISEUM. 


THE COLISEUM. 


Tyre of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 

By buried centuries of pomp and power! 

At length—at length—after so many days 

Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) 
I kneel, an altered and an humble man, 

Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 

My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! 


Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! 
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! 

I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— 
O spells more sure than e’er Judean king 
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 


O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee a 


Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! 


Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! 

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! 

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! 
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, 
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, 


15 


THE COLISEUM. 


Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon, 
The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 


But stay ! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— 

These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— 
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— 

These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— 

These stones—alas ! these gray stones—are they all— 

All of the famed, and the colossal left 

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 


“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“ not all ! 
‘‘ Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 
‘From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, 

‘‘ As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 

“ We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule 
“ With a despotic sway all giant minds. 

“We are not impotent—we pallid stones, 

Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— 
“ Not all the magic of our high renown— 

“‘ Not all the wonder that encircles us— 

‘¢ Not all the mysteries that in us lie— 

“ Not all the memories that hang upon 

“ And cling around about us as a garment, 

“ Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.” 


TO HELEN. 17 


TO HELEN. 


PPL LIAS: 


I saw thee once—once only—years ago: 

I must not say how many—but not many. 

It was a July midnight; and from out 

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, 
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 
Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand 

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— 

. Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses 

That gave out, in return for the love-light, 

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— 

Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses 

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. 


Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 

I saw thee half reclining; while the moon 
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, 

And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow ! 


Was it not Fate, that, on this J uly lait k 
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) 
That bade me pause before that garden-gate, 

To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses 
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, 

Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven !—oh, God! 
How my heart beats in coupling those two words !) 
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— 
And in an instant all things disappeared. 

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 


TO HELEN. 


The pearly lustre of the moon went out: 

The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 
The happy flowers and the repining trees, 

Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors 

Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 

All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: 
Save only the divine light in thine eyes— 

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 

I saw but them—they were the world to me. 

I saw but them—saw only them for hours— 
Saw only them until the moon went down. 
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten 
Upon those crvstalline, celestial spheres ! 

How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! 
How silently serene a sea of pride! 

How daring an ambition! yet how deep— 
How fathomless a capacity for love! 


But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, 
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; 

And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst glide way. Only thine eyes remained. 
They would not go—they never yct have gone. 
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 


They follow me—they lead me through the years. 


They are my ministers—yet I their slave. 

Their office is to illumine and enkindle— 

My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 

And purified in their electric fire, 

And sanctified in their elysian fire. 

They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) 


' And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to 


In the sad, silent watches of my night; 
While even in the meridian glare of day 
I see them still—two sweetly scintillant 
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! 


TO — —. 19 


Os eae 


PPP APO SA. 


Nort long ago, the writer of these lines, 

In the mad pride of intellectuality, 

Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever 
A thought arose within the human brain 

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: 

And now, as if in mockery of that boast, 

Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables— 

Italian tones, made only to be murmured 

By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew 

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”— 
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, 
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, 
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, 

(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”) 
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. 
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. 
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, 
I cannot write—I cannot speak or think— 

Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling, 

This standing motionless upon the golden 

Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, 

Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, 

And thrilling as I see, upon the night, 

Upon the left, and all the way along, 

Amid unpurpled vapors, far away 

To where the prospect terminates—thee only. 


ULALUME. 


ULALUME. 


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


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


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


ULALUME. 21 


And now, as the night was senescent 
And star-dials pointed to morn— 
As the star-dials hinted of morn— 
At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn— 
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent 
Distinct with its duplicate horn. 


And I said—“ She is warmer than Dian: 
She rolls through an ether of sighs— 
She revels in a region of sighs: 

She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 

And has come past the stars of the Lion 
To point us the path to the skies— . 
To the Lethean peace of the skies— 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
To shine on us with her bright eyes— 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes.” 


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


I replied—* This is nothing but dreaming : 
Let us on by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 


to 
to 


ULALUME. 


Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 

With Hope and in Beauty to-night :— 

See !—it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 

And be sure it will lead us aright— 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 

That cannot but guide us aright, 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.” 


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


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


THE BELLS. 


THE BELLS. 


I. 


Hear the sledges with the bells— 
Silver bells ! 


What a world of merriment their melody foretells! . 


How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
II. 
Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delicht! 
From the molten-golden notes, 
And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 


24 THE BELLS. 


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


THE BELLS. 25 


Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
Iv. 
Hear the tolling of the bells— 
Tron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people—ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone— 
They are neither man nor woman— 
They are neither brute nor human— 
They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A pean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pzan of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, - 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the pxan of the bells— 
Of the bells : 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 


To the throbbing of the bells— 
Vor. IL—2. 


26 


AN ENIGMA. 


Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the sobbing’ of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 


AN ENIGMA. 


PP PPP PPP PPP ID PDD LP PP 


““Setpom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce, 
Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. 
Throuzh all the flimsy things we see at once 
As easily as through a Naples bonnet— 
Trash of all trash !—how can a lady don it? 
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff— 
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff 
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.” 
And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
The general tuckermanities are arrant 
Bubbles—ephemeral and so transparent— 
But this is, now,—you may depend upon it— 
Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint 
Of the dear names that lie concealed within ’t. 


ANNABEL LEE. 


ANNABEL LEE. 


Ir was many and many a year ago, 
In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
By the name of AnnaBeEL LrE ; . 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. | 


I was a child and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea: 

But we loved with a love that was more than love— 
I and my ANNaBEL LEE; 

With a love that the winged ees of heaven 
Coveted her and me. 


And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful AnnaseL LEE; 

So that her highborn kinsman came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 


The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me— 

Yes !—that was the reason (as all men know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
Chilling and killmg my Annaset LEE. 


28 


TO MY MOTHER. 


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


For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful AnnaBEeL LEE; 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful AnNaBEL LEE; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 
In the sepulchre there by the sea, | | 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


TO MY MOTHER. 


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


THE HAUNTED PALACE. 


THE HAUNTED PALACE. 


ta ai 


In the greenest of our valleys 
By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace— 
Radiant palace—reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought’s dominion— 
It stood there ! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair! 


Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow, 
* (This—all this—was in the olden 

Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 
In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
A wingéd odour went away. 


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


30 


THE HAUNTED PALACE. 


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


But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
Assailed the monarch’s high estate. 
(Ah, let us mourn !—for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 


Of the old time entombed. 


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


THE CONQUEROR WORM. 


i 


THE CONQUEROR WORM. 


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


Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
Mutter and mumble low, 

And hither and thither fly— 
Mere puppets they, who come and go 

At bidding of vast formless things 
That shift the scenery to and fro, 


Flapping from out their Condor wings 
Invisible Wo! 


That motley drama—oh, be sure 
It shall not be forgot ! 

With its Phantom chased for evermore, 
By a crowd that seize it not, 

Through a circle that ever returneth in 
To the self-same spot, 

And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 
And Horror the soul of the plot. 


31 


82 


TO F— Ss. O—. 


But see, amid the mimic rout 
A crawling shape intrude ! 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
The scenic solitude ! 

It writhes !—it writhes !—with mortal pangs 
The mimes become its food, 

And the angels sob at vermin fangs 
In human gore imbued. 


Out—out are the lights—out all ! 
And, over each quivering form, . 
The curtain, a funeral pall, 
Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
' And the angels, all pallid and wan, 
Uprising, unveiling, afirm 
That the play is the tragedy, ‘“‘ Man,” 
And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 


TO F—=s S. O——d. 


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


TO ONE IN PARADISE. 33 


TO ONE IN PARADISE. 


PPL ALA AID 


TxHov wast that all to me, love, 
For which my soul did pine— 

A green isle in the sea, love, 
A fountain and a shrine, 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
And all the flowers were mine. 


Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
“On! on !’’—but o’er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast ! 


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


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


By what eternal streams 
Qe 


THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 


THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 


PO 


Once it smiled a silent dell 
Where the people did not dwell ; 
They had gone unto the wars, 
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
Nightly, from their azure towers, 


To keep watch above the flowers, 
In the midst of which all day 


The red sun-light lazily lay. 
Now each visiter shall confess 


The sad valley’s restlessness. - 
Nothing there is motionless— 


Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. : 
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebrides ! 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 
Uneasily, from morn till even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye— © 
Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless grave ! 

They wave :—from out their fragrant tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep :—from off their delicate stems 
Perennial tears descend in gems. 


THE CITY IN THE SEA. 


THE CITY IN THE SEA. 


Lo! Death has reared himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not !) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 


No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 

Streams up the turrets silently— 

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— 
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— 
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— 

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine 

The viol, the violet, and the vine. 


36 


THE CITY IN THE SEA. 


Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 


There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 
But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol’s diamond eye— 

Not the gaily-jewelled dead 

Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
For no ripples curl, alas! 

Along that wilderness of glass— 

No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea— 

No heavings hint that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 


But lo, a stir is in the air! 

The wave—there is a movement there ! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide— 

As if their tops had feebly given 

A void within the filmy Heaven. 

The waves have now a redder glow— 
The hours are breathing faint and low— 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence. 


THE SLEEPER. 


THE SLEEPER. 


At midnight, in the month of June, 

‘ I stand beneath the mystic moon. 

An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain top, 

Steals crowsily and musically 

Into the universal valley. 

The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 
The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest ; 
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake 

A conscious slumber seems to take, 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All Beauty sleeps !—and lo! where lies 
(Her casement open to the skies) 
Irene, with her Destinies ! 


Oh, lady bright! can it be right— 
This window open to the night ? 

The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
Laughingly through the lattice drop— 
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 

Flit through thy chamber in and out, 


"34 


88 


aA 


THE SLEEPER. 


And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully—-so fearfully— 

Above the closed and fringed lid 

’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, 
That, o’er the floor and down the wall, 
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! 
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 

Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, 

A wonder to these garden trees! 

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! 
Strange, above all, thy length of tress, 
And this all solemn silentness ! 


The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep! 

Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 

I pray to God that she may lie 

Forever with unopened eye, 


While the dim sheeted ghosts go by ! 


My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 
As it is lasting, so be deep! 

Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
Far in the forest, dim and old, 

For her may some tall vault unfold— 
Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
And winged pannels fluttering back, 
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls, . 

Of her grand family funerals— 

Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 


SILENCE, | 39 


Against whose portal she hath thrown, 

In childhood, many an idle stone— 

Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
She ne’er shall force an echo more, 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! 

It was the dead who groaned within. 


SILENCE. 


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


A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. 


A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. 


Take this kiss upon the brow ! 
And, in parting from you now, 
Thus much let me avow— 
You are not wrong, who deem 
That my days have been a dream ; 
Yet if hope has flown away. 
In a night, or in a day, 

In a vision, or in none, 

Is it therefore the less gone ? 
All that we see or seem 

Is but a dream within a dream. 


I stand amid the roar 

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

O God! can I not save 

One from the pitiless wave ? 
Is all that we see or seem 

But a dream within a dream ? 


DREAM-LAND. 41 


DREAM-LAND. 


By a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Nicut, 
On a black throne reigns upright, - 
I have reached these lands but newly 
From an ultimate dim Thule— 

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, 

Out of Space—out of Time. 


Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, 
With forms that no man can discover 
For the dews that drip all over ; 
Mountains toppling evermore 

Into seas without a shore ; 

Seas that restlessly aspire, 

Surging, unto skies of fire ; 

Lakes that endlessly outspread 

Their lone waters—lone and dead,— 
Their still waters—still and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily. 


By the lakes that thus outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead,— 


DREAM-LAND. 


Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily,— 
By the mountains—near the river 
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— 
By the grey woods,—by the swamp 
Where the toad and the newt encamp,— 
By the dismal tarns and pools 

Where dwell the Ghouls,— 
By each spot the most unhol y— 
In each nook most melancholy,— 
There the traveller meets aghast 
Sheeted Memories of the Past— 
Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
As they pass the wanderer by— 
White-robed forms of friends long given, 
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. 


For the heart whose woes are legion 
*Tis a peaceful, soothing region— 

For the spirit that walks in shadow 
*Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado! 

But the traveller, travelling through it, 
May not—dare not openly view it ; 
Never its mysteries are exposed 

To the weak human eye unclosed ; 

So wills its King, who hath forbid 

The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 

And thus the sad Soul that here passes 
Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 


By a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill angels only, 


TO ZANTE, ~ 43 
Se ae ak Sree ee 
Where an Lidolon, named Nicur, 


On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have wandered home but newly ° 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 


TO ZANTE. 


Farr isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, 

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! 
How many memories of what radiant hours 

At sight of thee and thine at once awake! 
How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 

How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes! 
How many visions of a maiden that is 

No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes! 
No more ! alas, that magical sad sound 

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more— 
Thy memory no more! Accurséd ground 

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! 

“Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante !” 


44 EULALIE. 


EULALIE. 


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


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


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


ELDORADO. 45 


SEES 


ELDORADO. 


Gatty bedight, 
A gallant knight, 

In sunshine and in shadow, 
Had journeyed long, 
Singing a song, 

In search of Eldorado. 


But he grew old— 

This knight so bold— 
And o’er his heart a shadow 

Fell as he found 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 


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


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


46 ISRAFEL. 


ISRAFEL- 


In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
‘‘ Whose heart-strings are a lute ;” 
None sing so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel, 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 


Tottering above 
é In her highest noon, 

The enamoured moon 

Blushes with love, 
While, to listen, the red levin 
(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 
Which were seven, ) 
Pauses in Heaven. 


And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 
That Israfeli’s fire 
Is owing to that lyre 
By which he sits and sings— 
The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 


* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the 
sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.— Koran. 


ISRAFEL . 47 


But the skies that angel trod, 

Where deep thoughts are a duty— 
Where Love’s a grown up God— 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 


Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song ; 
To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, because the wisest ! 
Merrily live, and long! 


The ecstasies above 
With thy burning measures suit— 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervour of thy lute— 
Well may the stars be mute ! 


Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 

_ Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely—flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 


If I could dwell 

Where Israfel 
Hath dwelt, and he where I, 

He might not sing so wildly well 
A mortal melody, 

While a bolder note than this might swell 
From my lyre within the sky. 


FOR ANNIE. 


FOR ANNIE. 


Tank Heaven! the crisis— 
The danger is past, 

And the lingering illness 
Is over at last— 

And the fever called “ Living” 
Is conquered at last. 


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


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


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


FOR ANNIE, 49 


——— ee 


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


And oh! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 
Has abated—the terrible 
Torture of thirst 
For the napthaline river 
Of Passion accurst :— 
I have drank of a water 
That quenches all thirst :— 


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


And ah! let it never 
Be foolishly said 

That my room it is gloomy 
And narrow my bed ; 

For man never slept 
In a different bed— 

And, to sleep, you must slumber 
In just such a bed. . 


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


Of myrtles and roses : 
Vor. IL—8, 


FOR ANNIE. 


For now, while so quietly 
Lying, it fancies 

A holier odor 
About it, of pansies— 

A rosemary odor, 
Commingled with pansies— 

With rue and the beautiful 
Puritan pansies. 


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


She tenderly kissed me, 

She fondly caressed, 
And then I fell gently 

To sleep on her breast— 
Deeply to sleep 

From the heaven of her breast. 


When the light was extinguished, 
She covered me warm, 

And she prayed to the angels 

' To keep me from Larm— 

To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 


And I lie so composedly, 
Now, in my bed, 

(Knowing her love) | 
That you fancy me dead— 

And I rest so contentedly, 
Now inmy bed, . 

(With her love at my breast) 
That you fancy me dead— 


TO : 


That you shudder to look at me, 
Thinking me dead :— 


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


‘Wy 
a Sg : 


Tt? ——. 


I HEED not that my earthly lot 
Hath—little of Earth in it— 
That years of love have been forgot 
In the hatred of a minute :-— 

I mourn not that the desolate 
Are happier, sweet, than I, 
But that you sorrow for my fate 

Who am a passer by. 


52 BRIDAL BALLAD. 


BRIDAL BALLAD. 


THE ring is on my hand, 

And the wreath is on my brow ; 
Satins and jewels grand 
Are all at my command, 

And I am happy now. 


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


But he spoke to re-assure me, 
And he kissed my pallid brow, 
While a reverie came o’er me, 
And to the church-yard bore me, 
And I sighed to him before me, 
Thinking him dead D’Elormie, 
“Oh, I am happy now !” 


And thus the words were spoken, 
And this the plighted vow, 

And, though my faith be broken, 

And, though my heart be broken, 


TO F—. | 58 


Behold the golden token 
That proves me happy now ! 


Would God I could awaken ! 
For I dream I know not how, 

And my soul is sorely shaken 

Lest an evil step be taken,— 

Lest the dead who is forsaken 
May not be happy now. 


2. a: 


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


And thus thy memory is to me 
Like some enchanted far-off isle 

In some tumultuous sea— 

Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms—but where meanwhile 

Serenest skies continually | 
Just o’er that one bright island smile. 


54 SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 


SCENES rrom “POLITIAN;” ; 


AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 


I. 
ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione 


Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione. 
Castiglione. Sad !—not I. 
Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome! 
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! 
Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing 
Thy happiness !—what ails thee, cousin of mine ? 
Why didst thou sigh so deeply? : 
Cas. Did I sigh ? 
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 
A silly—a most silly fashion I have 
When I am very happy. Did I sigh ? (sighing.) 
Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged 
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these 
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered— 
Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away 
The constitution as late hours and wine. 
Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep 
sorrow— 


' SCENES Frou “POLITIAN.” 55 


Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
I will amend. 

Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop 
Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born— 

Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir 
And Alessandra’s husband. 

Cas. I will drop them. 

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

Cas. I'll see to it. 

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

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

Aless. (haughtily.) Thou mockest me, sir ! 

Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle —— 

Aless. Heard | aright ? 

I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage ! 

Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou 
dreaming ? he’s not well ! 

What ails thee, sir ? 

Cas. (starting.) Cousin! fair cousin !—madam ! 
I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well— 

Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 
This air is most oppressive !—Madam—the Duke ! 
Enter Di Brogio. 
Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee !—hey ?—what’s the 
matter ? (observing Alessandra.) 
I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her, 
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute ! 


66 SCENES From * POLITIAN.” 


I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected 
Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester ! 
We'll have him at the wedding. Tis his first visit 
To the imperial city. 

Aless. What! Politian . 

Of Britain, Earl of Leicester ? 

Di Brog. The same, my love. 

We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young 
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him, 
But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy 
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth, 

And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding. 

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

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

Aless. ’Tis very strange ! 

I have known men have seen Politian 

And sought his company. They speak of him 
As of one who entered madly into life, 
Drinking the cup of pleasure ‘to the dregs. 

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

Di Brog. Children, we disagree. 

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


SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 57 


Il. 


ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking into a gar- 
den. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books 
and ahand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leaus care- 
lessly upon a chair. 


Lal. Jacinta! is it thou ? 

Jac. (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here. 

Lal. [ did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
Sit down !—let not my presence trouble you— 
Sit down !—for Iam humble, most humble. 

Jac. (aside.) ’Tis time. 

(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the 
chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regard- 
ing her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage 
continues to read.) 

- Lal. “It in another climate, so he said, 
‘‘ Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil !”’ 
(pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes.) 
‘‘ No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower— 
* But Ocean ever to refresh mankind — 
‘‘ Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.” 
Oh, beautiful !—most beautiful !—how like 
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! 
O happy land! ( pauses.) She died !—the maiden died ! 
O still more happy maiden who couldst die ! 
Jacinta! . 
(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.) 
Again !—a similar tale 


Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea ! 
3* 


58 SCENES From *“ POLITIAN.” 


Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play— 
‘‘ She died full young’”—one Bossola answers him— 
‘I think not so—her infelicity 
‘‘ Seemed to have years too many’”’—Ah luckless lady ! 
Jacinta! (still no answer.) 
Here’s a far sterner story 

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

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

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

Jac. Pshaw! (ezit.) 

Lal. If there be balm 
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there ! ! 


Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble 
Will there be found—* dew sweeter far than that 
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermyn hill.” 
(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.) 
There, ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. 
(aside. ) 
Lal. (astonished: ) What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I 
done aught 
To grieve thee or to vex thee ?—I am sorry. 
For thou hast served me long and ever been 
Trust-worthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.) 
Jac. I can’t believe 
She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. (aside.) 


~ 


SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 59 


Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me 
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
How fares good Ugo ?—and when is it to be ? 
Can I do aught ?—is there no farther aid 
Thou needest, Jacinta ? 
Jac. Is there no farther aid ! 
That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m sure, Madam, you need not 
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 
Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta, 
I thought not of the jewels. 
Jac. Oh! perhaps not! 
But then I might have sworn it. After all, 
There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste, 
-For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never 
Would have given a real diamond to such as you ; 
And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot 
Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (ezit.) 
(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the 
table—after a short pause raises it.) 
Lal. Poor Lalage !—and is it come to this ? 
Thy servant maid !—but courage !—’tis but a viper 
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! 
(taking up the mirror.) 
Ha ! here at least’s a friend—too much a friend 
In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. 
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) 
A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not 
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. 
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, 
And Beauty long deceased—remembers me 
. Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope, 
Inurned and entombed !—now, in a tone 
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, 


60 SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 


Whispers of early grave untimely yawning 
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true !—thou liest not ! 
Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break— 
Castiglione lied who said he loved 
Thou true—he false !—false !—false ! 
(while she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and ap- 
proaches unobserved.) 
Monk. Refuge thou hast, 
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! 
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray ! 
Lal. (arising hurriedly.) 1 cannot pray !—My soul is at war 
with God ! 
The frightful sounds of merriment below 
Disturb my senses—go ! I cannot pray+— 
The sweet airs from the garden worry me! 
Thy presence grieves me—go !—thy priestly raiment 
Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix 
With horror and awe ! 
Monk. Think of thy precious soul ! 
Lal. Think of my early days !—think of my father 
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home, 
And the rivulet that ran before the door ! 
Think of my little sisters !—think of them! 
And think of me !—think of my trusting love 
And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think 
Of my unspeakable misery ! begone ! 
Yet stay ! yet stay !—what was it thou saidst of prayer 
And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith 
And vows before the throne ? 
Monk. I did. 
Lal. ’Tis well. 
There is a vow were fitting should be made— 


SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 61 


A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, 
A solemn vow ! 

Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well ! 

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

(draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.) 

Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine 
Is written in Heaven ! 

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

Lal. ’Tis sworn! 


62 SCENES rraom “ POLITIAN.” 


Hl. 


An apartment in a palace. Politian and Buldazzar. 


Baldazzar. Arouse thee now, Politian ! 
Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not 
Give way unto these humours. Be thyself! 
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 

And live, for now thou diest ! 

Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! 
Surely I live. 

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

Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend. 
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do ? 
At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
Which from my forefathers I did inherit, 

Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe, 
And be no more Politian, but some other. 


Command me, sir! 
Bal. To the field then—to the field— 
To the senate or the field. 
Pol. Alas! alas! 
There is an imp would follow me even there ! 
There is an imp hath followed me even there ! 
There is what voice was that ? | 
Bal. heard it not. , 
I heard not any voice except thine own, 
And the echo of thine own. 


SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 63 


Pol. Then I but dreamed. 
Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court 
Befit thee-—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls— 
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear 
In hearkening to imaginary sounds 
And phantom voices. 
Pol. It is a phantom voice! 
Didst thou not hear it then ? 
Bal. 1 heard it not. 
Pol. Thou heardst it not ! Baldazzar, speak no more 
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, 
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities 
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile! 
We have been boys together—school-fellows— : 
And now are friends—yet shall not be so long— 
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me | 
A kind and gentle office, and a Power— 
A Power august, benignant and supreme— 
Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties 
Unto thy friend. 
Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
I will not understand. 
Pol. Yet now as Fate 
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, 
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, 
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! 
I cannot die, having within my heart 
So keen a relish for the beautiful 
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air 
Is balmier now than it was wont to be— | 
Rich melodies are floating in the winds— 
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth— 


64 SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 


ED 


And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 
Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say 
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar ? 

Bal. Indeed I hear not. 

Pol. Not hear it !—listen now—listen !—the faintest sound 
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! , 
A lady’s voice !—and sorrow in the tone ! 
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! 

Again !—again !—how solemnly it falls 

Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice 
Surely I never heard—yet it were well 

Had I dut heard it with its thrilling tones 

In earlier days ! 

Bal. I myself hear it now. 

Be still !—the voice, if I mistake not greatly, 

. Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see 
Very plainly through the window—it belongs, 
Does it not ? unto this palace of the Duke. 

The singer is undoubtedly beneath 

The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps 

Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke 

As the betrothed of Castiglione, 

His son and heir. 

Pol. Be still !—it comes again ! 

Voice “And is thy heart so strong 
(very faintly.) As for to leave me thus 
Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and wo among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ? 
Say nay—say nay !” 
Bal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
In merry England—never so plaintively— 


SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 


Hist ! hist! it comes again ! 
Voice “Ts it so strong 
(more loudly.) As for to leave me thus 
Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and wo among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ? 
Say nay—say nay !” 

Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still ! 

Pol. All is not still. 

Bal. Let us go down. 

Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go! 

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

Voice § “* Who hath loved thee so long, 
(distinctly.) In wealth and wo among, 
And is thy heart so strong ? 
Say nay—say nay !” 

Bal. Let us descend !—’tis time. Politian, give 
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, 

Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness 
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember ! 

Pol: Remember? Ido. Leadon! I do remember. 
| (going.) 
Let us descend. Believe me I would give, 

Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice— 
“ To gaze upon that veiled et and hear 
Once more that silent tongue.” 
Bal. Let me beg you, sir, 
Descend with me—the Duke may be offended. 
Let us go down, I pray you. 


65 


66 SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 


(Voice loudly.) Say nay /—say nay / 
Pol. (aside.) ’Tis strange !—’tis very strange—methought the 
voice 
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay ! 
(approaching the window.) 

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

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

Pol. Good night, my friend, good night. 


’ SCENES From “ POLITIAN.” 


IV. 


The gardens of a palace—Moonlight. Lalage and Politian. 


Lalage. And dost thou speak of love 
To me, Politian ?—dost thou speak of love | 
To Lalage ?—ah wo—ah wo is me! 
This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed ! 
Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus !—thy bitter tears 
Will madden me. Oh mourn not, Lalage— 
Be comforted! I know—I know it all, 
And stili I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, 
And beautiful Lalage !—turn here thine eyes ! 
Thou askest me if I could speak of love, 
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. 
Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee— 
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. . (kneeling.) 
Sweet Lalage, I love thee—love thee—love thee ; | 
Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and wo I love thee. 
Not mother, with her first born on her knee, 
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 
Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime, 
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now 
Within my spirit for thee. And do! love ? (arising.) 
Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes— _ 
Thy beauty and thy woes. 
Lai. Alas, proud Earl, 
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me ! 
How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens 
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, 


67 


68 SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 


Could the dishonoured Lalage abide ? 
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory— 
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally 
With the ancestral honours of thy house, 
And with thy glory ? 
Pol. Speak nat to me of glory ! 
I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor 
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ? 
Do I not love—art thou not beautiful— 
What need we more? Ha! glory !—now speak not of it! 
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn— 
By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter— 
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven— 
There is no deed I would more glory in, 
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory 
And trample it under foot. What matters it— 
What matters it, my fairest, and my best, 
That we go down unhonoured and forgotten 
Into the dust—so we descend together. 
Descend together—and then—and then perchance 
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 
Pol. And then perchance 
Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, 
And still 2 
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian ?° ° 
Pol. And still together—together. 
Lal. Now Earl of Leicester ! 
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts 
I feel thou lovest me truly. 
Pol. Oh, Lalage! (throwing himself upon his knee.) 
And lovest thou me ? 


“SCENES rrom “POLITIAN.” 69 


Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom 

Of yonder trees methought a figure past— 

A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless— 

Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. 
(walks across and returns.) 

I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough 

Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! 

Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved ? 
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self, 
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, 

Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind 
Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs 
Throw over all things a gloom. 

Lal. Politian ! 

Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land 
With which all tongues are busy—a land new found— 
Miraculously found by one of Genoa— 

A thousand leagues within the golden west ? 

A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, 

And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, 

And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds 
Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe 

Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom nereaner 

In days that are to come ? 

Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou 
Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou 
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, 
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 

And life shall then be mine, for I will live 
For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be 
No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys 
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope 
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee 


"0 SCENES From “POLITIAN.” 


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

Lal. A deed is to be done— 

Castiglione lives ! 

Pol. And he shall die ! (exit.) 

Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die ! 
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words ? 
Where am | ?—what was it he said ?—Politian ! 

Thou art not gone—thou art not gone, Politian ! 

I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look, 

Lest I behold thee not; thou couddst not go 

With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me ! 

And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word, - 

To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence, 

To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate 

My womanly weakriess. Ha! ha! thou art not gone— 
O speak tome! I knew thou wouldst not go! 

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. 

Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me ! 

And thus I clutch thee—thus ! He is gone, he is gone— 
Gone—gone. Where am I ? tis well—’tis very well! 
So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure, 

?Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas! 


alas ! 


SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 71 


V. 
The suburbs. Politian alone. 


Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, 
And much IJ fear me iJl—it will not do 
To die ere I have lived !—Stay—stay thy hand, 
O Azrael, yet awhile !—Prince of the Powers 
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me! 
O pity me! let me not perish now, 
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope ! 
Give me to live yet—yet a little while: 
’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late 
Demanded but to die !—what sayeth the Count ? 
Enter Baldazzar. 
Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud 
Between the Earl Politian and himself, 
He doth decline your cartel. 
Pol. What didst thou say ? 
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ? 
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 
Laden from yonder bowers !—a fairer day, 
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 
No mortal eyes have seen !—zwhat said the Count ? 
Bai. That he, Castiglione, not being aware 
Of any feud existing, or any cause 
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself 
Cannot accept the challenge. 
Pol. It is most true— 
All this is very true. When saw you, sir, 


"2 SCENES rrom “POLITIAN.” 


When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid 
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, 
A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free 
From the evil taint of clouds ?—and he did say ? 
Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir: | 
The Count Castiglione will not fight, : 
Having no cause for quarrel. 
Pol. Now this is true— . ‘ 
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, 
And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me 
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say 
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
Hold him a villain ?—thus much, I prythee, say 
Unto the Count—it is exceeding just 
He should have cause for quarrel. 
Bal. My lord !—my friend ! 
Pol. (aside.) "Tis he—he comes himself! (aloud.) thou rea- . 
sonest well. — 
I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message— 
Well !—I will think of it—lI will not send it. 
Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person 
With whom affairs of a most private nature 
I would adjust. 
Bal. 1 go—to-morrow we meet, | i 
Do we not ?—at the Vatican. 
Pol. At the Vatican. (exit Bal.) 
| Enter Castiglione. 
Cas. The Earl of Leicester here ! 
Pol. | am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, 
Dost thou not ? that I am here. 
Cas. My lord, some strange, 
Some singular mistake—misunderstanding— 
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged 


SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 13 


Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
Some words most unaccountable, in writing, 
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being | 
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, 
Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right ? 
*Twas a mistake ?—undoubtedly—we all 
Do err at times. | 
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more ! 
Cas. Ha !—draw ?—and villain? have at thee then at once, 
Proud Ear! ! (draws.) 
Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
Uutimely sepulchre, I do devote thee 
In the name of Lalage ! 
Cas. (leiting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of 
the stage.) : 
Of Lalage ! 
Hold off—thy sacred hand !—avaunt I say ! 
Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not. 
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count ? 
Shall I be baffled thus ?—now this is well ; 
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!» 
Cas. I dare not—dare not— 
Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name 
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee— 
I cannot—dare not. 
Pol. Now by my halidom 
1 do believe thee '—coward, I do believe thee ! 
Cas. Ha !—coward !—this may not be! 

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

Alas! my lord, 


Vor. IT.—4. 


74 SCENES rrom “ POLITIAN.” 


en ne 


It is—it is—most true. In such a cause 
I am the veriest coward. O pity me! 
Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas !—I do—indeed I pity thee. 
Cas. And Lalage——— 
Pol. Scoundrel !—arise and die ! 
Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die 
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting 
That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
For in the fight I will not raise a hand 
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home— 
(baring his bosom.) 
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon— 
Strike home. I will not fight thee. 
Pol. Now s’Death and Hell ! 
Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted 
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir! 
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare 
For public insult in the streets—before 
The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee— 
Like an avenging spirit Ill follow thee 
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest— 
Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee, 
Dost hear ? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me ? 
Thou liest ! thou shalt / (exit.) - 
Cas. Now this indeed is just ! 
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heuves ° - 


POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 


ee ge 


Me: 


POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 


SONNET—TO SCIENCE. 


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


* Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, 
and others to the date of Tennyson’s first poems—have induced me, after 
some hesitation, to re-publish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boy- 
hood. They are printed verbatim—without alteration from the original edi- 
tion—the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged. 

. E. A. P. 


78 AL AARAAF. 


AL AARAAF.* 


PART I. 


OQ! noraine earthly save the ray 
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye, 
As in those gardens where the day 
Springs from the gems of Circassy— 

O! nothing earthly save the thrill 

Of melody in woodland rill— 

Or (music of the passion-hearted) 

Joy’s voice so peacefully departed 

That like the murmur in the shell, 

Its echo dwelleth and will dwell— 

Oh, nothing of the dross of ours— 

Yet all the beauty—all the flowers 

That list our Love, and deck our bowers— 
Adorn yon world afar, afar— 

The wandering star. 


’T was a sweet time for Nesace—for there 
Her world lay lolling on the golden air, 
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest— 
An oasis in desert of the blest. 


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


AL AARAAF. 19 


Away—away—’mid seas of rays that roll 
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul— 
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) 
Can struggle to its destin’d eminence— 

To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, 
And late to ours, the favour’d one of God— 
But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm, 

She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm, 
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, 
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. 


Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, 
Whence sprang the “ Idea of Beauty”’ into birth, 
(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star, 
Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar, 

It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) 

She look’d into Infinity—and knelt. 

Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled— 

Fit emblems of the model of her world— 

Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight 

Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light— 

A wreath that twined each starry form around, |<” « 
And all the opal’d air in color bound. | 


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


* On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia. t Sappho. 


80 AL AARAAF. 


Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d 
All other loveliness : its honied dew 

(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) 
Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d frorn Heaven, 
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 


| *And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d— 


In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower 

So like its own above that, to this hour, 

It still remaineth, torturing the bee 

With madness, and unwonted reverie : 

In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 

And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief 
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head, 
Repenting follies that full long have fled, 

; Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, 
Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair: 
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light 
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : 
fAnd Clytia pondering between many a sun, 
While pettish tears adown her petals run : 
fAnd that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth— 
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, 
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing 
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: 


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

t Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known 
term, the turnsol—which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like 
Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and re- 

‘fresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day.—B. de St: Pierre. 

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


s 


AL AARAAF. 


*And Valisnerian lotus thither flown 

From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: 
tAnd thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante ! 
Isola d’oro !—Fior di Levante ! 

tAnd the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever 
With Indian Cupid down the holy river— 
Fair flowers, and fairy ! to whose care is given 
§To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven : 


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


4s 


81 


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

t The Hyacinth. 

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


§ And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints —Rev 


82 AL AARAAF. 


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


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


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


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

Among Milton’s minor poems are these lines :-— 


Dicite sacrorum presides nemorum Dew, &c. 

Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine 

Natura solers finxit humanum genus ? 

Eternus, incorruptus, equeevus polo, 

Unusque et universus exemplar Deii—And afterwards, 
Non cui profundum Cecitas lumen dedit 

Dirceus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c. 


AL AARAAF. 83 


*By winged Fantasy, 
My embassy is given, 

Till secrecy shall knowledge be 
In the environs of Heaven.”’ 


She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek 
Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek 

A shelter from the fervour of His eye ; 

For the stars trembled at the Deity. 

She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there 
How solemnly pervading the calm air! 

A sound of silence on the startled ear 

Which dreamy poets name “ the music of the sphere.” 
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call : 4 
* Silence’’—which is the merest word of all. ie 4 | 
All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things 
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings— 
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high 
The eternal voice of God is passing by, 

And the red winds are withering in the sky ! 


‘ 
—. = 


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


* Seltsamen Tochter Jovis 
Seinem Schosskinde 
Der Phantasie.—Géethe. 
+ Sightless—too small to be seen.— Legge. 


84 AL AARAAF. 


Yet thine is my resplendency, so given 
To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven. 
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, 
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky— 
' *Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night, 
And wing to other worlds another light ! 
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy __ 
To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be 
To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban 
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!” 
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, 
The single-mooned eve !—on Earth we plight 
Our faith to one love—and one moon adore— 
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. 
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours 
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, 
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain 
tHer way—but left not yet her Theraszan reign. 


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

t Therasea, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a mo- 
ment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. 


AL AARAAF. 


PART II. 


4 


HicH on a mountain of enamell’d head— 
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed 

Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, 

Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees 

With many a mutter’d “ hope to be forgiven”’ 
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven— 
Of rosy head, that towering far away 

Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray 

Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night, 
While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light— 
Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile 

Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air, 
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile 
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, 
And nursled the young mountain in its lair. 
*Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall 
Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall 

Of their own dissolution, while they die— 
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. 

A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, 
Sat gently on these columns as a crown— 

A window of one circular diamond, there, 
Look’d out above into the purple air, 


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


85 


86 AL AARAAF. 


And rays from God shot down that meteor chain 
And hallow’d all the beauty twice again, 

Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring, 
Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing. 

But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen 

The dimness of this world: that greyish green 
That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave 
Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave— 
And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout 

That from his marble dwelling peeréd out, 
Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche— 
Achaian statues in a world so rich ? 

*Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis— 

From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 

tOf beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave 

Is now upon thee—but too late to save ! 


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


* Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, ‘Je connois bien l’admiration qu’in- 
spirent ces ruincs—mais un paluis erigé au pied d’une chaine des rochers sterils 
—peut il étre un chef d’ceuvre des arts !” 

t “Oh! the wave”—Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its 
own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were undoubtedly 
more than two cities engulphed in the “dead sea.” In the valley of Siddim 
were five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzan- 
tium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen, (engulphed)—but the last is out of 
all reason. 

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


AL AARAAF. 87 


' 


*That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, 

Of many a wild star-gazer long ago— 

That stealeth ever on the ear of him 

Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. 

And sees the darkness coming as a cloud— 

tls not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud ? 


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


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


# Eyraco—Chaldea. | 

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

¢ Fairies use flowers for their charactery—Merry Wives of Windsor. 


88 AL AARAAF. 


ne 
‘«‘ "Neath blue-bell or streamer— 
Or tufted wild spray 
That keeps, from the dreamer, 
*The moonbeam away— 
Bright beings! that ponder, 
With half closing eyes, 
On the stars which your wonder 
Hath drawn from the skies, 
Till they glance thro’ the shade, and 
Come down to your brow 
Like——eyes of the maiden 
Who calls on you now— 
Arise! from your dreaming 
In violet bowers, 
To duty beseeming 
These star-litten hours— 
And shake from your tresses 
Encumber’d with dew 
The breath of those kisses 
That cumber them too— 
(O! how, without you, Love! 
Could angels be blest?) 
Those kisses of true love 
That lull’d ye to rest ! 
Up !—shake from your wing 
Each hindering thing : 
The dew of the night— 
It would weigh down your flight ; 
And true love caresses— 
O! leave them apart ! 
* In Scripture is this passage— The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor 
the moon by night.” It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in 


Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face 
exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes. 


: AL AARAAF. 89 
—_——— 
They are light on the tresses, 
But lead on the heart. 


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


Ligeia ! wherever 

Thy image may be, 
No magic shall sever 

Thy music from thee. 
Thou hast bound many eyes 

In a dreamy sleep— _ 
But the strains still arise 

Which thy vigilance keep— 
The sound of the rain 

Which leaps down to the flower, 
And dances again 

In the rhythm of the shower— 
{The murmur that springs 

From the growing of grass 


* The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. 
t I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to ob- 
tain and quote from memory :—‘ ‘The verie essence and, as it were, springe- 


90 AL AARAAF. 
Ca ne a EE 


Are the music of things— 
But are modell’d, alas [— 
Away, then my dearest, 
O! hie thee away 
To springs that lie clearest 
Beneath the moon-ray— 
To lone lake that smiles, 
In its dream of deep rest, 
‘At the many star-isles 
That enjewel its breast— 
Where wild flowers, creeping, 
Have mingled their shade, 
On its margin is sleeping 
Full many a maid— 
Some have left the cool glade, and 
* Have slept with the bee— 
Arouse them my maiden, 
On moorland and lea— 
Go! breathe on their slumber, 
All softly in ear, 
The musical number 
They slumber’d to hear— 
For what can awaken 
An angel so soon 


heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the 
trees of the forest do make when they growe.” 

* The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. 

The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appear- 
ance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from 
Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect : 

O! were there an island, 
Tho’ ever so wild 

Where woman might smile, and 
No man be beguil’d, &c. 


AL AARAAF. 91 


Whose sleep hath been taken 
Beneath the cold moon, 

As the spell which no slumber 
Of witchery may test, 

The rhythmical number 
Which lull’d him to rest ?” 


Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 

A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’, — 
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight— 
Seraphs in all but ‘“ Knowledge,” the keen light 
That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar 

O Death! from eye of God upon that star : 

Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death— 
Sweet was that error—ev’n with us the breath 

Of Science dims the mirror of our joy— 

To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy— 
For what (to them) availeth it to know 

That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe ? 
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife 
With the last ecstasy of satiate life— 

Beyond that death’no immortality— 

But sleep that pondereth and is not “ to be” — 

And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell— 
*Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell ! 


* With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where 
men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happi- 
ness which they suppose to be characteristic of sila enjoyment. 

_ Un no rompido sueno— 
Un dia puro—allegre—libre 
Quiera— 
Libre de amor—de zelo— 
De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.— Luis Ponce de Leon. 


Sorrow is not excluded from “ Al Aaraaf,” but it is that sorrow which the 


AL AARAAF. 


What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, 
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn ? 
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts 
To those who hear not for their beating hearts. 

A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover— _ 

O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) 
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known ? 


*Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.”’ 


He was a goodly spirit—he who fell : 

A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well— 

A gazer on the lights that shine above— 

A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: 
What wonder ? for each star is eye-like there, 
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair— 
And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy 
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. 
The night had found (to him a night of wo) 
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo— 
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, 

And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. 
Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent 
With eagle gaze along the firmament : 

Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then 

It trembled to the orb of Earts again. 


‘‘Tanthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray! 
How lovely ’tis to look so far away ! 


living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the de- 
lirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit 
attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures—the price of which, to 
those souls who make choice of “‘ Al Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final 


death and annihilation. 


* There be tears of perfect moan 
Wept for thee in Helicon.— Milton. 


AL AARAAF. 93 


She seem’d not thus upon that autumn eve 

I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourn’d to leave. 
That eve—that eve—lI should remember well— 
The sun-ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell 
On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall - 
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall— 
And on my eye-lids—O the heavy light! 

How drowsily it weigh’d them into night ! 

On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran 
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan : 

But O that light !—I slumber’d—Death, the while, 
Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle 

So softly that no single silken hair 

Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there. 


The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon 

*Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon— 

More beauty clung around her column’d wall 

+Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal, 

And when old Time my wing did disenthral 

Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower, 

And years I left behind me in an hour. 

What time upon her airy bounds I hung 
One half the garden of her globe was flung 

Unrolling as a chart unto my view— 

Tenantless cities of the desert too ! 

Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, 

And half I wish’d to be again of men.” 


“ My Angelo! and why of them to be ? 
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee— 


* It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens. 


t Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—Marlowe. 


94 AL AARAAF. 


, And greener fields than in yon world above, 
‘And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.” 


‘“ But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft 
*Fail’d, as my pennon’d spirit leapt aloft, 
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world 
I left so late was into chaos hurl’d— 
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, 
And roll’d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar 
And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, 
. But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’ 
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! 
Nor long. the measure of my falling hours, 


_—— 


mee 


. 
a 


For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— 
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, 
A red Deedalion on the timid Earth. 


‘We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us 
Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss : 

We came, my love; around, above, below, 
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, 
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod 

She grants to us, as granted by her God— 
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d 
Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world ! 

Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 

Alone could see the phantom in the skies, 
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be 
Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea— 
But when its glory swell’d upon the sky, 

As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, 


* Pennon—for pinion.—Milton. 


TO THE RIVER —. 95 


We paus’d before the heritage of men, 
And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then !” 


Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away 

The night that waned and waned and brought no day. 
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts | 
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. — 


TO THE RIVER ——. 


* 


Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow 
Of crystal, wandering water, 
Thou art an emblem of the glow 
Of beauty—the unhidden heart— 
The playful maziness of art 
In old Alberto’s daughter ; 


But when within thy wave she looks— 
Which glistens then, and trembles— 

Why, then, the prettiest of brooks. 
Her worshipper resembles ; 

For in his heart, as in thy stream, 
Her image deeply lies— 

His heart which trembles at the beam 
Of her soul-searching eyes. 


96 


TAMERLANE. 


TAMERLANE. 


Kinp solace in a dying hour! 
Such, father, is not (now) my theme— 
I will not madly deem that power 
~ Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revell’d in— 
I have no time to dote or dream : 
You call it hope—that fire of fire! 
It is but agony of desire: 
If I can hope—Oh God ! I can— 
Its fount is holier—more divine— 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 
But such is not a gift of thine. 


Know thou the secret of a spirit 

Bow’d from its wild pride into shame. 
O yearning heart! I did inherit 

Thy withering portion with the fame, 
The searing glory which hath shone 
Amid the Jewels of my throne, 
Halo of Hell! and with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again— 
O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours! 
The undying voice of that dead time, 
With its interminable chime, 


- Ps e 
ee hes 


TAMERLANE. 


Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
Upon thy emptiness—a knell. 


I have not always been as now: 
The fever’d diadem on my brow 
I claim’d and won usurpingly 
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Cesar—this to me ? 
The heritage of a kingly mind, 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 


On mountain soil I first drew life: 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 
Nightly their dews upon my head, 

And, I believe, the winged strife 

And tumult of the headlong air 

Have nestled in my very hair. 


So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell 
("Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
Upon me with the touch of Hell, 
While the red flashing of the light 
From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er, 
Appeared to my half-closing eye. 
The pageantry of monarchy, 
And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar 
Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of human battle, where my voice, 
My own voice, silly child !—was swelling 
(O! how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 


The battle-cry of Victory ! 
Vou. IL—6. 


98 


TAMUERLANE. 


The rain came down upon my head 
Unshelter’d—and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 

It was but man, I thought, who shed 
Laurels upon me: and the rush— 

The torrent of the chilly air 

Gurgled within my ear the crush 
Of empires—with the captive’s prayer— 

The hum of suitors—and the tone 

Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne. 


My passions, from that hapless hour, 
Usurp’d a tyranny which men 
Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power, 
My innate nature—be it so: 
But, father, there liv’d one who, then, 
Then—in my boyhood—when their fire 
Burn’d with a still intenser glow 
(For passion must, with youth, expire) 
B’en then who knew this iron heart 
In woman’s weakness had a part. 


I have no words—alas !—to tell 
The loveliness of loving well! 
Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
Are—— shadows on th’ unstable wind : 
Thus I remember having dwelt 
Some page of early lore upon, 
With loitering eye, till 1 have felt 
The letters—with their meaning—melt 
To fantasies—with none. 


TAMERLANE. 99 


O, she was worthy of all love! 
Love—as in infancy was mine— 
*Twas such as angel minds above 
Might envy ; her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 
Were incense—then a goodly gift, 
For they were childish and upright— 
Pure——as her young example taught : 
Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
Trust to the fire within, for light ? 


We grew in age—and love—together— 
Roaming the forest, and the wild ; 

My breast her shield in wintry weather— 
And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d, 

And she would mark the opening skies, 

I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes. 


Young Love’s first lesson is the heart : | 
For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles, 
When, from our little cares apart, 
And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, 
And pour my spirit out in tears— 
There was no need to speak the rest-— 
No need to quiet any fears | 
Of her—who ask’d no reason why, 
But turn’d on me her quiet eye ! 


Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
When, on the mountain peak, alone, 
Ambition lent it a new tone— 


100 


TAMERLANE, 


I had no being—but in thee : 

The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth—the air—the sea— 

Its joy—its little lot of pain 
the ideal, 
Dim, vanities of dreams by night— 


That was new pleasure 


And dimmer nothings which were real— 
(Shadows—and a more shadowy light !) 
Parted upon their misty wings, 
And, so, confusedly, became 
Thine image and—a name—a name ! 
Two separate—yet most intimate things. 


I was ambitious—have you known 

The passion, father? You have not: 
A cottager, I mark’d a throne 
Of half the world as all my own, 

And murmur’d at such lowly lot— 
But, just like any other dream, 

Upon the vapor of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 

Of beauty which did while it thro’ 
The minute—the hour—the day—oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 


We walk’d together on the crown 
Of a high mountain which look’d down 
Afar from its proud natural towers 
Of rock and forest, on the hills— 
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers 
And shouting with a thousand rills. 


I spoke to her of power and pride, 
But mystically—in such guise 


TAMERLANE. - 101 


That she might deem it nought beside 
The moment’s converse ; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too careless! y— 
A mingled feeling with my own— 
The flush ‘on her bright cheek, to me 
Seem’d to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should’ let it be 
Light in the wilderness alone. 


] wrapp’d myself in grandeur then 
And donn’d a visionary crown 
Yet it was not that Fantasy 
Had thrown her mantle over me— 

But that, among the rabble—men, 

Lion ambition is chain’d down— 
And crouches to a keeper’s hand— 
Not so in deserts where the grand— 
The wild—the terrible conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 


Look ’round thee now on Samarcand !— 
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride 
Above all cities ? in her hand 
Their destinies ? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known 
Stands she not nobly and alone ? 
Falling—her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne— 
And who her sovereign? ‘Timour—he 
Whom the astonished people saw 
Striding o’er empires haughtily 
A diadem’d outlaw ! 


TAMERLANE. 


O, human love! thou spirit given, 
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall’st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-wither’d plain, 

And, failing in thy power to bless, 
But lcav’st the heart a wilderness ! 
Idea! which bindest life around 

With music of so strange a sound 
And beauty of so wild a birth— 
Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. 


When Hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see 
No cliff beyond him in the sky, 

His pinions were bent droopingly— 
And homeward turn’d his soften’d eye. 

*T was sunset: when the sun will part 

There comes a sullenness of heart 

To him who still would look upon 

The glory of the summer sun. 

That soul will hate the ev’ning mist 

So often lovely, and will list 

To the sound of the coming darkness (known 

To those whose spirits harken) as one 

Who, in a dream of night, would fly 

But cannot from a danger nigh. 


What tho’ the moon—the white moon 
Shed all the splendor of her noon, 
Her smile is chilly—and her beam, 
In that time of dreariness, will seem 
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 


TAMERLANE. 103 


And boyhood is a summer sun 

Whose waning is the dreariest one— 
For all we live to know is known 

And all we seek to keep hath fllwn— 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noon-day beauty—which is all. 


I reach’d my home—my home no more— 
For all had flown who made it so. 
I pass’d from out its mossy door, 
And, tho’ my tread was soft and low, 
A voice came from the threshold stone 
Of one whom I had earlier known— 
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show 
On beds of fire that burn below, 
An humbler heart—a deeper wo. 


Father, I firmly do believe— 
I know—for Death who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar, 
Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar, 
And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing thro’ Eternity 
I do believe that Eblis hath 
A snare in every human path— 
Else how, when in the holy grove 
I wandered of the idol, Love, 
Who daily scents his snowy wings 
With incense of burnt offerings 
From the most unpolluted things, 
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
Above with trellic’d rays from Heaven 


104 


TO —. 


No mote may shun—no tiniest fly— 

The light’ning of his eagle eye— 

How was it that Ambition crept, 
Unseen, amid the revels there, 

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
In the tangles of Love’s very hair ? 


Tus bowers whereat, in dreams, J see 
The wantonest singing birds, 

Are lips—and all thy melody 
Of lip-begotten words— 


Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined 
Then desolately fall, 

O God! on my funereal mind 
Like starlight on a pall— 


Thy heart—thy heart !—I wake and sigh, 
And sleep to dream till day 

Of the truth that gold can never buy— 
Of the baubles that it may. 


A DREAM. 


A DREAM. 


In visions of the dark night 
I have dreamed of joy departed— 
But a waking dream of life and light 
‘Hath left me broken-hearted. 


Ah! what is not a dream by day 
To him whose eyes are cast 
On things around him with a ray 

Turned back upon the past ? 


That holy dream—that holy dream, 
While all the world were chiding, 

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam 
A lonely spirit guiding. | 


"What though that light, thro’ storm and night, 
So trembled from afar— 

What could there be more purely bright 
In Truth’s day-star ? | 


5* 


105 


ROMANCE. 


ROMANCE: 


» 


Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 
With drowsy head and folded wing, 


Among the green leaves as they shake 


Far down within some shadowy lake, 
To me a painted paroquet 

Hath been—a most familiar bird— 
Taught me my alphabet to say— 

To lisp my very earliest word 

While in the wild wood I did lie, 

A child—with a most knowing eye. 


Of late, eternal Condor years 

So shake the very Heaven on high 
With tumult as they thunder by, 

I have no time for idle cares 
Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 
And when an hour with calmer wings 
Its down upon my spirit flings— 
That little time with lyre and rhyme 
To while away—forbidden things ! 
My heart would feel to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the strings. 


FAIRY-LAND. 


FAIRY-LAND. 


Dm vales—and shadowy floods— 
And cloudy-looking woods, 

Whose forms we can’t discover 

For the tears that drip all over 
Huge moons there wax and wane— 
Again—again—again— 

Every moment of the night— 
Forever changing places— 

And they put out the star-light 


With the breath from their pale faces. © 


About twelve by the moon-dial 
One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial, 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down—still down—and down 
- With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain’s eminence, 
‘While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 

Over hamlets, over halls, 
Wherever they may be— 


O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— 


Over spirits on the wing— 
Over every drowsy thing—_ 
And buries them up quite — 
In a labyrinth of light— 


107 


108 a FAIRY-LAND. 


_ And then, how deep !—O, deep ! 
Is the passion of their sleep. 
In the morning they arise, 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies, 

With the tempests as they toss, 
Like almost any thing— 
Or a yellow Albatross. 

They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before-— 
Videlicet a tent— 

Which I think extravagant: 
Its atomies, however, 


Into a shower dissever, 

Of which those butterflies, 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
(Never-contented things !) 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 


THE LAKE—TO 


THE LAKE®TO —., 


In spring of youth it was my lot 

To haunt of the wide world a spot 

The which I could not love the less— 
So lovely was the loneliness 

Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that towered around. 


‘ But when the Night had thrown her pall 
Upon that spot, as upon all, 

And the mystic wind went by 
Murmuring in melody— 

Then—ah then I would awake 

To the terror of the lone lake. 


Yet that terror was not fright, 

But a tremulous delight— 

A feeling not the jewelled mine 
Could teach or bribe me to define— 


Nor Love—although the Love were thine. 


Death was in that poisonous wave, 
And in its gulf a fitting grave 

For him who thence could solace bring 
To his lone imagining— 

Whose solitary soul could make 

_ An Eden of that dim lake. 


109 


110 Ad SONG. 


SONG. 


I saw thee on thy bridat day— 

When a burning blush came o’er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 

The world all love before thee : 


And in thine eye a kindling light 
(Whatever it might be) 

Was all on Earth my aching sight 
Of Loveliness could see. 


That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame— 
As such it well may pass— , 

Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame 
In the breast of him, alas! 


Who saw thee on that bridal day, . 

When that deep blush wou/d come o’er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 

The world all love before thee. 


TO M. L. S——. 


TO M. L.S——. 


Or all who hail thy presence as the morning— 
Of all to whom thine absence is the night— 

The blotting utterly from out high heaven 

The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee 
Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all, 

For the resurrection of deep-buried faith 

In Truth—in Virtue—in Humanity— 

Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed 

Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen 

At thy soft-murmured words, “ Let there be light !” 
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled 
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes— 

Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude 
Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember 

The truest—the most fervently devoted, 

And think that these weak lines are written by himn— 
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think 

His spirit is communing with an angel’s. 


Digitized by Google 


i 


EUREKA: A PROSE POEM. 


Digitized by Google 


EUREKA. 117 


EUREKA: 


THE MATERIAL AND SPIRITUAL UNIVERSE. 


~rw 


(To the few who love me and whom I love—to those who feel rather than to those 
who think—to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities— 
I offer this Book of Truths, not in its character of Truth-Teller, but for the Beauty that 
abounds in its Truth; constituting it true. To these I present the composition as an Art- 
. Product alone :—let us say as a Romance ; or, if I be not urging too lofty a claim, as a 
Poem. 

What I here propound is true :—therefore it cannot die :—or if by any means it be now 
trodden down so that it die, it will ‘rise again to the Life Everlasting.” 

Nevertheless it is as a Poem only that I wish this work to be judged after I am dead.] 


om 


_ Ir is with humility really unassumed—it is with a sentiment 
even of awe—that I pen the opening sentence of this work : for 
of all conceivable subjects I approach the reader with the most 
solemn—the most comprehensive—the most difficult—the most 
august. 

What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their sublimity— 
sufficiently sublime in their simplicity—for the mere enunciation 
of my theme ? 

I design to speak of the Physical, Metaphysical and Mathe- 
matical—of the Material and Spiritual Universe :—of its Es- 
sence, its Origin, tts Creation, its Present Condition and its 
Destiny. Ishall be so rash, moreover, as to challenge the con- 
clusions, and thus, in effect, to question the sagacity, of many of 
the greatest and most justly reverenced of men. 

In the beginning, let me as distinctly as possible announce— 
not the theorem which I hope to demonstrate—for, whatever the 


118 ) EUREKA 


mathematicians may assert, there is, in this world at least, no such 
thing as demonstration—but the ruling idea which, throughout 
this volume, I shall be continually endeavoring to suggest. 

My general proposition, then, is this :—Jn the Original Unity 
of the First Thing lies the Secondary Cause of All Things, with 
the Germ of their Inevitable Annihilation. 

In illustration of this idea, I propose to take such a survey of 
the Universe that the mind may be able really to receive and to 
perceive an individual impression. 

He who from the top of tna casts his eyes Icisurely around, 
is affected chiefly by the extent and diversity of the scene. Only 
by a rapid whirling on his heel could he hope to comprehend the 
panorama in the sublimity of its oneness. Butlas, on the summit 
of A‘tna, no man has thought of whirling on his heel, so no man 

has ever taken into his brain the full uniqueness of the prospect g 74 
"and so, again, whatever considerations lie involved in this unique- 
ness, have as yet no practical existence for mankind. 

I do not know a treatise in which a survey of the Universe— 
using the word in its most comprehensive and only legitimate 
acceptation—is taken at all :—and it may be as well here to men- 
tion that by the term “ Universe,” wherever employed without 
qualification in this essay, I mean to designate the utmost conceiva- 
ble expanse of space, with all things, spiritual and material, that 
can be imagined to exist within the compass of that expanse. In 
speaking of what is ordinarily implied by the expression, “ Um- 
verse,” I shall take a phrase of limitation—“ the Universe of stars.” 
Why this distinction is considered necessary, will be seen in the 
sequel. 

But even of treatises on the really limited, although always 
assumed as the wnlimited, Universe of stars, I know none in which 
a survey, even of this limited Universe, is so taken as to warrant 
deductions from its individuality. The nearest approach to such 
a work is made in the “Cosmos” of Alexander Von Humboldt. 
He presents the subject, however, not in its individuality but in 
its generality. His theme, in its last result, is the law of each 
portion of the merely physical Universe, as this law is related to 
the laws of every other portion of this merely physical Universe. 
His design is simply synceretical. In a word, he discusses the 


EUREKA. 119 


universality of material relation, and discloses to the eye of Philo- 
sophy whatever inferences have hitherto lain hidden behind this 
universality. But however admirable be the succinctness with 
which he has treated each particular point of his topic, the mere 
multiplicity of these points occasions, necessarily, an amount of 
detail, and thus an involution of idea, which preclude all indzvidu- 
ality of impression. 

It seems to me that, in aiming at this latter effect, ai through 
it, at the consequences—the conclusions—the suggestions—the 
speculations—or, if nothing better offer itself, the mere guesses 
which may result from it—we require something like -a mental 
gyration on the heel. We need so rapid a revolution of all things 
about the central point of sight that, while the minutie vanish 
altogether, even the more conspicuous objects become blended 
into one. Among the vanishing minutia, in a survey of this kind, 
would be all exclusively terrestrial matters. The Earth would be 
considered in its planetary relations alone. A man, in this view, 
becomes mankind; mankind a member of the cosmical family of 
Intelligences. | 

And now, before proceeding to our subject proper, let me beg 
the reader’s attention to an extract or two from a somewhat remark- 
able letter, which appears to have been found corked in a bottle 
and floating on the Mare Tenebrarum—an ocean well described 
by the Nubian geographer, Ptolemy Hephestion, but little fre- 
quented in modern days unless by the Transcendentalists and some 
other divers for crotchets. The date of this letter, I confess, sur- 
prises me even more particularly than its contents; for it seems 
to have been written in the year ¢wo thousand eight hundred and 
forty-eight. As for the passages I am about to transcribe, they, I 
fancy, will speak for themselves. 

“Do you know, my dear friend,” says the writer, addressing, no 
doubt, a contemporary—“ Do you know that it is scarcely more 
than eight or nine hundred years ago since the metaphysicians 
first consented to relieve the people of the singular fancy that there 
exist but two practicable roads to Truth? Believe it if you can! 
It appears, however, that long, long ago, in the night of Time, 
there lived a Turkish philosopher called Aries and surnamed Tot- 
tle.” [Here, possibly, the letter-writer means Aristotle; the best 


120 EUREKA. 


4 


names are wretchedly corrupted in two or three thousand years. | 
“The fame of this great man depended mainly upon his demon- 
stration that sneezing is a natural provision, by means of which 
over-profound thinkers are enabled to expel superfluous ideas 
through the nose; but he obtained a scarcely less valuable celeb- 
rity as the founder, or at all events as the principal propagator, of 
what was termed the deductive or @ priort philosophy. He started 
with what he maintained to be axioms, or self-evident truths :-— 
and the now well-understood fact that no truths are self-evident, 
really does not make in the slightest degree against his specula- 
tions :—it was sufficient for his purpose that the truths in question 
were evident at all. From axioms he proceeded, logically, to re- 
sults. His most illustrious disciples were one Tuclid, a geometri- 
cian,” [meaning Euclid] “and one Kant, a Dutchman, the origi- 
nator of that species of Transcendentalism which, with the change 
merely of a C for a K, now bears his peculiar name. 

“Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme, until the advent of one 
Hog, surnamed ‘the Ettrick shepherd,’ who preached an entirely 
different system, which he called the @ posteriori or inductive. 
His plan referred altogether to sensation. He proceeded by ob- 
serving, analyzing, and classifying facts—instantie Nature, as 
they were somewhat affectedly called—and arranging them into 
general laws. In a word, while the mode of Aries rested on 
noumena, that of Hog depended on phenomena ; and so great 
was the admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first 
introduction, Aries fell into general disrepute. Finally, however, 
he recovered ground, and was permitted to divide the empire of 
Philosophy with his more modern rival :—the savans contenting 
themselves with proscribing all other competitors, past, present, 
and to come; putting an end to all controversy on the topic by 
the promulgation of a Median law, to the effect that the Aristote- 
lian and Baconian roads are, and of right ought to be, the sole 
possible avenues to knowledge :—‘ Baconian,’ you must know, my 
dear friend,” adds the letter-writer at this point, “ was an adjective 
invented as equivalent to Hog-ian, and at the same time more 
dignified and euphonious. | 

“‘ Now I do assure you most positively”—proceeds the epistle— 
“that I represent these matters fairly; and you can easily under 


i 


EUREKA. 121 


Cd 


stand how restrictions so absurd on their very face must have ope- 
rated, in those days, to retard the progress of true Science, which 
makes its most important advances—as all History will show—by 
seemingly intuitive leaps. These ancient ideas confined investiga- 
tion to crawling; and I need not suggest to you that crawling, 
among varieties of locomotion, is a very capital thing of its kind ;— 
but because the tortoise is sure of foot, for this reason must we 
clip the wings of the eagles? For many centuries, so great was 
the infatuation, about Hog especially, that a virtual stop was put 
to all thinking, properly so called. No man dared utter a truth 
for which he felt himself indebted to his soul alone. It mattered 
not whether the truth was even demonstrably such; for the dog- 
matizing philosophers of that epoch regarded only the road by 
which it professed to have been attained. The end, with them, 
was a point of no moment, whatever :—‘ the means!’ they vocife- 
rated—‘ ket us look at the means!’—and if, on scrutiny of the 
means, it was found to come neither under the category Hog, 
nor under the category Aries (which means ram), why then the 
savans went no farther, but, calling the thinker a fool and brand- 
ing him a ‘theorist,’ would never, thenceforward, have any thing 
to do either with Aim or with his truths. 

“ Now, my dear friend,” continues the letter-writer, “it cannot 
be maintained that by the crawling system exclusively adopted, 
men would arrive at the maximum amount of truth, even in any 
long series of ages; for the repression of imagination was an evil 
not to be counterbalanced even by absolute certainty in the snail 
processes. But their certainty was very far from absolute. The 
error of our progenitors was quite analogous with that of the wise- 
acre who fancies he must necessarily see an object the more dis- 
tinctly, the more closely he holds it to his eyes. They blinded 
themselves, too, with the impalpable, titillating Scotch snuff of 
detail ; and thus the boasted facts of the Hog-ites were by no 
means always facts—a point of little importance but for the as- 
sumption that they always were. The vital taint, however, in 
Baconianism—its most lamentable fount of error—lay in its ten- 
dency to throw power and consideration into the hands of merely 
perceptive men—of those inter-Tritonic minnows, the microscopical 


savans--the diggers and pedlers of minute facts, for the most part 
Vou. IL—6. 


122 EUREKA. 


in physical science—facts, all of which they retailed at the same 
price upon the highway ; their value depending, it was supposed, 
simply upon the fact of their fact, without reference to their ap- 
plicability or inapplicability in the development of those ultimate 
and only legitimate facts, called Law. 

“Than the persons”—the letter goes on to say—“than the 
persons thus suddenly elevated by the Hog-ian philosophy into 
a station for which they were unfitted—thus transferred. from the 
sculleries into the parlors of Science—from its pantries into its 
pulpits—than these individuals a more intolerant—a more intoler- 
able set of bigots and tyrants never existed on the face of the 
earth. Their creed, their text, and their sermon were, alike, the 
one word ‘fact’—but, for the most part, even of this one word, 
they knew not even the meaning. On those who ventured to dis- 
turb their facts with the view of putting them in order and to use, 
the disciples of Hog had no mercy whatever. All attempts at 
generalization were met at once by the words ‘theoretical,’ ‘theo- 
ry, ‘theorist’—all thought, to be brief, was very properly resented 
as a personal affront to themselves, Cultivating the natural sci- 
ences to the exclusion of Metaphysics, the Mathematics, and Logic, 
many of these Bacon-engendered philosophers—one-idead, one- 
sided, and lame of a leg—were more wretchedly helpless—more 
miserably ignorant, in view of all the comprehensible objects of 
knowledge, than the veriest unlettered hind who proves that he 
knows something at least, in admitting that he knows absolutely 
‘nothing. - Ss 

“Nor had our forefathers any better right to talk about certazn- 
ty, when pursuing, in blind confidence, the @ priori path of axioms, 
or of the Ram. At innumerable points this path was scarcely as 
straight as aram’s-horn. The simple truth is, that the Aristote- 
lians erected their castles upon a basis far less reliable than air; 
for no such things as axioms ever existed or can possibly exist at all. 
This they must have been very blind indeed not to see, or at least 
to suspect;.for, even in their own day, many of their long-admitted 
‘axioms’ had been abandoned: ‘ex nihilo nihil fit, for example, 
and a ‘thing cannot act where it is not,’ and ‘there cannot be an- 
tipodes,’ and ‘darkness cannot proceed from light.’ These and 
numerous similar propositions formerly accepted, without hesita- 


EUREKA. 128 


tion, as axioms, or undeniable truths, were, even at the period of 
which I speak, seen to be altogether untenable :—how absurd in 
these people, then, to persist in relying upon a basis, as immutable, 
whose mutability had become so repeatedly manifest ! 

“But, even through evidence afforded by themselves against 
themselves, it is easy to convict these @ priori reasoners of the 
grossest unreason—it is easy to show the futility —the mnpelpee 
bility of their axioms in general. I have now lying before me”— 
it will be observed that we still proceed with the letter—“ I have 
now lying before me a book printed about a thousand years ago. 
Pundit assures me that it-is decidedly the cleverest ancient work 
on its topic, which is ‘Logic.’ The author, who was much esteem- 
ed in his day, was one Miller, or Mill; and we find it recorded of 
him, as a point of some importance, that he rode a mill-horse 
whom he called Jeremy Bentham :—but let us glance at the vol- 
ume itself. 

“ Ah !— Ability or inability to conceive, says Mr. Mill, very 
properly, ‘is 1m no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic 
truth.’ Now, that this is a palpable truism, no one in his senses 
will deny. ot to admit the proposition, is to insmuate a charge 
of variability in Truth itself, whose very title is a synonym of tho 
Steadfast. If ability to conceive be taken as a criterion of Truth, 
then a truth to David Hume would very seldom be a truth to 
Joe ; and ninety-nine hundredths of what is undeniable in Heaven, 
would be demonstrable falsity upon Earth. The proposition of 
Mr. Mill, then, is sustained. I will not grant it to be an arom ; 
and this merely because I am showing that no axioms exist ; but, 
with a distinction which could not have been cavilled at even by 
Mr. Mill himself, I am ready to grant that, if an axiom there be, 
then the proposition of which we speak has the fullest right to be 
considered an axiom—that no more absolute axiom 7s—and, con- 
sequently, that any subsequent proposition which shall conflict 
with this one primarily advanced, must be either a falsity in itself— 
that is to say, no axiom—or, if admitted axiomatic, must at once 
neutralize both itself and its predecessor. 7 

“ And now, by the logic of their own propounder, let us proceed 
to test any one of the axioms propounded. Let us give Mr. Mill 
the fairest of play. We will bring the point to no ordinary issue. 


124 EUREKA, 


We will select for investigation no common-place axiom—no axiom 
of what, not the less preposterously because only impliedly, he 
terms his secondary class—as if a positive truth by definition could 
be either more or less positively a truth : we will select, I say, no 
axiom of an unquestionability so questionable as is to be found in 
Euclid. We will not talk, for example, about such propositions 
as that two straight lines cannot enclose a space, or that the whole 
is greater than any one of its parts. We will afford the logician 
every advantage. We will come at once to a proposition which 
he regards as the acme of the unquestionable—as the quintessence 
of axiomatic undeniability. Here it is:—‘ Contradictions can- 
not both be true—that is, cannot cOexist in nature.’ Here Mr. 
Mill means, for instance,—and I give the most forcible instance 
conceivable,—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: all which is 
guite reasonable of itself, and will answer remarkably well as an 
axiom, until we bring it into collation with an axiom insisted upon 
a few pages before; in other words—words which I have previously 
employed—until we test it by the logic of its own propounder. 
‘A tree,’ Mr. Mill asserts, ‘must be either a tree or not a tree.’ 
Very well: and now let me ask him, why. To this little query 
there is but one response—I defy any man living to invent a second. 
The sole answer is this :—‘ Because we find it empossible to conceive 
that a tree can be anything else than a tree or not a tree.’ This, 
Trepeat, is Mr. Mill’s sole answer—he will not pretend to suggest 
another; and yet, by his own showing, his answer is clearly no 
answer at all—for has he not already required us to admit, as an 
axiom, that ability or inability to conceive, is in no case to be taken 
as a criterion of axiomatic truth? Thus all—absolutely all his 
argumentation is at sea without a rudder. Let it not be urged 
that an exception from the general rule is to be made, in cases 
where the ‘impossibility to conceive’ is so peculiarly great as when 
we are called upon to conceive a tree both a tree and not a tree. 
Let no attempt, I say, be made at urging this sotticism; for, in 
the first place, there are no degrees of ‘impossibility,’ and thus no 
one impossible conception can be more peculiarly impossible than 
another impossible conception: in the second place, Mr. Mill him- 
self—no doubt after thorough deliberation—has most distinctly, 


EUREKA. 125 


and most rationally, excluded all opportunity for exception, by 
the emphasis of his proposition, that, an no case, is ability or ina- 
bility to conceive, to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic truth : 
in the third place, even were exceptions admissible at all, it remains 
to be shown how any exception is admissible here. That a tree 
can be both a tree and not a tree, is an idea which the angels, or 
the devils, may entertain, and which no doubt many an earthly 
Bedlamite, or Trancendentalist, does. 

“ Now I do not quarrel with these ancients,” continues the let- 
ter-writer, “so much on account of the transparent frivolity of their 
logic—which, to be plain, was baseless, worthless, and fantastic 
altogether—as on account of their pompous and infatuate proscrip- 
tion of all other roads to Truth than the two narrow and crooked 
paths—the one of creeping and the other of crawling—to which, 
in their ignorant perversity, they have dared to confine the Soul— 
the Soul which loves nothing so well as to soar in those regions of 
illimitable intuition which are utterly cognizant of ‘path,’ 

“By the by, my dear friend, is it not an evidence of the mental 
slavery entailed upon those bigoted people by their Hogs and 
Rams, that in spite of the eternal prating of their savans about 
roads to Truth, none of them fell, even by accident, into what we 
now so distinctly perceive to be the broadest, the straightest, and 
most available of all mere roads—the great thoroughfare—the 
majestic highway of the Consistent? Is it not wonderful that 
they should have failed to deduce from the works of God the 
vitally momentous consideration that a perfect consistency can be 
nothing but an absolute truth 2? How plain—how rapid our pro- 
gress since the late announcement of this proposition! By its 
means, investigation has been taken out of the hands of the ground- 
moles, and given as a duty, rather than as a task, to the true— 
to the only true thinkers—to the generally-educated men of ardent 
imagination. .These latter—our Keplers—our Laplaces—‘ specu- 
late-—‘ theorize’-—these are the terms—can you not fancy the 
shout of scorn with which they would be received by our pro- 
genitors, were it possible for them to be looking over my shoul- 
ders as I write? The Keplers, I repeat, speculate—theorize—and 
their theories are merely correcte : cleared, lit- 
tle by little, of their chaff of inconsistency—until at length there 


126 EUREKA. 


stands apparent an unencumbered Conszstency—a consistency 
which the most stolid admit—because it 78 a consistency—to be 
an absolute and unquestionable Truth. 

“T have often thought, my friend, that it must have puzzled 
these dogmaticians of a thousand years ago, to determine, even, 
by which of their two boasted roads it is that the cryptographist 
attains the solution of the more complicated cyphers—or by which 
of them Champollion guided mankind to those important and in- 
numerable truths which, for so many centuries, have lain entombed 
amid the phonetical hieroglyphics of Egypt. In especial, would 
it got have given these bigots some trouble to determine by which 
of their two roads was reached the most momentous and sublime 
of all their truths—the truth—the fact of gravitation? Newton 
deduced it from the laws of Kepler. Kepler admitted that these 
laws he guessed—these laws whose investigation disclosed to the 
greatest of British astronomers that principle, the basis of ‘all 
(existing) physical principle, in goiny behind which we enter at 
once the nebulous kingdom of Metaphysics. Yes !—these vital 
laws Kepler guessed—that is to say, he imagined them. Had he 
been asked to point out either the deductive or zrductive route by 
which he attained them, his reply might have been—‘I know 
nothing about rouwtes—but I do know the machinery of the Uni- 
verse. Here itis. I grasped it with my sou/—I reached it through 
mere dint of cntueteon. Alas, poor ignorant old man! Could not 
any metaphysician have told him that what he called ‘intuition’ 
was but the conviction resulting from deductions or inductions of 
which the processes were so shadowy as to have escaped his con- 
sciousness, eluded his reason, or bidden defiance to his capacity of 
expression? How great a pity it is that some ‘moral philoso- 
pher’ had not enlightened him about all this! How it would 
have comforted him on his death-bed to know that, instead of 
having gone intuitively and thus unbecomingly, he had, in fact, 
proceeded decorously and legitimately—that is to say Hog-ishly, 
or at least Ram-ishly—into the vast halls where lay gleaming, 
untended, and hitherto untouched by mortal hand—unseen by 
mortal eye—the imperishable and priceless secrets of the Uni- 
verse ! 

“Yes, Kepler was essentially a theorist ; but this title, now of 


EUREKA. 127 


so much sanctity, was, in those ancient days, a designation of su- 
preme contempt. It is only now that men begin to appreciate 
that divine old man—-to sympathise with the prophetical and 
poetical rhapsody of his ever memorable words. For my part,” 
continues the unknown correspondent, “I glow with a sacred fire 
when I even think of them, and feel that I shall never grow weary 
of their repetition :—in concluding this letter, let me have the real 
pleasure of transcribing them once again :—‘J care not whether 
my work be read now or by posterity. Ican afford to wait a cen- 
tury for readers when God himself has waited siz thousand years 
for an observer. I triumph. I have stolen the golden secret of the 
Egyptians. I will indulge my sacred fury.” . 

Here end my quotations from this very unaccountable and, per- 
haps, somewhat impertinent epistle; and perhaps it would be folly 
to comment, in-any respect, upon the chimerical, not to say revo- 
lutionary, fancies of the writer—whoever he is—fancies so radically 
at war with the well-considered and well-settled opinions of this 
age. Let us proceed, then, to our legitimate thesis, The Universe. 

This thesis admits a choice between two modes of discussion :— 
We may ascend or descend. Beginning at our own point of view, 
at the Earth on which we stand, we may pass to the other planets 
of our system, thence to the Sun, thence to our system considered 
collectively, and thence, through other systems, indefinitely out- 
wards ; or, commencing on high at some point as definite as we 
can make it or conceive it, we may come down to the habitation 
of Man. Usually, that is to say, in ordinary essays on Astronomy, 
the first of these two modes is, with certain reservation, adopted : 
this for the obvious reason that astronomical facts, merely, and 
principles, being the object, that object is best fulfilled in stepping 
from the known because proximate, gradually onward to the point 
where all certitude becomes lost in the remote. For my present 
purpose, however, that of enabling the mind to take in, as if from 
afar and at one glance, a distant conception of the individual Uni- 
verse—it is clear that a descent to small from great—to the out- 
skirts from the centre (if we could establish a centre)—to the end 
from the beginning (if we could fancy a beginning) would be the 
preferable course, but for the difficulty, if not impossibility, of pre- 
senting, in this course, to the unastronomical, a picture at all com- 


128 EUREKA. 


prehensible in regard to such considerations as are involved in 
guantity—that is to say, in number, magnitude and distance. 

Now, distinctness—intellivibility, at all points, is a primary fea- 
ture in my general design. On important topics it is better to be 
a good deal prolix than even a very little obscure. But abstruse- 
ness is a quality appertaining to no subject per se. All are alike, 
in facility of comprehension, to him who approaches them by 
properly graduated steps. It is merely because a stepping-stone, 
here and there, is heedlessly left unsupplied in our road to Differ- 
ential Calculus, that this latter is not altogether as simple a thing 
as a sonnet by Mr. Solomon Seesaw. 

By way of admitting, then, no chance for misapprehension, I 
think it advisable to proceed as if even the more obvious facts of 
Astronomy were unknown to the reader. In combining the two 
modes of discussion to which I have referred, 1 propose to avail 
myself of the advantages peculiar to each—and very especially of 
the iteration in detail which will be unavoidable as a consequence 
of the plan. Commencing with a descent, I shall reserve for the 
return upwards those indispensable considerations of quantity to 
which allusion has already been made. 

Let us begin, then, at once, with that merest of words, “ Infin- 
ity.” This, like “God,” “spirit,” and some other expressions of 
which the equivalents exist in all languages, is by no means the 
expression of an idea, but of an effort at one. It stands for the 
possible attempt at an impossible conception. Man needed a term 
by which to point out the direction of this effort—the cloud be- 
hind which lay, forever invisible, the olject of this attempt. A 
word, in fine, was demanded, by means of which one human being 
might put himself in relation at once with another human being 
and with a certain tendency of the human intellect. Out of. this 
demand arose the word, “ Infinity ;” which is thus the representa- 
tive but of the thought of a thought. 

As regards that infinity now considered—the infinity of space— 
we often hear it said that “its idea is admitted by the mind—is 
acquiesced in—is entertaincd—on account of the greater difficulty 
which attends the conception of a limit.” But this is merely one 
of those phrases by which even profound thinkers, time out of 
mind, have occasionally taken pleasure in deceiving themselves, 


EUREKA. : 129 


The quibble lies concealed in the word “ difficulty.” “ The mind,” 
we are told, “entertains the idea of lemutless, through the greater 
difficulty which it finds in entertaining that of limited, space.” 
Now, were the proposition but fairly put, its absurdity would 
become transparent at once. Clearly, there is no mere difficulty 
in the case. ‘The assertion intended, if presented according to its 
intention, and without sophistry, would run thus:—“The mind 
admits the idea of limitless, through the greater impossibility of 
entertaining that of limited, space.” 

It must be immediately seen that this is not a question of two 
statements between whose respective credibilities—or of two argu- 
ments between whose respective validities—the reason is called 
upon to decide :—it is a matter of two conceptions, directly con- 
flicting, and each avowedly impossible, one of which the intedlect is 
supposed to be capable of entertaining, on account of the greater 
impossibility of entertaining the other. The choice is not made 
between two difficulties; it is merely fancied to be made between 
two impossibilities. Now of the former, there are degrees, but of 
the latter, none :—just as our impertinent letter-writer has already 
suggested. A task may be more or less difficult; but it is either 
possible or not possible—there are no gradations. It might be 
more difficult to overthrow the Andes than an ant-hill; but it can 
be no more impossible to annihilate the matter of the one than the 
matter of the other. A man may jump ten feet with less difficulty 
than he can jump twenty, but the impossibility of his leaping to 
the moon is not a wit less than that of his leaping to the dog- 
star. 

Since all this 1s undeniable: since the choice of the mind is to 
be made between zempossibilities of conception: since one impossi- 
bility cannot be greater than another: and since, thus, one cannot 
be preferred to another: the philosophers who not only maintain, 
on the grounds mentioned, man’s zdea of infinity but, on account 
of such suppositious idea, infinzty ztself—are plainly engaged in 
demonstrating one impossible thing to be possible by showing how 
it is that some one other thing—is impossible too. This, it will 
be said, is nonsense, and perhaps it is ; indeed I think it very cap- 
ital nonsense, but forego all claim to it as nonsense of mine. 

The readiest mode, however, of displaying the fallacy of the 

gt 


130 EUREKA. 


philosophical argument on this question, is by simply adverting to 
a fact respecting it which has been hitherto quite overlooked—the 
fact that the argument alluded to both proves and disproves its 
own proposition. “The mind is impelled,” say the theologians 
and others, “to admit a First Cause, by the superior difficulty it 
experiences in conceiving cause beyond cause without end.” The 
quibble, as before, lies in the word “ difficulty,” but here what is it 
employed to sustain? A First Cause. And what is a First Cause ? 
An ultimate termination of causes. And what is an ultimate ter- 
mination of causes? Finity—the Finite. Thus the one quibble, 
in two processes, by God knows how many philosophers, is made 
to support now Finity and now Infinity ; could it not be brought 
to support something besides? As for the quibbles, they, at least, 
are insupportable. But, to dismiss them; what they prove in 
the one case is the identical nothing which they demonstrate in 
the other. 

Of course, no one will suppose that I here contend for the 
absolute impossibility of that which we attempt to convey in the 
word “Infinity.” My purpose is but to show the folly of endeay- 
oring to prove Infinity itself, or even our conception of it, by any 
such blundering ratiocination as that which is ordinarily employed. 

Nevertheless, as an individual, I may be permitted to say that I 
cannot conceive Infinity, and am convinced that no human being 
can. A mind not thoroughly self-conscious, not accustomed to the 
introspective analysis of its own operations, will, it is true, often 
deceive itself by supposing that it has entertained the conception 
of which we speak. In the effort to entertain it, we proceed step 
beyond step, we fancy point still beyond point; and so long as 
we continue the effort, it may be said, in fact, that we are tending 
to the formation of the idea designed ; while the strength of the 
impression that we actually form or have formed, is in the ratio 
of the period during wh.<h we keep up the mental endeavor. But 
it is in the act of discon‘nuing the endeavor—of fulfilling {as we 
think) the idea—of putting the finishing stroke (as we suppose) to 
the conception—that we overthrow at once the whole fabric of our 
fancy by resting upon some one ultimate, and, therefore, definite 
point. This fact, however, we fail to perceive, on account of the 
absolute coincidence, in time, between the settling down upon the 


EUREKA. 131 


ultimate point and the act of cessation in thinking. In attempting, 
on the other hand, to frame the idea of a limited space, we carey 
converse the processes which involve the impossibility. 

We believe ina God. We may or may not believe in finite or in 
infinite space; but our belief, in such cases, is more properly desig- 

nated as fazth, and is a matter quite distinct from that belief prop- 
er—from that intellectual belief—which presupposes the “mental 
conception. 

The fact is, that, upon the enunciation of any one of that class 
of terms to which “Infinity” belongs—the class representing 
thoughts of thought—he who has a right to say that he thinks at 
all, feels himself called upon, not to entertain a conception, but 
simply to direct his mental vision toward some given point, in the 
intellectual firmament, where lies a nebula never to be resolved. 
To solve it, indeed, he makes no effort; for with a rapid instinct 
he comprehends, not only the impossibility, but, as regards all 
human purposes, the znessentiality of its solution. He perceives 
that the Deity has not designed it to be solved. He sees, at once, 
that it lies owt of the brain of man, and even how, if not exactly 
why, it lies out of it. There are people, I am aware, who, busy- 
ing themselves in attempts at the unattainable, acquire very easily, 
by dint of the jargon they emit, among those thinkers-that-they- 
think with whom darkness and depth are synonymous, a kind of 
cuttle-fish reputation for profundity; but the finest quality of 
Thought is its self-cognizance ; and with some little equivocation, 
it may be said that no fog of the mind can well be greater than 
that which, extending to the very boundaries of the mental do- 
main, shuts out even these boundaries themselves from compre- 
hension. 

It will now be understood that, in using the phrase, “ Infinity 
of Space,” I make no call upon the reader to entertain the im- 
possible conception of an absolute infinity. I refer simply to the 
“ utmost conceivable expanse” of space—a shadowy and fluctuating 
domain, now shrinking, now swelling, in accordance with the vacil- 
lating energies of the imagination. 

Hitherto, the Universe of stars has always been considered as 
coincident with the Universe proper, as I have defined it in the 
commencement of this Discourse. It has been always-either di- 


182 EUREKA. 


rectly or indirectly assumed—at least since the dawn of intelligible 
Astronomy—that, were it possible fur us to attain any given point 
in space, we should still find, on all sides of us, an interminable 
succession of stars. This was the untenable idea of Pascal when 
making perhaps the most successful attempt ever made, at peri- 
phrasing the conception for which we struggle in the word 
“Universe.” “It is a sphere,” he says, “of which the centre is 
everywhere, the circumference, nowhere.” But although this 
intended definition is, in fact, no definition of the Universe of 
stars, we may accept it, with some mental reservation, as a defim- 
tion (rigorous enough for all practical purposes) of the Universe 
proper—that is to say, of the Universe of space. This latter, 
then, let us regard as “a sphere of which the centre 1s every- 
where, the circumference nowhere.” In fact, while we find it im- 
possible to fancy an end to space, we have no difficulty in picturing 
to ourselves any one of an infinity of beginnings. 

As our starting point, then, let us adopt the Godhead. Of this 
Godhead, in ctself, he alone is not imbecile—he alone is not im- 
pious who propounds nothing. “ Mous ne connaissons rien,” 
says the Baron de Bielfeld— Nous ne connaissons rien de la 
nature ou de [essence de Dieu :—pour savior ce quil est, al faut 
étre Dieu méme.”——“ We know absolutely nothing of the nature 
or essence of God :—in orca to one what he is, we should 
have to be God ourselves.” 

“We should have to be God ourselves /’—With a phrase so 
startling as this yet ringing in my ears, I nevertheless venture to 
demand if this our present ignorance of the Deity is an ignorance 
to which the soul is everlastingly condemned. 

By Him, however—novw, at least, the Incomprehensible—by 
Hin-accamint him as Spirtt—that is to say, as not Matter—a 
distinction which, for all intelligible purposes, will stand well 
instead of a definition—by Him, then, existing as Spirit, let us 
content ourselves, to-night, with supposing to have been created, 
or made out of Nothing, by dint of his Volition—at some point 
of Space which we will take as a centre—at some period into 
which we do not pretend to inquire, but at all évents immensely 
remote—by Him, then again, let us suppose to have been cre- 
ated what? This is a vitally momentous epoch in our con- 


EUREKA. 138 


siderations. What is it that we are justified—that alone we are 
justified in supposing to have been, primarily and solely, created ? 

We have attained a point where only Jntuition can aid us :— 
but now let me recur to the idea which I have already suggested 
as that alone which we can properly entertain of intuition. It is 
but the conviction arising from those inductions or deductions of 
which the processes are so shadowy as to escape our consciousness, 
elude our reason, or defy our capacity of expression. With this 
understanding, I now assert—that an intuition altogether irresist- 
ible, although inexpressible, forces me to the conclusion that what 
God originally created—that that Matter which, by dint of his 
Volition, he first made from his Spirit, or from Nihility, could 
have been nothing but Matter in its utmost conceivable state of 
what '—of Szemplicity ? 

This will be found the sole absolute assumption of my Discourse. 
I use the word “ assumption” in its ordinary sense; yet I main- 
tain that even this my primary proposition, is very, very far 
indeed, from being really a mere assumption. Nothing was ever 
more certainly—no human conclusion was ever, in fact, more regu- 
larly—more rigorously deduced :—but, alas! the processes lie out 
of the human analysis—at all events are beyond the utterance of 
the human tongue. 

Let us now endeavor to conceive what Matter must be, when, 
or if, in its absolute extreme of Szmplicity. Here the Reason 
flies at once to Imparticularity—to a particle—to one particle— 
a particle of one kind—of one character—of one nature—of one 
size—of one form—a particle, therefore, “ without form and void” 
--a particle positively a particle at all points—a particle abso- 
lutely unique, individual, undivided, and not indivisible only 
because Ie who created it, by dint of his Will, can by an infi- 
nitely less energetic exercise of the same Will, as a matter of 
course, divide it. 

Oneness, then, is all that I predicate of the originally created 
Matter ; but I propose to show that this Oneness is a principle 
abundantly sufficient to account for the constitution, the existing 
phenomena and the plainly inevitable annihilation of at least the 
material Universe. | 

The willing into being the primordial particle, has completed 


184 . EUREKA. 


the act, or more properly the conception of Creation. We now 
proceed to the ultimate purpose for which we are to suppose the 
Particle created—that is to say, the ultimate purpose so far as our 
considerations yet enable us to see it—the constitution of the 
Universe from it, the Particle. 

This constitution has been effected by forcing the originally 
and therefore normally One into the abnormal condition of Many. 
An action of this character implies réaction. A diffusion from 
Unity, under the conditions, involves a tendency to retum into 
Unity—a tendency ineradicable until satisfied. But on these 
points I will speak more fully hereafter. 

The assumption of absolute Unity in the primordial Particle 
includes that of infinite divisibility. Let us conceive the Particle, 
then, to be only not totally exhausted by diffusion into Space. 
From the one Particle, as a centre, let us suppose to be irradiated 


spherically—in all directions—to immeasurable but still definite | 


distances in the previously vacant space—a certain inexpressibly 
great yet limited number of unimaginably yet not infinitely minute 
atoms. 

Now, of these atoms, thus diffused, or upon diffusion, what 
conditions are we permitted—not to assume, but to infer, from 
consideration as well of their source as of the character of the 
design apparent in their diffusion? Unity being their source, and 
difference from Unity the character of the design manifested in 
their diffusion, we are warranted in supposing this character to be at 
least generally preserved throughout the design, and to form a por- 
tion of the design itself :—that is to say, we shall be warranted in 
conceiving continual differences at all points from the uniquity and 
simplicity of the origin. But, for these reasons, shall we be justi- 
fied in imagining the atoms heterogeneous, dissimilar, unequal, 
and inequidistant? More explicitly—are we to consider no two 
atoms as, at their diffusion, of the same nature, or of the same 
form, or of the same size !/—and, after fulfilment of their diffusion 
into Space, 1s absolute inequidistance, each from each, to be under- 
stood of all of them? In such arrangement, under such condi- 
tions, we most easily and immediately comprehend the subsequent 
most feasible carrying out to completion of any such design as that 
which I have suggested—the design of variety out of unity— 


EUREKA. 135 


——— 


diversity out of sameness—heterogeneity, out of homogeneity— 
_ complexity out of simplicity—in a word, the utmost possible 
multiplicity of relation out of the emphatically irrelative One. 
Undoubtedly, therefore, we should be warranted in assuming all 
that has been mentioned, but for the reflection, first, that supere- 
rogation is not presumable of any Divine Act; and, secondly, that 
the object supposed in view, appears as feasible when some of the 
conditions in question are dispensed with, in the beginning, as 
when all are understood immediately to exist. I mean to say that 
some are involved in the rest, or so instantaneous a consequence 
of them as to.make the distinction inappreciable. Difference of 
size, for example, will at once be brought about through the ten- 
dency of one atom to a second, in preference to a third, on account 
of particular inequidistance ; which is to be comprehended as par- 
ticular inequidistances between centres of quantity, in neighboring 
atoms of different form—a matter not at all interfering with the 
_ generally-equable distribution of the atoms. Difference of kind, 
tco, is easily conceived to be merely a result of differences in size 
and form, taken more or less conjointly :—in fact, since the Unity 
of the Particle Proper implies absolute homogeneity, we cannot 
imagine the atoms, at their diffusion, differing in kind, without 
imagining, at the same time, a special exercise of the Divine Will, 
at the emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting, in 
each, a change of its essential nature :—so fantastic an idea is the 
less to be indulged, as the object proposed is seen to be thoroughly 
attainable without such minute and elaborate interposition. We 
perceive, therefore, upon the whole, that it would be supereroga- 
tory, and consequently unphilosophical, to predicate of the atoms, 
in view of their purposes, any thing more than difference of form 
at their dispersion, with particular inequidistance after it—all other 
differences arising at once out of these, in the very first processes 
of ‘mass-constitution :—We thus establish the Universe on a 
purely geometrical basis. Of course, it is by no means necessary | 
to assume absolute difference, even of form, among al/ the atoms 
irradiated—any more than absolute particular inequidistance of 
each from each. We are required to conceive merely that no 
neighboring atoms are of similar form—no atoms which can ever 
approximate, until their inevitable réunition at the end. | 


1386 EUREKA. 


Although the immediate and perpetual tendency of the disunited 
atoms to return into their normal Unity, is implied, as I have said, 
in their abnormal diffusion, still it is clear that this tendency will 
be without consequence—a tendency and no more—until the dif- 
fusive energy, in ceasing to be exerted, shall leave 7é, the tendency, 
free to seek its satisfaction. The Divine Act, however, being con- 
sidered as determinate, and discontinued on fulfilment of the diffu- 
sion, we understand, at once, a réaction—in other words, a satis- 
fiable tendency of the disunited atoms to return into One. 

But the diffusive energy being withdrawn, and the réaction hav- 
ing commenced in furtherance of the ultimate design—that of the 
utmost possible Relation—this design is now in saneer of being 
frustrated, in detail, by reason of that very tendency to return 
which is to effect its accomplishment in general. Multiplicity is 
the object; but there is nothing to prevent proximate atoms from 
lapsing at once, through the now satisfiable tendency—before the 
fulfilment of any ends proposed in multiplicity—into absolute one- 
ness among themselves :—there is nothing to impede the aggre- 
gation of various unique masses, at various points of space :—in 
other words, nothing to interfere with the accumulation of various 
masses, each absolutely One. 

For the effectual and thorough completion of the real design, 
we thus see the necessity for a repulsion of limited capacity—a 
separative something which, on withdrawal of the diffusive Volition, 
shall at the same time allow the approach, and forbid the junction, 
of the atoms; suffering them infinitely to approximate, while de- 
nying them positive contact; in a word, having the power—up to 
a certain epoch—of preventing their coalition, but no ability to 
interfere with their coalescence in any respect or degree. The re- 
pulsion, already considered as so peculiarly limited in other re- 
gards, must be understood, let me repeat, as having power to pre- 
vent absolute coalition, only up to a certain epoch. Unless we are 
to conceive that the appetite for Unity among the atoms is doomed 


to be satisfied never ;-—unless we are to conceive that what had a . 


beginning is to have no end—a conception which cannot really be 
entertained, however much we may talk or dream of entertaining 
it—we are forced to conclude that the repulsive influence imagin- 
ed, will, finally—under pressure of the Uni-tendency collectively 


a — -- 
7 ' ‘ 


EUREKA. 137 


applied, but never and in no degree unéil, on fulfilment of the Di- 
vine purposes, such collective application shall be naturally made— 
yield to a force which, at that ultimate epoch, shall be the superior 
force precisely to the extent required, and thus permit the univer- 
sal subsidence into the inevitable, because original and therefore 
normal, One. The conditions here to be reconciled are difficult 
indeed :—we cannot even comprehend the possibility of their con- 
ciliation ;—nevertheless, the apparent impossibility is brilliantly 
sugvestive. 

That the repulsive something actually exists, we see. Man nei- 
ther employs, nor knows, a force sufficient to bring two atoms 
into contact. This is but the well-established proposition of the 
impenetrability of matter. All Experiment proves—all Philosophy 
admits it. The design of the repulsion—the necessity for its exist- 
ence—lI have endeavored to show; but from all attempt at investi- 
gating its nature have religiously abstained ; this on account of an 
intuitive conviction that the principle at issue is strictly spiritual— 
lies in a recess impervious to our present understanding—lies in- 
volved in a consideration of what now—in our human state—is 
not to be considered—in a consideration of Spirit in itself. I feel, 
in a word, that here the God has interposed, and here only, because 
here and here only the knot demanded the interposition of the 
God. , 

In fact, while the tendency of the diffused atoms to return into 
Unity, will be recognised, at once, as the principle of the New- 
tonian Gravity, what I have spoken of as a repulsive influence 
prescribing limits to the (immediate) satisfaction of the tendency, 
will be understood as that which we have been in the practice of 
designating now as heat, now as magnetism, now as electricity ; 
displaying our ignorance of its awful character in the vacillation of 
the phraseology with which we endeavor to circumseribe it. 

Calling it, merely for the moment, electricity, we know that all 
experimental analysis of electricity has given, as an ultimate result, 
the principle, or seeming principle, heterogeneity. Only where 
things differ, is electricity apparent; and it is presumable that 
they never differ where it is not developed at least, if not apparent. 
Now, this result is in the fullest keeping with that which I have 
reached unempirically. The design of the repulsive influence I 


188 / EUREKA. 


have maintained to be that of preventing immediate Unity among 
the diffused atoms; and these atoms are represented as different 
each from each. Difference is their character—their essentiality— 
just as no-difference was the essentiality of their course. When 
we say, then, that an attempt to bring any two of these atoms 
together would induce an effort, on the part of the repulsive influ- 
ence, to prevent the contact, we may as well use the strictly con- 
vertible sentence that an attempt to bring together any two differ- 
ences will result in a development of electricity. All existing 
bodies, of course, are composed of these atoms in proximate con- 
tact, and are therefore to be considered as mere assemblages of 
more or fewer differences ; and the resistance made by the repul- 
sive spirit, on bringing together any two such assemblages, would 
be in the ratio of the two sums of the differences in each :—an ex- 
pression which, when reduced, is equivalent to this :—The amount 
of electricity developed on the approximation of two bodies, is pro- 
portional to the difference between the respective sums of the atoms 
of which the bodies are composed. That no two bodies are abso- 
lutcly alike, is a simple corollary from all that has been here said. 
Electricity, therefore, existing always, is developed whenever any 
bodies, but manifested only when bodies of appreciable difference, 
are brought into approximation. 

To electricity—so, for the present, continuing to call it—we 
may not be wrong in referring the various physical appearances of 
light, heat and magnetism; but far less shall we be liable to err 
in attributing to this strictly spiritural principle the more impor- 
tant phenomena of vitality, consciousness and Thought. On this 
topic, however, I need pause here merely to suggest that these 
phzenomena, whether observed generally or in detail, seem to pro- 
ceed at least in the ratio of the heterogeneous. 

Discarding now the two equivocal terms, “gravitation” and 
“electricity,” let us adopt the more definite expressions, “ attrac- 
tion” and “repulsion.” The former is the body; the latter the 
soul: the one is the material; the other the spiritual, principle of 
the Universe. Vo other principles exist, All phenomena are re- 
ferable to one, or to the other, or to both combined. So rigor- 
ously is this the case—so thoroughly demonstrable is it that at- 
traction and repulsion are the sole properties through which we 


EUREKA. 139 


perceive the Universe—in other words, by which Matter is mani- 
fested to Mind—that, for all merely argumentative purposes, we 
are fully justified in assuming that matter exists only as attraction 
and repulsion—that attraction and repulsion are matter :—there 
being no conceivable case in which we may not employ the term 
“matter” and the terms “attraction” and “repulsion,” taken to- 
gether, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, expressions in 
Logic. 

I said, just now, that what I have described as the tendency of 
the diffused atoms to return into their original unity, would be 
understood as the principle of the Newtonian law of gravity ; 
and, in fact, there can be but little difficulty in such an under- 
standing, if we look at the Newtonian gravity in a merely general 
view, a8 a force impelling matter to seek matter; that is to say, 
when we pay no attention to the known modus operandi of the 
Newtonian force. The general coincidence satisfies us; but, upon 
looking closely, we see, in detail, much that appears incoinci- 
dent, and much in regard to which no coincidence, at least, is es- 
tablished. For example: the Newtonian gravity, when we think 
of it in certain moods, does not seem to be a tendency to oneness 
at all, but rather a tendency of all bodies in all directions—a phrase 
apparently expressive “of a tendency to diffusion. Here, then, is 
an zncoincidence. Again; when we reflect on the mathematical 
law governing the Newtonian tendency, we see clearly that no 
coincidence has been made good, in respect of the modus operand:, 
at least, between gravitation as known to exist and that seemingly 
simple and direct tendency which I have assumed. 

In fact, I have attained a point at which it will be advisable to 
strengthen my position by reversing my processes. So far, we 
have gone on @ priori, from an abstract consideration of Simplici- 
ty, as that quality most likely to have characterized the original 
action of God. Let us now see whether the established facts of 
the Newtonian Gravitation may not afford us, @ posteriort, some 
legitimate inductions. 

What does the Newtonian law declare? That all bodies attract 
each other with forces proportional to the squares of their distan- 
ces. Purposely, I have given, in the first place, the vulgar version 
of the law; and I confess that in this, as in most other vulgar ver- 


140 EUREKA. 


sions of great truths, we find little of a suggestive character. Let 
us now adopt a more philosophical phraseology :—Lvery atom, of 
every body, attracts every other atom, both of rts own and of every 
other body, with a force which varies inversely as the squares of 
the distances between the attracting and attracted atom. Here, 
indeed, a flood of suggestion bursts upon the mind. 

But let us see distinctly what it was that Newton proved—ac- 
cording to the grossly irrational definitions of proof prescribed by 
the metaphysical schools. He was forced to content himself with 
showing how thoroughly the motions of an imaginary Universe, 
composed of attracting and attracted atoms obedient to the law he 
announced, coincide with those of the actually existing Universe 
so far as it comes under our observation. This was the amount of 
his demonstration—that is to say, this was the amount of it, ac- 
cording to the conventional cant of the “ philosophies.” His suc- 
cesses added proof multiplied by proof—such proof as a sound in- 
tellect admits—but the demonstration of the law itself, persist the 
metaphysicians, had not been strengthened in any degree. ‘* Oc- 
ular, physical proof,” however, of attraction, here upon Earth, in 
accordance with the Newtonian theory, was, at length, much to 
the satisfaction of some intellectual grovellers, afforded. This 
proof arose collaterally and incidentally (as nearly all Important 
truths have arisen) out of an attempt to ascertain the mean den- 
sity of the Earth. In the famous Maskelyne, Cavendish and Bailly 
experiments for this purpose, the attraction of the mass of a moun- 
tain was seen, felt, measured, and found to be mathematically con- 
sistent with the immortal theory of the British astronomer. 

But in spite of this confirmation of that which needed none—in 
epite of the so-called corroboration of the “ theory” by the so-called 
“ocular and physical proof’—in spite of the character of this cor- 
roboration—the ideas which even really philosophical men cannot 
help imbibing of gravity—and, especially, the ideas of it which 
ordinary men get and contentedly maintain, are seen to have been 
derived, for the most part, from a consideration of the principle as 
they find it developed—merely in the planet upon which they 
stand. 

Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend—to what 
specics of error does it give rise? On the Earth we see and feel, 


A 
* 


as ant: 


EUREKA. 141 


only that gravity impels all bodies towards the centre of the Earth. 
No man in the common walks of life could be made to see or feel 
anything else—could be made to perceive that anything, any- 
where, has a perpetual, gravitating tendency in any other direct- 
tion than to the centre of the Earth; yet (with an exception 
hereafter to be specified) it is a fact that every earthly 
thing (not to speak now of every heavenly thing) has a tendency 
not only to the Earth’s centre but in every conceivable direction 
besides. 

Now, although the philosophic cannot be said to err with the 
vulgar in this matter, they nevertheless permit themselves to be 
influenced, without knowing it, by the sentiment of the vulgar idea. 
“ Although the Pagan fables are not believed,” says Bryant, in his 
very erudite “ Mythology,” “yet we forget ourselves continually 
and make inferences from them as from existing realities.” I 
mean to assert that the merely sensitive perception of gravity as 
we experience it on Earth, beguiles mankind into the fancy of 
concentralization or especiality respecting it—has been continually 
biasing towards this fancy even the mightiest intellects—perpetu- 
ally, although imperceptibly, leading them away from the real 
characteristics of the principle; thus preventing them, up to this 
date, from ever getting a glimpse of that vital truth which hes in 
a diametrically opposite direction—behind the principle’s essenteal 
characteristics—those, not of concentralization or especiality—but 
of universality and diffusion. This “vital truth” is Unity as the 
source of the phenomenon. 

Let me now repeat the definition of gravity :—very atom, of 
every body, attracts every other atom, both of tts own and of every 
other body, with a force which varies inversely as the squares of 
the distances of the attracting and attracted atom. 

Here let the reader pause with me, for a moment, in contem- 
plation of the miraculous—of the ineffable—of the altogether 
unimaginable complexity of relation involved in the fact that each 
atom attracts every other atom—involved merely in this fact of the 
attraction, without reference to the law or mode in which the 
attraction is manifested—involved merely in the fact that each 
atom attracts every other atom at all, in a wilderness of atoms so 
numerous that those which go to the composition of a cannon-ball, 


142 EUREKA. 


exceed, probably, in mere point of number, all the stars which go 
to the constitution of the Universe. 

Had we discovered, simply, that each atom tended to some 
one favorite point—to some especially attractive atom—we should 
still have fallen upon a discovery which, in itself, would have 
sufficed to overwhelm the mind:—but what is it that we are 
actually called upon to comprehend? That each atom attracts 
—sympathizes with the most delicate movements of every other 
atom, and with each and with all at the same time, and forever, 
and according to a determinate law of which the complexity, even 
considered by itself solely, 1s utterly beyond the grasp of the 
imagination of man. If I propose to ascertain the influence of one 
mote in a sunbeam upon its neighboring mote, I cannot accom- 
plish my purpose without first counting and weighing all the 
atoms in the Universe, and defining the precise positions of all at 
one particular moment. If I venture to displace, by even the 
billionth part of an inch, the microscopical speck of dust which 
lies now upon the point of my finger, what is the character of that 
act upon which I have adventured? I have done a deed which 
shakes the Moon in her path, which causes the Sun to be no 
longer the sun, and which alters forever the destiny of the multi- 
tudinous myriads of stars that roll and glow in the majestic pres- 
ence of their Creator. | 

These ideas—conceptions such as these—unthoughtlike thoughts 
—soul-reveries rather than conclusions or even considerations of 
the intellect :—ideas, I repeat, such as these, are such as we can 
alone hope profitably to entertain in any effort at grasping the 
great principle, Attraction. 

But now, with such ideas—with such a wszon‘of the marvel- 
lous complexity of Attraction fairly in his mind—let any person 
competent of thought on such topics as these, set himself to the 
task of imagining a principle for the phenomena observed—a 
condition from which they sprang. 

Does not so evident a brotherhood among the atoms point to a 
common parentage? Does nota sympathy so omniprevalent, so 
ineradicable, and so thoroughly irrespective, suggest a common 
paternity as its source? Does not one extreme impel the reason 
to the other? Does not the infinitude of division refer to the 


EUREKA. | ; 148 


SS 


utterness of individuality ? Does not the entireness of the com- 
plex hint at the perfection of the simple? It is not that the 
atoms, as we see them, are divided or that they are complex in 
their relations—but that they are inconcéivably divided and un- 
utterably complex: it is the extremeness of the conditions to 
which I now allude, rather than to the conditions themselves. In 
a word, is it not because the atoms were, at some remote epoch 
of time, even more than together—is it not because originally, and 
therefore normally, they were One—that now, in all circumstan- 
ees—at all points—in all directions—by all modes of approach— 
in all relations and through all conditions—they struggle back to 
this absolutely, this irrelatively, this unconditionally one ? 

Some person may here demand :—“ Why—since it is to the 
One that the atoms struggle back—do we not find and define 
Attraction ‘a merely general tendency to a centre ?’—why, in es- 
pecial, do not your atoms—the atoms which you describe as hav- 
ing been irradiated from a centre—proceed at once, iccaael | 
back to the central point of their origin ?” 

I reply that they do ; as will be distinctly shown ; but that the 
cause of their so doing is quite irrespective of the contre as such, 
They all tend rectilinearly towards a centre, because of the sphe- 
ricity with which they have been irradiated into space. Each 
atom, forming one of a generally uniform globe of atoms, finds 
more atoms in the direction of the centre, of course, than in any 
other, and in that direction, therefore, is impelled—but is not thus 
impelled because the centre is the point of tis origin. It is not to 
any point that the atoms are allied. It 1s not any locality, either 
in the concrete or in the abstract, to which I suppose them bound. 
Nothing like location was conceived as their origin. Their source 
lies in the principle, Unity. TZ hzs is their lost parent. This they 
seek always—immediately—in all directions—wherever it is even 
partially to be found ; thus appeasing, in some measure, the in- 
eradicable tendency, while on the way to its absolute satisfaction 
in the end. It follows from all this, that any principle which shall 

be adequate to account for the law, or modus operandi, of the 
"attractive force in general, will account for this law in particular : 
—that is to say, any principle which will show why the atoms 


144 EUREKA. 


should tend to their general centre of irradiation with forces in- 
versely proportional to the squares of the distances will be admit- 
ted as satisfactorily accounting, at the same time, for the tendency, 
according to the same law, of these atoms each to each ;—for the 
tendency to the centre 7s merely the tendency each to each, and 
not any tendency to a centre as such.—Thus it will be seen, also, 
that the establishment of my propositions would involve no neces- 
sity of modification in the terms of the Newtonian definition of 
Gravity, which declares that each atom attracts each other atom 
and so forth, and declares this merely; but (always under the 
supposition that what I propose be, in the end, admitted) it seems 
clear that some error might occasionally be avoided, in the future 
processes of Science, were a more ample phraseology adopted :— 
for instance :—“ Each atom tends to every other atom, &c., with 
a force &c.: the general result being a tendency of all, with a simi- 
lar force, toa general centre.” 

The reversal of our processes has thus brought us to an identi- 
cal result; but while in the one process intuition was the starting 
point, in the other it was the goal. In commencing the former 
journey I could only say that, with an irresistible intuition, I fedé 
Simplicity to have been made the characteristic of the original 
action of God :—in ending the letter I can only declare that with 
an irresistible intuition, I perceive Unity to have been the source 
of the observed phenomena of the Newtonian gravitation. Thus, 
according to the schools, I prove nothing. So be it :—I design 
but to suggest—and to convince through the suggestion. I am 
proudly aware that there exist many of the most profound and 
cautiously discriminative human intellects which cannot help being 
abundantly content with my—suggestions. To these intellects— 
as to my own—there is no mathematical demonstration which 
could bring the least additional true proof of the great Truth 
which I have advanced-—the truth of Original Unity as the source 
—as the principle of the Universal Phenomena. For my part I 
am not sure that I speak and see—I am not so sure that my heart 
beats and that my soul lives :—of the rising of to-morrow’s sun— 
a probability that as yet lies in the Future—I do not pretend to 
be one thousandth part as sure—as I am of the irretrievably by- 


EUREKA. 145 


gone Fact that All Things and All Thoughts of Things, with all 
their ineffable Multiplicity of Relation, sprang at once into being 
from the primordial and irrelative One. 

Referring to the Newtonian Gravity, Dr. Nichol, the eloquent 
author of « The Architecture of the Heavens,” says :—“ In truth 
we have no reason to suppose this great Law, as now revealed, to 
be the ultimate or simplest, and therefore the universal and all- 
comprehensive, form of a great Ordinance. The mode in which 
its intensity diminishes with the element of distance, has not the 
aspect of an ultimate principle ; which always assumes the sim- 
plicity and self-evidence of those axioms which constitute the basis 
of Geometry.” 

Now, it is quite true that “ ultimate principles,” in the com- 
mon understanding of the words, always assume the simplicity of 
geometrical axioms—(as for “self-evidence,” there is no such 
thing)—but these principles are clearly not “ ultimate ;” in other 
terms, what we are in the habit of calling principles are no prin- 
ciples, properly speaking—since there can be but one principle, 
the Volition of God. We have no right to assume, then, from 
what we observe in rules that we choose foolishly to name “ prin- 
ciples,” anything at all in respect to the characteristics of a prin- 
ciple proper. The “ultimate principles” of which Dr. Nichol 
speaks as having geometrical simplicity, may and do have this 
geometrical turn, as being part and parcel of a vast geometrical 
system, and thus a system of simplicity itseli—in which, never- 
theless, the truly ultimate principle is, as we know, the consumma- 
tion of the complex—that is to say, of the unintelligible—for is 
it not the Spiritual Capacity of God ! 

I quoted Dr. Nichol’s remark, however, not so much to ques- 
tion its philosophy, as by way of calling attention to the fact that 
while all men have admitted some principle as existing behind 
the law of Gravity, no attempt has been yet made to-point out 
what this principle in particular is :—if we except, perhaps, occa- 
sional fantastic efforts at referring it to Magnetism, or Mesmerism, 
or Swedenborgianism, or Trancendentalism, or some other equally 
delicious ism of the same species, and invariably patronized by 
one and the same species of people. The great mind of Newton, 
while boldly grasping the Law itself, shrank from the principle of 

Vou. IL—7. 


146 EUREKA. 


the Law. The more fluent and comprehensive at least, if not the 
more patient and profound, sagacity of Laplace, had not the 
courage to attack it. But hesitation on the part of these two 
astronomers it is, perhaps, not so very difficult to understand. 
They, as well as all the first class of mathematicians, were mathe- 
maticians solely :—their intellect at least had a firmly-pronounced 
mathematico-physical tone. What lay not distinctly within the 
domain of Physics, or of Mathematics, seemed to them either 
Non-Entity or Shadow. Nevertheless, we may well wonder that 
Leibnitz, who was a marked exception to the general rule in these 
respects, and whose mental temperament was a singular admix- 
ture of the mathematical with the physico-metaphysical, did not 
at once investigate and establish the point at issue. Either New- 
ton or Laplace, seeking a principle and discovering none physical, 
would have rested contentedly in the conclusion that there was 
absolutely none ; but it is almost impossible to fancy, of Liebnitz, 
that, having exhausted in his search the physical dominions, he 
would not have stepped at once, boldly and hopefully, amid his 
old familiar haunts in the kingdom of Metaphysics. Here, in- 
deed, it is clear that he must have adventured in search of the 
treasure :—that he did not find it after all, was, perhaps, because 
his fairy guide, Imagination, was not sufficiently well-grown, or 
well-educated, to direct him aright. 

I observed, just now, that, in fact, there had been certain vague 
attempts at referring Gravity to some very uncertain sms, 
These attempts, however, although considered bold, and justly so 
considered, looked no farther than to the generality—the merest, 
generality—of the Newtonian Law. Its modus operandi has 
never, to my knowledge, been approached in the way of an effort 
at explanation. It is therefore, with no unwarranted fear of being 
taken for a madman at the outset, and before I can bring my 
propositions fairly to the eye of those who alone are competent to 
decide upon them, that I here declare the modus operand: of the 


Law of Gravity to be an exceedingly simple and perfectly expli- . 


cable thing—that is to say, when we make our advances towards 
it in just gradations and in the true direction—when we ies 
it from the proper point of view. 

Whether we reach the idea of absolute Unity as the source of 


& me _._ 


a 


EUREKA. 147 


All Things, from a consideration of Simplicity as the most proba- 
ble. characteristic of the original action of God ;—whether we 
arrive at it from an inspection of the universality of relation in 
the gravitating phenomena ;—or whether we attain it as a result 
of the mutual corroboration afforded by both processes ;—=still, the 
idea itself, if entertained at all, is entertained in inseparable con- 
nection with another idea—that of the condition of the Universe 
of stars as we now perceive it—that is to say, a condition of im- 
measurable diffusion through space. Now a connection between 
these two ideas—unity and diffusion—cannot be established unless 
through the entertainment of a third idea—that of irradiation. 
Absolute Unity being taken as a centre, then the existing Universe 
of stars is the result of irradiation from that centre. 

Now, the laws of irradiation are known. They are part and 
parcel of the sphere. They belong to the class of indisputable 
geometrical properties. We say of them, “they are true—they 
are evident.” To demand why they are true, would be to demand 
why the axioms are true upon which their demonstration is based. 
Nothing is demonstrable, strictly speaking; but ¢f anything be, 
then the properties—the laws in question are demonstrated. 

But these laws—what do they declare? Irradiation—how— 
by what steps does it proceed outwardly from a centre ? 

From a luminous centre, Light issues by irradiation; and the 
quantities of light received upon any given plane, supposed to be 
shifting its position so as to be now nearer the centre and now 
farther from it, will be diminished m the same proportion as the 
squares of the distances of the plane from the luminous body, are 
increased ; and will be increased in the same proportion as these 
squares are diminished. 

The expression of the law may be thus generalized :—the num- 
ber of light-particles (or, if the phrase be preferred, the number — 
of light-impressions) received upon the shifting plane, will be in- 
versely proportional with the squares of the distances of the plane. 
Generalizing yet again, we may say that the diffusion—the scat- 
tering—the irradiation, in a word—is directly proportional with 
the squares of the distances. 

For example: at the distance B, from the luminous centre A, 
a certain number of particles are so diffused as to occupy the sur- 


148 EUREKA. 


face B. Then at double the distance —that is to say, at C— they 
will be so much farther diffused as to occupy four such surfaces : 


—at treble the distance, or at D, they will be so much farther 
separated as to occupy nine such surfaces ;—while, at quadruple 
the distance, or at E, they will have become so scattered as to 
_spread themselves over sixteen such surfaces—and so on forever. 

In saying, generally, that the irradiation proceeds in direct pro- 
portion with the squares of the distances, we use the term irra- 
diation to express the degree of the diffusion as we proceed out- 
wardly from the centre. Conversing the idea, and employing 
the word “ concentralization,” to express the degree of the drawing 
together as we come back toward the centre from an outward posi- 
tion, we may say that concentralization proveeds inversely as the 
squares of the distances. In other words, we have reached the 
conclusion that, on the hypothesis that matter was originally irra- 
diated from a centre, and is now returning to it, the concentrali- 
zation, in the return, proceeds exactly as we know the force of gra- 
vitation to proceed. 

Now here, if we could be permitted to assume that concentrali- 
zation exactly represented the force of the tendency. to the centre— 
that the one was exactly proportional to the other, and that the 
two proceeded together—we should have shown all that is required. 
The sole difficulty existing, then, is to establish a direct proportion 
between “concentralization” and the force of concentralization ; 
and this is done, of course, if we establish such proportion between 
“irradiation” and the force of irradiation. 

A very slight inspection of the Heavens assures us that the stars 
have a certain general uniformity, equability, or equidistance, of 
distribution through that region of spacain which, collectively, 


EUREKA. 149 


and in a roughly globular form, they are situated :—this species 
of very general, rather than absolute, equability, being in full 
keeping with my deduction of inequidistance, within certain limits, 
among the originally diffused atoms, as a corollary from the evi- 
dent design of infinite complexity of relation out of irrelation. I 
started, it will be remembered, with the idea of a generally uniform 
but particularly wnuniform distribution of the atoms ;—an idea, I 
repeat, which an inspection of the stars, as they exist, confirms. 

But even in the merely general equability of distribution, as 
regards the atoms, there appears a difficulty which, no doubt, has 
already suggested itself to those among my readers who have 
borne in mind that I suppose this equability of distribution effected 
through irradiation from a centre. The very first glance at the 
idea, irradiation, forces us to the entertainment of the hitherto 
unseparated and seemingly inseparable idea of agglomeration about 
a centre, with dispersion as we recede from it—the idea, in a 
word, of émequability of distribution in respect to the matter irra- 
diated. | 

Now, I have elsewhere * observed, that it is by just such difficul- 


ties as the one now in question—such roughnesses—such pecu- 
liarities—such protuberances above the plane of the ordinary— 


that Reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the True. 
By the difficulty—the “peculiarity’—now presented, I leap at 
once to the secret—a secret which I might never have attained but 
for the peculiarity and the inferences which, in zis mere character 
of peculiarity, it affords me. 

The process of thought, at this point, may be thus roughly 
sketched :—I say to myself—“ Unity, as 1 have explained it, is a 
truth—I feel it. Diffusion is a truth—lI see it. Irradiation, by 
which alone these two truths are reconciled, is a consequent truth— 
I perceive it. Hguability of diffusion, first deduced @ priori and 
then corroborated by the inspection of phzenomena, is also a truth— 
I fully admit it. So far all is clear around me:—there are no 
clouds behind which the secret-—the great secret of the gravitating 
modus operandi—can possibly lie hidden ;—but this secret lies | 
hereabouts, most assuredly ; and were there but a cloud in view, 


i Murders in the Rue Morgue”—p. 195. 


150 EUREKA. 


I should be driven to suspicion of that cloud.” And now, just as 
I say this, there actually comes a cloud into view. This cloud is 
the seeming impossibility of reconciling my truth, erradiation, with 
my truth, equability of diffusion. I say now:—“ Behind this 
seeming impossibility is to be found what I desire.” I do not say 
“real impossibility ;” for invincible faith in my truths assures me 
that it is a mere difficulty after all; but I go on to say, with un- 
flinching confidence, that, when this difficulty shall be solved, we 
shall find, wrapped up in the process of solution, the key to the 
secret at which we aim. Moreover—I /eel that we shall discover 
but one possible solution of the difficulty; this for the reason that, 
were there two, one would be supererogatory—would be fruitless— 
would be empty—would contain no key—since no duplicate key 
can be needed to any secret of Nature. 

‘ And now, let us see :—Our usual notions of irradiation—in fact, 
all our distinct notions of it—are caught merely from the process 
as we see it exemplified in Light. Here there is a continuous 
outpouring of ray-streams, and with a force which we have at least 
no right to suppose varies at all. Now, in any such irradiation 
as this—continuous and of unvarying force—the regions nearer 
the centre must cnevitably be always more crowded with the irra- 
diated matter than the regions more remote. But I have assumed 
no such irradiation as this. I assumed no continuous irradiation 3 
and for the simple reason that such an assumption would have 
involved, first, the necessity of entertaining a conception which I 
have shown no man can entertain, and which (as I will more fully 
explain hereafter) all observation of the firmament refutes—the 
conception of the absolute infinity of the Universe of stars—and 
would have involved, secondly, the impossibility of understanding 

_a réaction—that is, gravitation—as existing now—-since, while an 
act is continued, no réaction, of course, can take place. My as- 
sumption, then, or rather my inevitable deduction from just prem- 
ises,—was that of a determinate irradiation—one finally discon- 
tinued. 

Let me now describe the sole possible mode in which it is 
eonceivable that matter could have been diffused through space, 
so as to fulfil the conditions at once of irradiation and of generally 
equable distributipn. 


EUREKA. 151 


For convenience of illustration, let us imagine, in the first place, 
a hollow sphere of glass, or of anything else, occupying the space 
throughout which the universal matter is to be thus equally dif- 
fused, by means of irradiation, from the absolute, irrelative, uncon- 
ditional particle, placed in the centre of the sphere. 

Now, a certain exertion of the diffusive power (presumed to 
be the Divine Volition)—in other words, a certain force—whose 
measure is the quantity of matter—that is to say, the number of 
atoms—emitted ; emits, by irradiation, this certain number of 
atoms ; forcing them in all directions outwardly from the centre— 
their proximity to each other diminishing as they proceed—until, 
finally, they are distributed, loosely, over the interior surface of the 
sphere. 

When these atoms have attained this position, or while proceed- 
ing to attain it, a second and inferior exercise of the same force— 
or a second and inferior force of the same character—emits, in the 
same manner—that is to say, by irradiation as before—a second 
stratum of atoms which proceeds to deposit itself upon the first ; 
the number of atoms, in this case as in the former, being of course 
the measure of the force which emitted them; in other words, the 
force being precisely adapted to the purpose it effects—the force, 
and the number of atoms sent out by the force, being dzrectly pro- 
portional, 

When this second stratum has reached its destined position— 
or while approaching it—a third still inferior exertion of the force, 
or a third inferior force of a similar character—the number of 
atoms emitted being in all cases the measure of the force—pro- 
ceeds to deposit a third stratum upon the second :—and so on, 
until these concentric strata, growing gradually less and less, come 
down at length to the central point; and the diffusive matter, 
simultaneously with the diffusive force, is exhausted. 

We have now the sphere filled, through means of irradiation, 
with atoms equably diffused. The two necessary conditions— 
those of irradiation and of equable diffusion—are satisfied ; and 
by the sole process in which the possibility of their simultaneous 
satisfaction is conceivable. For this reason, I confidently expect 
to find, lurking in the present condition of the atoms as distributed 
throughout the sphere, the secret of which I am in search—the 


183 EUREKA. 


all-important principle of the modus operandi of the Newtonian 
law. Letus examine, then, the actual condition of the atoms. 

They lie in a series of concentric strata. They are equably dif- 
fused throughout the sphere. They have been irradiated into 
these states. 

The atoms being equably distributed, the greater the superficial 
extent of any of these concentric strata, or spheres, the more atoms 
will lie upon it. In other words, the number of atoms lying upon 
the surface of any one of the concentric spheres, is directly propor- 
tional with the extent of that surface. 

But, in any series of concentric spheres, the surfaces are directly 
proportional with the squares of the distances from the centre.* 

Therefore the number of atoms in any stratum is directly pro- 
portional with the square of that stratum’s distance from the 
centre. 

But the number of atoms in any stratiim is the measure of the 
force which emitted that stratum—that is to say, is directly pro- 
portional with the force. 

Therefore the force which irradiated any stratum is directly 
proportional with the square of that stratum’s distance from the 
centre :—or, generally, 

The force of the irradiation has been directly proportional with 
the squares of the distances. 

Now, Réaction, as far as we know any thing of it, is Action con- 
versed. The general principle of Gravity being, in the first place, 
understood as the réaction of an act—as the expression of a desire 
on the part of Matter, while existing in a state of diffusion, to 
return into the Unity whence it was diffused; and, in the second 
place, the mind being called upon to determine the character of 
the desire—the manner in whieh it would, naturally, be mani- 
fested ; in other words, being called upon to conceive a probable 
law, or modus operandi, for the return; could not well help 
arriving at the conclusion that this law of return would be pre- 
cisely the converse of the law of departure. That such would be 
the case, any one, at least, would be abundantly justified in taking 
for granted, until such time as some person should suggest some- 


* Succinctly—The surfaces of spheres are as the squares of their radii. 


EUREKA. 158 


thing like a plausible reason why it should not be the case—until 
such period as a law of return shall be imagined which the intel- 
lect can consider as preferable. 

Matter, then, irradiated into space with a force varying as the 
squares of the distances, might @ priori, ba supposed to return 
towards its centre of irradiation with a force varying inversely as 
the squares of the distances: and I have already shown* that any 
principle which will explain why the atoms should tend, according 
to any law, to the general centre, must be admitted as satisfacto- 
rily explaining, at the same time, why, according to the same law, 
they should tend each to each. For, in fact, the tendency to the 
general centre is not to a centre as such, but because of its being a 
point in tending towards which each atom tends most directly to 
its real and essential centre, Unity—the absolute and final Union 
of all. 

The consideration here involved presents to my own mind no 
embarrassment whatever—but this fact does not blind me to the 
possibility of its being obscure to those who may have been less 
in the habit of dealing with abstractions :—and, upon the whole, 
it may be as well to look at the matter from one or two other 
points of view. 

The absolute, irrelative particle primarily created by the Volition 
of God, must have been in a condition of positive normality, or 
rightfulness—for wrongfulness implies relation. Right is positive ; 
wrong is negative—is merely the negation of right; as cold is the 
negation of heat-—darkness of light. That a thing may be wrong, 
it is necessary that there be some other thing in relation to which 
it ts wrong—some condition which it fails to satisfy ; some law 
which it violates ; some being whom it aggrieves. If there be no 
such being, law, or condition, in respect to which the thing is 
wrong—and, still more especially, if no beings, laws, or conditions 
exist at all—then the thing cannot be wrong, and consequently 
must be right. Any deviation from normality involves a tendency 
to return to it. A difference from the normal—from the nght— 
from the just—can be understood as effected only by the over- 
coming a difficulty; and if the force which overcomes the diffi- 


* Page 148. 
nt 


154 EUREKA, 


culty be not infinitely continued, the ineradicable tendency to 
return will at length be permitted to act for its own satisfaction. 
Upon withdrawal of the force, the tendency acts. This is the 
principle of réaction as the inevitable consequence of finite 
action. Employing a phraseology of which the seeming affecta- 
tion will be pardoned for its expressiveness, we may say that 
Réaction is the return from the condition of as it is and ought 
not to be into the condition of as it was, originally, and therefore 
ought to be:—and let me add here that the absolute force of 
Réaction would no doubt be always found in direct proportion 
with the reality—the truth—the absoluteness—of the originality 
—if ever it were possible to measure this latter :—and, conse- 
quently, the greatest of all conceivable réactions must be that 
produced by the tendency which we now discuss—the tendency to 
return into the absolutely original—into the supremely primitive. 
Gravity, then, must be the strongest of forces—an idea reached 
& priort and abundantly confirmed by induction. What use I 
make of the idea, will be seen in the sequel. | 

The atoms, now, having been diffused from their normal condi- 
tion of Unity, seek to return to——what? Not to any particular 
point, certainly ; for it is clear that if, upon the diffusion, the whole 
Universe of matter had been projected, collectively, to a distance 
from the point of irradiation, the atomic tendency to the general 
centre of the sphere would not have been disturbed in the least :-— 
the atoms would not have sought the point in absolute space from 
which they were originally impelled. It is merely the condition, 
and not the point or locality at which this condition took its rise, 
that these atoms seek to re-establish ;—it is merely that condition 
which 1s their normality, that they desire. “But they seek a 
centre,” it will be said, “and a centre is a point.” True; but 
they seek this point not in its character of point—(for, were the 
whole sphere moved from its position, they would seek, equally, 
the centre; and the centre then would be a new point)—but be- 
cause it so happens, on account of the form in which they col- 
lectively exist—(that of the sphere)—that only through the point 
in question—the sphere’s centre—they can attain their true object, 
Unity. In the direction of the centre each atom perceives more 
atoms than in any other direction. Each atom is impelled towards 


EUREKA. 155 


the centre because along the straight line joining it and the centre 
and passing on to the circumference beyond, there lie a greater 
number of atoms than along any other straight line—a greater 
number of objects that seek it, the individual. atom—a greater 
number of tendencies to Unity—a greater number of satisfactions 
for its own tendency to Unity—in a word, because in the direc- 
tion of the centre lies the utmost possibility of satisfaction, gene- 
rally, for its own individual appetite. To be brief, the condition, 
Unity, is all that is really sought; and if the atoms seem to seek 
the centre of the sphere, it is only impliedly, through implication 
—because such centre happens to imply, to include, or to involve, 
the only essential centre, Unity. But on account of this implica- 
tion or involution, there is no possibility of practically separating 
the tendency to Unity in the abstract, from the tendency to the 
concrete centre. Thus the tendency of the atoms to the general 
centre is, to all practical intents and for all logical purposes, the 
tendency each to each; and the tendency each to each zs the 
tendency to the centre; and the one tendency may be assumed as 
the other; whatever will apply to the one must be thoroughly 
applicable to the other; and, in conclusion, whatever principle will 
satisfactorily explain the one, cannot be questioned as an explana- 
tion of the other. 

In looking carefully around me for a rational objection to what 
I have advanced, I am able to discover nothing ;—but of that class 
of objections usually urged by the doubters for Doubt’s sake, I 
very readily perceive three’; and proceed to dispose of them in 
order. 

It may be said, first: “ That the proof that the force of irradia- 
tion (in the case described) is directly proportional to the squares 
of the distances, depends upon an unwarranted assumption—that 
of the number of atoms in each stratum being the measure of the 
force with which they are emitted.” 

I reply, not only that I am warranted in such ‘assumption, but 
that I should be utterly wnwarranted in any other. What I 
assume is, simply, that an effect is the measure of its cause—that 
every exercise of the Divine Will will be proportional to that 
which demands the exertion—that the means of Omnipotence, or 
of Omniscienge, will be exactly adapted to its purposes. Neither 


156 EUREKA. 


can a deficiency nor an excess of cause bring to pass any effect. 
Had the force which irradiated any stratum to its position, been 
either more or less than was needed for the purpose—that is to 
say, not directly proportional to the purpose—then to its posi- 
tion that stratum could not have been irradiated. Had the 
force which, with a view to general equability of distribution, 
emitted the prdper number of atoms for each stratum, been not 
directly proportional to the number, then the number would not 
have been the number demanded for the equable distribution. 

The second supposable objection is somewhat better entitled to 
an answer. 

It is an admitted principle in Dynamics that every body, on 
receiving an impulse, or disposition to move, will move onward in 
a straight line, in the direction imparted by the impelling force, 
until deflected, or stopped, by some other force. How then, it 
may be asked, is my first or external stratum of atoms to be un- 
derstood as discontinuing their movement at the circumference 
of the imaginary glass sphere, when no second force, of more 
than an imaginary character, appears, to account for the discon- 
tinuance ! : 

I reply that. the objection, in this case, actually does arise 
out of “an unwarranted assumption”—on the part of the ob- 
jector—the assumption of a principle, in Dynamics, at an epoch 
when no “principles,” in anything, exist:—I use the word 
“ principle,” of course, in the objectors understanding of the 
word. 

“Tn the beginning” we can admit—indeed we can comprehend 
—but one First Cause—the truly ultimate Princtple—the Voli- 
tion of God. The primary act—that of Irradiation from Unity— 
must have been independent of all that which the world now calls 
“ principle ”—because all that we so designate is but a consequence 
of the réaction of that primary act:—I say “primary” act; for 
the creation of the absolute material particle is more properly to 
be regarded as a conception than as an “act” in the ordinary 
meaning of the term. Thus, we must regard the primary act as 
an act for the establishment of what we now call “ principles.” 
But this primary act itself is to be considered as continuous Voli- 
tion. The Thought of God is to be understood as originating the 


EUREKA. 157 


Diffusion—as proceeding with it—as regulating it—and, finally, as 
being withdrawn from it upon its completion. Then commences 
Réaction, and through Réaction, “ Principle,” as we employ the 
word. It will be advisable, however, to -limit the application of 
this word to the two immediate results of the discontinuance of 
the Divine Volition—that is, to the two agents, Attraction and 
Repulsion. Every other Natural agent depends, either more or 
less immediately, upon these two, and therefore would be more 
conveniently designated as sub-principle. 

It may be objected, thirdly, that, in general, the peculiar mode 
of distribution which I have suggested for the atoms, is “an 
hypothesis and nothing more.” 

Now, I am aware that the word hypothesis is a ponderous 
sledge-hammer, grasped immediately, if not lifted, by all very 
diminutive thinkers, upon the first appearance of any proposition 
wearing, in any particular, the garb of a theory. But “hypoth- 
esis” cannot be wielded here to any good purpose, even by those 
who succeed in lifting it—little men or great. 

I maintain, first, that on/y in the mode described is it conceiva- 
ble that Matter could have been diffused so as to fulfil at once the 
conditions of irradiation and of generally equable distribution. I 
maintain, secondly, that these conditions themselves have been 
imposed upon me, as necessities, in a train of ratiocination 
as rigorously logical as that which establishes any demonstration 
in Euclid ; and I maintain, thirdly, that even if the charge of 
“hypothesis” were as fully sustained as it is, in fact, unsustained 
and untenable, still the validity and indisputability of my result 
would not, even in the slightest particular, be disturbed. 

To explain :—The Newtonian Gravity—a law of Nature—a law 
whose existence as such no one out of Bedlam questions—a law 
whose admission as such enables us to account for nine-tenths of 
the Universal phenomena—a law which, merely because it does 
so enable us to account for these phenomena, we are perfectly will- 
ing, without reference to any other considerations, to admit, and 
cannot help admitting, as a law—a law, nevertheless, of which 
neither the principle nor the modus operandi of the principle, has 
ever yet been traced by the human analysis—a law, in short, 
which, neither in its detail nor in its generality, has been found 


158 EUREKA. 


susceptible of explanation at all—is at length seen to be at every 
point thoroughly explicable, provided we only yield our assent to 
what? To an hypothesis? Why tf an hypothesis—if the 
merest hypothesis—if an hypothesis for whose assumption—as in 
the case of that pure hypothesis the Newtonian law itself—no 
shadow of @ priori reason could be assigned—if an hypothesis, 
even so absolute as all this implies, would enable us to perceive a 
principle for the Newtonian law—would enable us to understand 
as satisfied, conditions so miraculously—so ineffably complex and 
seemingly irreconcileable as those involved in the relations of 
which Gravity tells us,—what rational being could so expose his 
fatuity as to call even this absolute hypothesis an hypothesis any 
longer—unless, indeed, he were to persist in so calling it, with the 
_ understanding that he did so, simply for the sake of consistency tn 
words ? 

But what is the true state of our present case? What is the 
fact? Not only that is not an hypothesis which we are required 
to adopt, in order to admit the principle at issue explained, but 
that it 2s a logical conclusion which we are requested not to adopt 
if we can avoid it—which we are simply invited to deny if we can: © 
—a conclusion of so accurate a logicality that to dispute it would 
be the effort—to doubt its validity, bevond our power :—a conclu- 
sion from which we see no mode of escape, turn as we will; a 
result which confronts us either at the end of an znductive jour- 
ney from the phenomena of the very Law discussed, or at the 
close of a deductive: career from the most rigorously simple of all 
conceivable assumptions—the assumption, in a word, of Simplicity 
atsel f. 

And if here, for the mere sake of cavilling, it be urged, that 
although my starting-point is, as I assert, the assumption of abso- 
lute Simplicity, yet Simplicity, considered merely in itself, is no 
axiom ; and that only deductions from axioms are indisputable— 
it is thus that I reply :— | 

Every other science than Logic is the science of certain concrete 
relations. Arithmetic, for example, is the science of the relations 
of number—Geometry, of the relations of form—Mathematics in 
general, of the relations of quantity in general—of whatever can 
be increased or diminished. Logic, however, is the science of 


EUREKA. 159 


Relation in the abstract—of absolute Relation—of Relation con- 
sidered solely in itself. An axiom in any partieular science other 
than Logic is, thus, merely a proposition announcing certain 
concrete relations which seem to be too obvious for dispute—as 
when we say, for instance, that the whole is greater than its part; 
—and, thus again, the principle of the Logical axiom—in other 
words, of an axiom in the abstract—is, simply, obviousness of rela- 
tion. Now, itis clear, not only that what is obvious to one mind may 
not be obvious to another, but that what is obvious to one mind 
at one epoch, may be anything but obvious, at another epoch, to 
the same mind. It is clear, moreover, that what, to-day, is obvi- 
ous even to the majority of mankind, or to the majority of the 
best intellects of mankind, may to-morrow be, to either majority, 
more or less obvious, or in no respect obvious at all. It is seen, 
then, that the axiomatic principle itself is susceptible of variation, 
and of course that axioms are susceptible of similar change. Being 
mutable, the “truths” which grow out of them are necessarily 
mutable too; or, in other words, are never to be ‘positively 
depended upon as truths at all—since Truth and Immutability are 
one. | 7 

It will now be readily understood that no axiomatic idea—no 
idea founded in the fluctuating principle, obviousness of relation— 
can possibly be so secure—so reliable a busis for any structure 
erected by the Reason, as that idea—(whatever it is, wherever we 
can find it, or ¢f it be practicable to find it anywhere)—which is 
trrelative altogether—which not only presents to the understand- 
ing no obviousness of relation, either greater or less, to be consid- 
ered, but subjects the intellect, not in the slightest degree, to the 
necessity of even looking at any relation at all. If such an idea 
be not what we too heedlessly term “an axiom,” it is at least 
preferable, as a Logical basis, to any axiom ever propounded, or 
to all imaginable axioms combined :—and such, precisely, is the 
idea with which my deductive process, so thoroughly corroborated 
by induction, commences. My particle proper is but absolute [rre- 
lation. To sum up what has been advanced :—As a starting 
point I have taken it for granted, simply, that the Beginning had 
nothing behind it or before it—that it was a Beginning in fact— 
that it was a beginning and nothing different from a beginning— 


160 EUREKA. 


in short, that this Beginning was—that which tt was. If this bea 
“mere assumption” then a “ mere assumption” let it be. 

To conclude this branch of the subject :—I am fully warranted 
in announcing that the Law which we have been in the habit of 
calling Gravity exists on account of Matter’s having been irradi- 
ated, at its origin, atomically, into a lumited* sphere of Space, 
JSrom one, individual, unconditional, trrelative, and absolute Par- 
ticle Proper, by the sole process in which rt was possible to satisfy, 
at the same time, the two conditions, irradiation, and generally- 
eguable distribution throughout the sphere—that is to say, by a 
force varying in direct proportion with the squares of the distances 
between the irradiated atoms, respectively, and the Particular 
centre of Irradiation. 

I have already given my reasons for presuming Matter to have 
been diffused by a determinate rather than by a continuous or 
infinitely continued force. Supposing a continuous force, we 
should be unable, in the first place, to comprehend a réaction at 
all; and we should be required, in the second place, to entertain 
the impossible conception of an infinite extension of Matter. Not 
to dwell upon the impossibility of the conception, the infinite 
extension of Matter is an idea which, if not positively disproved, 
is at least not in any respect warranted by telescopic observation 
of the stars—a point to be explained more fully hereafter; and 
this empirical reason for believing in the original finity of Matter 
is unempirically confirmed. For example :—Admitting, for the 
moment, the possibility of understanding Space jilled with the 
irradiated atoms—that is to say, admitting, as well as we can, for 
argument’s sake, that the succession of the irradiated atoms had 
absolutely no end—then it is abundantly clear that, even when 
the Volition of God had been withdrawn from them, and thus the 
tendency to return into Unity permitted (abstractly) to be satisfied, 
this permission would have been nugatory and invalid—practically 
valueless and of no effect whatever. No Réaction could have 
taken place; no movement toward Unity could have been made ; 
no Law of Gravity could have obtained. 


#* “Timited sphere”—A sphere is necessarily limited. I prefer tautology 
toa chance of misconception. 


EUREKA. : 161 


To explain :—Grant the abstract tendency of any one atom to 
any one other as the inevitable result of diffusion from the normal 
Unity :—or, what is the same thing, admit any given atom as 
proposing to move in any given direction—it is clear that, since 
there is an infinity of atoms on all sides of the atom proposing to 
move, it never can actually move toward the satisfaction of its 
tendency in the direction given, on account of a precisely equal 
and counter-balancing tendency in the direction diametrically 
opposite. In other words, exactly as many tendencies to Unity 
are behind the hesitating atom as before it ; for it is a mere sotti- 
cism to say that one infinite line is longer or shorter than another 
infinite line, or that one infinite number is greater or less than 
another number that is infinite. Thus the atom in question must 
remain stationary forever. Under the impossible circumstances 
which we have been merely endeavoring to conceive for argu- 
ment’s sake, there could have been no aggregation of Matter—no 
stars—no worlds—nothing but a perpetually atomic and inconse- 
quential Universe. In fact, view it as we will, the whole idea of 
unlimited Matter is not only untenable, but impossible and pre- 
posterous. 

With the understanding of a sphere of atoms, however, we per- 
ceive, at once, a satesfiable tendency to union. The general result 
of the tendency each to each, being a tendency of all to the centre, 
the general process of condensation, or approximation, commences 
immediately, by a common and simultaneous movement, on with- 
drawal of the Divine Volition; the endividual approximations, or 
coalescences—not céalitions—of atom with atom, being subject to 
almost infinite variations of time, degree, and condition, on account 
of the excessive multiplicity of relation, arising from the differences 
of form assumed as characterizing the atoms at the moment of 
their quitting the Particle Proper; as well as from the subsequent 
particular inequidistance, each from each. 

What I wish to impress upon the reader is the certainty of there 
arising, at once, (on withdrawal of the diffusive force, or Divine 
Volition,) out of the condition of the atoms as described, at innu- 
merable points throughout the Universal sphere, innumerable 
agglomerations, characterized by innumerable specific differences 
of form, size, essential nature, and distance each from each. The 


162 EUREKA. 


development of Repulsion (Electricity) must have commenced, of 
course, with the very earliest particular efforts at Unity, and must 
have proceeded constantly in the ratio of Coalescence—that is to 
say, in that of Condensation, or, again, of Heterogeneity. 

Thus the two Principles Proper, Attraction and Repulsion— 
the Material and the Spiritual—accompany each other, in the 
strictest fellowship, forever. Thus Zhe Body and The Soul walk 
hand in hand. 

If now, in fancy, we select any one of the agglomerations con- 
sidered as in their primary stages throughout the Universal sphere, 
and suppose this incipient agglomeration to be taking place at 
that point where the centre of our Sun exists—or rather where it 
did exist originally; for the Sun is perpetually shifting his posi- 
tion——we shall find ourselves met, and borne onward for a time 
at least, by the most magnificent of theories—by the Nebular Cos- 
mogony of Laplace :—although “ Cosmogony” is far too compre- 
hensive a term for what he really discusses—which is the consti- 
tution of our solar system alone—of one among the myriad of 
similar systems which make up the Universe Proper—that Uni- 
versal sphere—that all-inclusive and absolute Kosmos which forms 
the subject of my present Discourse. 

Confining himself to an obviously limited region—that of our 
solar system with its comparatively immediate vicinity—and 
merely assuming—that is to say, assuming without any basis what- 
ever, either deductive or inductive—much of what I have been 
just endeavoring to place upon a more stable basis than assump- 
tion; assuming, for example, matter as diffused (without pretend- 
ing to account for the diffusion) throughout, and somewhat beyond, 
the space occupied by our system—diffused in a state of hetero- 
geneous nebulosity and obedient to that omniprevalent law of 
Gravity at whose principle he ventured to make no guess; assu- 
ming all this (which is quite true, although he had no logical right 
to its assumption) Laplace has shown, dynamically and mathe- 
matically, that the results in such case necessarily ensuing, are 
those and those alone which we find manifested in the actually 
existing condition of the system itself. 

To explain :—Let us conceive that particular agglomeration of 
which we have just spoken—the one at the point designated by 


EUREKA. 168 


our Sun’s centre—to have so far proceeded that a vast quantity 
of nebulous matter has here assumed a roughly globular form; 
its centre being, of course, coincident with what is now, or rather 
was originally, the centre of our Sun; and its periphery extending 
out beyond the orbit of Neptune, the most remote of our plan- 
ets :—in other words, let us suppose the diameter of this rough 
sphere to be some 6000 millions of miles. For ages, this mass of 
matter has been undergoing condensation, until at length it has 
become reduced into the bulk we imagine; having proceeded 
gradually, of course, from its atomic and imperceptible state, into 
what we understand of visible, palpable, or otherwise appreciable 
nebulosity. : 
- Now, the condition of this mass implies a rotation about an 
imaginary axis—a rotation which, commencing with the absolute 
incipiency of the aggregation, has been ever since acquiring velo- 
city. The very first two atoms which met, approaching each other 
from points not diametrically opposite, would, in rushing partially 
past each other, form a nucleus for the rotary movement described. 
How this would increase in velocity, is readily seen. The two 
atoms are joined by others :—an aggregation is formed. The mass 
continues to rotate while condensing. But any atom at the cir- 
cumference has, of course, a more rapid motion than one nearer 
the centre. The outer atom, however, with its superior velocity, 
approaches the centre ; carrying this superior velocity with it as it 
goes. Thus every atom, proceeding inwardly, and finally attaching 
itself to the condensed centre, adds something to the original velo- 
city of that centre—that is to say, increases the rotary movement 
of the mass. 

Let us now suppose dita mass so far condensed that it occupies 
precisely the space circumscribed by the orbit of Neptune, and 
that the velocity with which the surface of the mass moves, in the 
general rotation, is precisely that velocity with which Neptune 
now revolves about the Sun. At this epoch, then, we are to un- 
derstand that the constantly increasing centrifugal force, having 
gotten the better of the non-increasing centripetal, loosened and 
separated the exterior and least condensed stratum, or a few of 
the exterior and least condensed strata, at the equator of the 
sphere, where the tangential velocity predominated ; so that these 


164 EUREKA. 


strata formed about the main body an independent ning encircling 
the equatorial regions :—just as the exterior portion thrown off, 
by excessive velocity of rotation, from a grindstone, would form a 
ring about the grindstone, but for the solidity of the superficial 
material : were this caoutchouc, or anything similar in consistency, 
precisely the phenomenon I describe would be presented. 

The ring thus whirled from the nebulous mass, revolved, of 
course, as a separate ring, with just that velocity with which, while 
the surface of the mass, it rotated. In the meantime, condensation 
still proceeding, the interval between the discharged ring and the 
main body continued to increase, until the former was left ata 
vast distance from the latter. 

Now, admitting the ring to have possessed, by some seemingly 
accidental arrangement of its heterogeneous materials, a consti- 
. tution nearly uniform, then this ring, as such, would never have 
ceased revolving about its primary; but, as might have been anti- 
cipated, there appears to have been enough irregularity in the 
disposition of the materials, to make them cluster about centres of 
superior solidity ; and thus the annular form was destroyed.* No 
doubt, the band was soon broken up into several portions, and 
one of these portions, predominating in mass, absorbed the others 
into itself; the whole settling, spherically, into a planet. That 
this latter, as a planet, continued the revolutionary movement 
which characterized it while a ring, is sufficiently clear; and that 
it took upon itself, also, an additional movement in its new con- 
dition of sphere, is readily explained. ‘The ring being understood 
as yet unbroken, we see that its exterior, while the whole revolves 
about the parent body, moves more rapidly than its interior. 
When the rupture occurred, then, some portion in each fragment 
must have been moving with greater velocity than the others. 
The superior movement prevailing, must have whirled each frag- 
ment round—that is to say, have caused it to rotate; and the di- 


* Laplace assumed his nebulosity heterogeneous, merely that he might be 
thus enabled to account for the breaking up of the rings; for had the nebu- 
losity been homogeneous, they would not have broken. I reach the same 
result—heterogeneity of the secondary masses immediately resulting from 
the atoms—purely from an @ priori =e of their general design— 
Relation. | 


EUREKA. 165 


rection of the rotation must, of course, have been the direction of 
the revolution whence it arose. -Ad/ the fragments having become 
subject to the rotation described, must, in coalescing, have impart- 
ed it tothe one planet constituted by their coalescence.—This 
planet was Neptune. Its material continuing to undergo conden- 
sation, and the centrifugal force generated in its rotation, getting, 
at length, the better of the centripetal, as before in the case of the 
parent orb, a ring was whirled also from the equatorial surface of 
this planet: this ring, having been uniform in its constitution, was 
broken up, and its several fragments, being absorbed by the most 
massive, were collectively spherified into a moon. Subsequently, 
the operation was repeated, and a second moon was the result. 
We thus account for the planet Neptune, with the two satellites 
which accompany him. 

In throwing off a ring from its equator, the Sun re-established 
that. equilibrium between its centripetal and centrifugal forces which 
had been disturbed in the process of condensation; but, as this 
condensation still proceeded, the equilibrium was again immedi- 
ately disturbed, through the increase of rotation. By the time 
the mass. had so far shrunk that it occupied a spherical space just 
that circumscribed by the orbit of Uranus, we are to understand 
that the centrifugal force had so far obtained the ascendency that 
new relief was needed: a second equatorial band was, consequent- 
ly, thrown off, which, proving ununiform, was broken up, as be- 
fore in the case of Neptune; the fragments settling into the planet 
Uranus; the velocity of whose actual revolution about the Sun 
indicates, of course, the rotary speed of that Sun’s equatorial sur- 
face at the moment of the separation. Uranus, adopting a rotation 
from the collective rotations of the fragments composing it, as 
previously explained, now threw off ring after ring ; each of which, 
becoming broken up, settled into a moon :—three moons, at dif- 
ferent epochs, having been formed, in this manner, by the rupture 
and general spherification of as many distinct ununiform rings. 

By the time the Sun had shrunk until it occupied a space just 
that circumscribed by the orbit of Saturn, the balance, we are to 
suppose, between its centripetal and contrifugal forces had again 
become so far disturbed, through increase of rotary velocity, the 
result of condensation, that a third effort at equilibrium became 


166 EUREKA. 


necessary ; and an annular band was therefore whirled off, as twice 
before ; which, on rupture through ununiformity, became consoli- 
dated into the planet Saturn. This latter threw off, in the first 
place, seven uniform bands, which, on rupture, were spherified 
respectively into as many moons; but, subsequently, it appears to 
have discharged, at three distinct but not very distant epochs, 
three rings whose equability of constitution was, by apparent acci- 
dent, so considerable as to present no occasion for their rupture ; 
thus they continue to revolve as rings. I use the phrase “ appa- 
rent accident;” for of accident in the ordinary sense there was, 
of course, nothing :—the term is properly applied only to the 
result of indistinguishable or not immediate traceable law. 

Shrinking still farther, until it occupied just the space cireum- 
scribed by the orbit of Jupiter, the Sun now found need of 
farther effort to restore the counterbalance of its two forces, con- 
tinually disarranged in the still continued increase of rotation. 
Jupiter, accordingly, was now thrown off; passing from the annu- 
lar to the planetary condition ; and, on attaining this latter, threw 
off in its turn, at four different epochs, four rings, which finally 
resolved themselves into so many moons. 

Still shrinking, until its sphere occupied just the space defined 
by the orbit of the Asteroids, the Sun now discarded a ring which 
appears to have had eight centres of superior solidity, and, on 
breaking up, to have separated into eight fragments, no one of 
which so far predominated in mass as to absorb the others. All 
therefore, as distinct although comparatively small planets, pro- 
ceeded to revolve in orbits whose distances, each from each, may 
be considered as in some degree the measure of the force which 
drove them asunder :—all the orbits, nevertheless, being so closely 
coincident as to admit of our calling them one, in view of the other 
planetary orbits. ; | 

Continuing to shrink, the Sun, on becoming so small as just to 
fill the orbit of Mars, now discharged this planet—of course by 
the process repeatedly described. Having no moon, however, 
Mars could have thrown off no ring. In fact, an epoch had now 
arrived in the career of the parent body, the centre of the system. 
The decrease of its nebulosity, which is. the zncrease of its den- 
sity, and which again is the decrease of its condensation, out of 


EUREKA. 167 | 


which latter arose the constant disturbance of equilibnum—must, 
by this period, have attained a point at which the efforts for resto- 
ration would have been more and more ineffectual just in propor- 
tion as they were less frequently needed. Thus the processes of 
which we have been speaking would everywhere show signs of 
exhaustion—in the planets, first, and secondly, in the original 
mass. We must not fall into the error of supposing the decrease 
of interval observed among the planets as we approach the Sun, 
to be in any respect indicative of an increase of frequency in the 
periods at which they were discarded. Exactly the converse is to 
be understood. The longest interval of time must have occurred 
between the discharges of the two interior; the shortest, between 
those of the two exterior, planets. The decrease of the interval 
of space is, nevertheless, the measure of the density, and thus in- 
versely of the condensation, of the Sun, throughout the processes 
detailed. 

_ Having shrunk, however, so far as to fill only the orbit of our 
Earth, the parent sphere whirled from itself still one other body 
—the Earth—in a condition so nebulous as to admit of this 
body’s discarding, in its turn, yet another, which is our Moon ;— 
but here terminated the lunar formations. 

Finally, subsiding to the orbits first of Venus and then of Mer- 
eury, the Sun discarded these two interior planets; neither of 
which has given birth to any moon. . 

Thus from his original bulk—or, to speak more accurately, from 
the condition in which we first considered him—from a partially 
spherified nebular mass, certainly much more than 5,600 millions 
of miles in diameter—the great central orb and origin of our 
solar-planetary-lunar system, has gradually descended, by con- 
densation, in obedience to the law of Gravity, to a globe only 
882,000 miles in diameter; but it by no means follows, either 
that its condensation is yet complete, or that it may not still pos- 
sess the capacity of whirling from itself another planet. | 

I have here given—in outline of course, but still with all the 
detail necessary for distinctness—a view of the Nebular Theory as 
its author himself conceived it. From whatever point we regard 
it, we shall find it beautifully true. It is by far too beautiful, 
indeed, not to possess Truth as its essentiality—and here I am 


168 EUREKA. 


very profoundly serious in what I say. In the revolution of the 
satellites of Uranus, there does appear something seemingly incon- 
sistent with the assumptions of Laplace ; but that one inconsistency 
can invalidate a theory constructed from a million of intricate 
consistencies, is a fancy fit only for the fantastic. In prophecying, 
confidently, that the apparent anomaly to which I refer, will, sooner 
or later, be found one of the strongest possible corroborations of 
the general hypothesis, I pretend to no especial spirit of divina- 
tion. It is a matter which the only difficulty seems not to 
foresee.* 

The bodies whirled off in the processes described, would ex- 
change, it has been seen, the superficial rotatzon of the orbs whence 
they originated, for a revolution of equal velocity about these 
orbs as distant centres; and the revolution thus engendered must 
proceed, so long as the centripetal force, or that with which the 
discarded body gravitates toward its parent, is neither greater nor 
less than that by which it was discarded ; that is, than the centrif- 
ugal, or, far more properly, than the tangential, velocity. From 
) the unity, however, of the origin of these two forces, we might 
have expected to find them as they are found—the one accurately 
counterbalancing the other. It has been shown, indeed, that the 
act of whirling-off is, in every case, merely an act for the preserva- 
tion of the counterbalance. 

After referring, however, the centripetal force to the omnipreva- 
lent Jaw of Gravity, it has been the fashion with astronomical 
treatises, to seek beyond the limits of mere Nature—that is to say, 
of Secondary Cause—a solution of the phenomenon of tangen- 
tial velocity. This latter they attribute directly to a First Cause 
—to God. The force which carries a steller body around its pri- 
mary they assert to have originated in an impulse given immedi- 
ately by the finger—this is the childish phraseology employed—— 
by the finger of Deity itself. In this view, the planets, fully 
formed, are conceived to have been hurled from the Divine hand, 
to a position in the vicinity of the suns, with an impetus mathe- 


* T am prepared to show that the anomalous revolution of the satellites 
of Urauus is a simply perspective anomaly arising from the inclination of 
the axis of the planet. 


EUREKA. 1 169 


matically adapted to the masses, or attractive capacities, of the 
suns themselves. An idea so grossly unphilosophical, although 
so supinely adopted, could have arisen only from the difficulty of 
otherwise accounting for the absolutely accurate adaptation, each 
to eacli, of two forces so seemingly independent, one of the other, 
as are the gravitating and tangential. But it should be remem- 
bered that, for a long time, the coincidence between the moon’s 
rotation and her sidereal revolution—two matters seemingly far 
more independent than those now considered—was looked upon 
as positively miraculous; and there was a strong disposition, even 
among astronomers, to attribute the marvel to the direct and con- 
tinual agency of God—who, in this case, it was said, had found it 
necessary to interpose, specially, among his general laws, a set of 
subsidiary regulations, for the purpose of forever concealing from 
mortal eyes the glories, or perhaps the horrors, of the other side 
of the Moon—of that mysterious hemisphere which has always 
avoided, and must perpetually avoid, the telescopic scrutiny of 
mankind. The advance of Science, however, soon demonstrated 
—whait to the philosophical instinct needed no demonstration— 
that the one movement is but a porbon--something more, even, 
than a consequence—of the other. 

For my part, I have no patience with fantasies at once so timo- 
rous, 80 idle, and so awkward. They belong to the veriest covw- 
ardice of thought. That Nature and the God of Nature are 
distinct, no thinking being can long doubt. By the former we 
imply merely the laws of the latter. But with the very idea of 
God, omnipotent, omniscient, we entertain, also, the idea of the 
wnfallibilety of his laws. With Him there being neither Past nor Fu- 
ture—with Him all being Vow—do we not insult him in supposing 
his laws so contrived as not to provide for every possible contin- 
gency /——or, rather, what idea can we have of any possible contin- 
gency, except that it is at once a result and a manifestation of his 
laws? He who, divesting himself of prejudice, shall have the 
rare courage to think absolutely for himself, cannot fail to arrive, 
in the end, at the condensation of Jaws into Zaw—cannot fail of 
reaching the conclusion that each law of Nature is dependent at 
all points upon all other laws, and that ‘all are but consequences 
of one primary exercise of the Divine Volition. Such is the prin- 

Vou. IL—8. 


170 EUREKA. 


ciple of the Cosmogony which, with all necessary deference, I here 
venture to suggest and to maintain. — 

In this view, it will be seen that, dismissing as frivolous, and 
even impious, the fancy of the tangential force having been im- 
parted to the planets immediately by “the finger of God,” I con- 
sider this force as originating in the rotation of the stars :—this 
rotation as brought about by the in-rushing of the primary atoms, 
towards their respective centres of aggregation :—this in-rushing 
as the consequence of the law of Gravity :—this law as but the 
mode in which is necessarily manifested the tendency of the atoms 
to return into imparticularity :—this tendency to return as but the 
inevitable réaction of the first and most sublime of Acts—that 
act by which a God, self-existing and alone existing, became all 
things at once, throuczh dint of his volition, while all things were 
thus constituted a portion of God. 

The radical assumptions of this Discourse suggest to me, and 
in fact imply, certain important modifications of the Nebular 
Theory as given by Laplace. The efforts of the repulsive power 
I have considered as made for the purpose of preventing contact 
among the atoms, and thus as made in the ratio of the approach 
to contact—that is to say, in the ratio of condensation.* In other 
words, Electricity, with its involute phenomena, heat, light and 
magnetism, is to be understood as proceeding as condensation 
proceeds, and, of course, inversely, as destiny proceeds, or the 
cessation to condense. Thus the Sun, in the process of its aggre- 
gation, must soon, In developing repulsion, have become exces- 
sively heated—perhaps incandescent: and we can perceive how 
the operation of discarding its rings must have been materially 
assisted by the slight incrustation of its surface consequent on 
cooling. Any common experiment shows us how readily a crust 
of the character suggested, is separated, through heterogeneity, 
from the interior mass. But, on every successive rejection of the 
crust, the new surface would appear incandescent as before; and 
the period at which it would again become so far incrusted as to 
be readily loosened and discharged, may well be imagined as 
exactly coincident with that as which a new effort would be 


* See page 162. 


EUREKA. 171 


theeded, by the whole mass, to restore the equilibrium of its two 
forces, disarranged through condensation. In other words :—by 
the time the electric influence (Repulsion) has prepared the sur- 
face for rejection, we are to understand that the gravitating influ- 
ence (Attraction) is precisely ready to reject it. Here, then, as 
everywhere, the Body and the Soul walk hand in hand. 

These ideas are empirically confirmed at all points. Since con- 
densation can never, in any body, be considered as absolytely at an 
end, we are warranted in anticipating that, whenever We. have an 
opportunity of testing the matter, we shall find indications of resi- 
dent luminosity in ad/ the stellar bodies—moons and planets as 
well as suns. That our Moon is strongly self-luminous, we see at 
every total eclipse, when, if not so, she would disappear. On the 
dark part of the satellite, too, during her phases, we often observe 
flashes like our own Auroras; and that these latter, with our 
various other so-called electrical phenomena, without reference to 
any more steady radiance, must give our Earth a certain appear- 
ance of luminosity to an inhabitant of the Moon, is quite evident. 
In fact, we should regard all the phenomena referred to, as mere 
manifestations, in different moods and degrees, of the Earth’s 
feebly-continued condensation. 

If my views are tenable, we should be prepared to find the 
newer planets—that is to say, those nearer the Sun—more lumi- 
nous than those older and more remote:—and the extreme 
brilliancy of Venus (on whose dark portions, during her phases, 
the Auroras are frequently visible) does not seem to be altogether 
accounted for by her mere proximity to the central orb. She is 
no doubt vividly self-luminous, although less so than Mercury: 
while the luminosity of Neptune may be comparatively nothing. 

Admitting what I have urged, it is clear that, from the moment 
of the Sun’s discarding a ring, there must be a continuous dimi- 
nution both of his heat and light, on account of the continuous 
incrustation of his surface; and that a period would arrive—the 
period immediately previous to a new discharge—when a very 
material decrease of both light and heat, must become apparent. 
Now, we know that tokens of such changes are distinctly recog- 
nisable. On the Melville islands—to adduce merely one out of a 
hundred examples—we find traces of ultra-tropical veg etation—of 


a 


172 EUREKA. 


—,, 


plants that never could have flourished without immensely more 
light and heat than are at present afforded by our Sun to any 
portion of the surface of the Earth. Is such vegetation referable 
to an epoch immediately subsequent to the whirling-off of Venus ? 
At this epoch must have occurred to us our greatest access of 
solar influence; and, in fact, this influence must then have attained 
its maximum :—leaving out of view, of course, the period when 
the Earth itself was discarded—the period of its mere organi- 
zation. 

Again :—we know that there exist non-luminous suns—that is 
to say, suns whose existence we determine through the movements 
of others, but whose luminosity is not sufficient to impress us. 
Are these suns invisible merely on account of the length of time 
elapsed since their discharge of a planet? And yet again :—may 
we not—at least in certain cases—account for the sudden appear- 
ances of suns where none had been previously suspected, by the 
hypothesis that, having rolled with incrusted surfaces throughout 
the few thousand years of our astronomical history,.each of these 
suns, in whirling off a new secondary, has at length been enabled 
to display the glories of its still incandescent interior ?—To the 
well-ascertained fact of the proportional increase of heat as we 
descend into the Earth, I need of course, do nothing more than 
refer :—it comes in the strongest possible corroboration of all that 
I have said on the topic now at issue. 

In speaking, not long ago, of the repulsive or electrical influ- 
ence, I remarked that “the important phenomena of vitality, 


consciousness, and thought, whether we observe them generally or 


in detail, seem to proceed at least in the ratio of the heteroge- 
neous.”* I mentioned, too, that I would recur to the suggestion :— 
and this is the proper point at which to doso. Looking at the 
matter, first, in detail, we perceive that not merely the manzfesta- 
tion of vitality, but its importance, consequences, and elevation 
of character, keep pace, very closely, with the heterogeneity, or 
complexity, of the animal structure. Looking at the question, 
now, in its generality, and referring to the first movements of the 
atoms towards mass-constitution, we find that heterogeneousness, 


& 


* Page 138. 


‘ 


EUREKA. 173 


brought about directly through condensation, is proportional with 
it forever. We thus reach the proposition that the importance of 
the development of the terrestrial vitality proceeds equably with 
the terrestrial condensation. 

Now this is in precise accordance with what we know of the 
succession of animals on the Earth. As it has proceeded in its 
~ condensation, superior and still superior races have appeared. Is 
it impossible that the successive geological revolutions which have 
attended, at least, if not immediately caused, these successive ele- 
vations of vitalic character—is it improbable that these revolutions 
have themselves been produced by the successive planetary dis- 
charges from the Sun—in other words, by the successive varia- 
tions in the solar influence on the Earth? Were this idea tenable, 
we should not be unwarranted in the fancy that the discharge of 
yet a new planet, interior to Mercury, may give rise to yet a new 
modification of the terrestrial surface—a modification from which 
* may spring arace both materially and spiritually superior to Man. 
These thoughts impress me with all the force of truth—but I throw 
them out, of course, merely in their obvious character of sug- 
gestion. 

The Nebular Theory of Laplace has lately received far more 
confirmation than it needed, at the hands of the philosopher, 
Compte. These two have thus together shown—xnot, to be sure, 
that Matter at any period actually existed as described, in a state 
of nebular diffusion, but that, admitting it so to have existed 
throughout the space and much beyond the space now occupied 
by our solar system, and to have commenced a movement towards 
a centre—it must gradually have assumed the various forms and 
motions which are now seen, in that system, to obtain. A demon- 
stration such as this—a dynamical and mathematical demonstra- 
tion, as far as demonstration can be— unquestionable and unques- 
tioned—unless, indeed, by that unprofitable and disreputable tribe, 
the professional questioners—the mere madmen who deny the 
Newtonian law of Gravity on which the results of the French 
mathematicians are based—a demonstration, I say, such as this, 
would to most intellects be conclusive—and I confess that it is so | 
to mine—of the validity of the nebular hypothesis upon mich the 
demonstration depends. 


174 . EUREKA. 


That the demonstration does not prove the hypothesis, accord- 
ing to the common understanding of the word “ proof,” I admit, 
of course. To show that certain existing results—that certain 
established facts—may be, even mathematically, accounted for by 
the assumption of a certain hypothesis, is by no means to establish 
the hypothesis itself. In other words :—to show that, certain data 
being given, a certain existing result might, or even must, have 
ensucd, will fail to prove that this result did ensue, from the data, 
until such time as it shall be also shown that there are, and can be, 
no other data from which the result in question might equally 
have ensued. But, in the case now discussed, although all must 
admit the deficiency of what we are in the habit of terming 
“proof,” still there are many intellects, and those of the loftiest 
order, to which no proof could bring one iota of additional convic- 
tion. Without going into details which might impinge upon the 
Cloud-Land of Metaphysics, I may as well here observe, that the 
force of conviction, in cases such as this, will always, with the right- 
thinking, be proportional to the amount of complexity intervening 
between the hypothesis and the result. To be less abstract :— 
The greatness of the complexity found existing among cosmical 
conditions, by rendering great in the same proportion the difficulty 
of accounting for all these conditions, at once, strengthens, also in 
the same proportion, our faith in that hypothesis which does, in 
such manner, satisfactorily account for them :—and as no com- 
plexity can well be conceived greater than that of the astronomical | 
conditions, so no conviction can be stronger—to my mind at least 
—than that with which I am impressed by an hypothesis that 
not only reconciles these conditions, with mathematical accuracy, 
and reduces them into a consistent and intelligible whole, but is, 
at the same time, the sole hypothesis by means of which the hu- 
man intellect has been ever enabled to account for them a¢ all. 

A most unfounded opinion has been latterly current in gossip- 
ing and even in scientific circles—the opinion that the so-called 
Nebular Cosmogony has been overthrown. This fancy has arisen 
from the report of late observations made, among what hitherto 
have been termed the “nebulez,” through the large telescope of 
Cincinnati, and the world-renowned instrument of Lord Rosse. 
Certain spots in the firmament which presented, even to the most 


EUREKA. 175 


powerful of the old telescopes, the appearance of nebulosity, or 
haze, had been regarded for.a long time as confirming the theory 
of Laplace. They were looked upon as stars in that very process 
of condensation which I have been attempting to describe. Thus 
it was supposed that we “had ocular evidence”—an evidence, by 
the way, which has always been found very questionable—of the 
truth of the hypothesis; and, although certain telescopic improve- 
ments, every now and then, enabled us to perceive that a spot, 
here and there, which we had been classing among the nebule, 
was, in fact, but a cluster of stars deriving its nebular character 
only from its immensity of distance—still it was thought that no 
doubt could exist as to the actual nebulosity of numerous other 
masses, the strong-holds of the nebulists, bidding defiance to every 
effurt at segregation. Of these latter the most interesting was 
the great “nebule” in the constellation Orion :—but this, with 
innumerable other miscalled “ nebulz,” when viewed through the 
magnificent modern telescopes, has become resolved into a simple 
collection of stars. Now this fact has been very generally under- 
stood as conclusive against the Nebular Hypothesis of Laplace ; 
and, on announcement of the discoveries in question, the most 
enthusiastic defender and most eloquent popularizer of the theory, 
Dr. Nichol, went so far as to “ admit the necessity of abandoning” 
an idea which had formed the material of his most praiseworthy 
book.* 

Many of my readers will no doubt be inclined to say that the 
result of these new investigations has at least a strong tendency 
to overthrow the hypothesis; while some of them, more thoughtful, 
will suggest that, although the theory is by no means disproved 
through the segregation of the particular “nebule” alluded to, 
still a failure to segregate them, with such telescopes, might well 


* “ Views of the Architecture of the Heavens.” A letter, purporting to 
be from Dr. Nichol to a friend in America, went the rounds of our news- 
papers, about two years ago, I think, admitting “the necessity” to which 
I refer. In a subsequent Lecture, however, Dr. N. appears in some manner 
to have gotten the better of the necessity, and does not quite renounce the 
theory, although he seems to wish that he could eneer at it as “a purcly 
hypothetical one.” What else was the Law of Gravity before the Maske- 
lyne experiments? and who questioned the Law of Gravity, even then { 


176 EUREKA, 


have been understood as a triumphant corroboration of the theory : 
and this latter class will be surprised, perhaps, to hear me say 
that even with them I disagree. If the propositions of this Dis- 
course have been comprehended, it will be seen that, in my view, 
a failure to segregate the “nebulz” would have tended to the 
refutation, rather than to the confirmation, of the Nebular Hypo- 
thesis. 

Let me explain :—The Newtonian Law of Gravity we may, of 
course, assume as demonstrated. This law, it will be remembered, 
I have referred to the réaction of the first Divine Act—to the 
réaction of an exercise of the Divine Volition temporarily over- 
coming a difficulty. This ditticulty is that of forcing the normal 
into the abnormal—of impelling that whose originality, and there- 
fore whose rightful condition, was One, to take upon itself the 
wrongful condition of Many. It is only by conceiving this diffi- 
culty as temporarily overcome, that we can comprehend a réaction. 
There could have been no réaction had the act been infinitely con- 
tinued. So long as the act lasted, no réaction, of course, could 
commence; in other words, no gravitation could take place—for 
we have considered the one as but the manifestation of the other. 
But gravitation has taken place; therefore the act of Creation has 
ceased: and gravitation has long ago taken place; therefore the 
act of Creation has long ago ceased. We can no more expect, 
then, to observe the primary processes of Creation; and to these 
primary processes the condition of nebulosity has already been 
explained to belong. : 

Through what we know of the propagation of light, we have 
direct proof that the more remote of the stars have existed, under 
the forms in which we now see them, for an inconceivable number 
of years. So far back at least, then, as the period when these stars 
underwent condensation, must have been the epoch at which the 
mass-constitutive processes began. That we may conceive these 
processes, then, as still going on in the case of certain “nebule,” 
while in all other cases we find them thoroughly at an end, we 
are forced into assumptions for which we have really no basis 
whatever—we have to thrust in, again, upon the revolting Reason, 
the blasphemous idea, of special interposition—we have to sup- 
pose that, in the particular instances of these “nebule,” an un- 


EUREKA. ot 


erring God found it necessary to introduce certain supplementary 
regulations—certain improvements of the general law—certain 
re-touchings and emendations, in a word, which had the effect of 
deferring the completion of these individual stars for centuries of 
centuries beyond the era during which all the other stellar bodies 
had time, not only to be fully constituted, but to grow hoary 
with an unspeakable old age. 

Of course, it will be immediately objected that since the light 
by which we recognise the nebulz now, must be merely that 
which left their surfaces a vast number of years ago, the processes 
at present observed, or supposed to be observed, are, in fact, not 
processes now actually going on, but the phantoms of processes 
completed long in the Past—just as I maintain all these mass- 
constitutive processes must have been. 

To this I reply that neither is the now-observed condition of the 
condensed stars their actual condition, but a condition completed 
long in the Past; so that my argument drawn from the relative 
condition of the stars and the “nebule,” is in no manner dis- 
turbed. . Moreover, those who maintain the existence of nebule, 
do not refer the nebulosity to extreme distance; they declare it a 
real and not merely a perspective nebulosity. That we may con- 
ceive, indeed, a nebular mass as visible at all, we must conceive it 
as very near us in comparison with the condensed stars brought 
into view by the modern telescopes. In maintaining the appear- 
ances in question, then, to be really nebulous, we maintain their 
comparative vicinity to our point of view. Thus, their condition, 
as we see them now, must be referred to an epoch far less remote 
than that to which we may refer the now-observed condition of at 
least the majority of the stars—In a word, should Astronomy 
ever demoustrate a “nebula,” in the sense at present intended, I 
should consider the Nebular Cosmogony—not, indeed, as corrobo- 
rated by the demonstration—but as thereby irretrievably over- 
thrown. 

By way, however, of rendering unto Cesar no more than the 
things that are Cesar’s, let me here remark that the assumption 
of the hypothesis which led him to so glorious a result, seems to 
have been suggested to Laplace in great measure by a misconcep- 
tion—by the very misconception of which we have just been 

g* 


178 EUREKA. 


speaking—by the generally prevalent misunderstanding of the 
character of the nebulze, so mis-named. These he supposed to be, 
in reality, what their designation implies. The fact is, this great 
man had, very properly, an inferior faith in his own merely percep- 
tive powers. In respect, therefore, to the actual existence of ne- 
bulze—an existence so confidently maintained by his telescopic 
. eontemporaries—he depended less upon what he saw than upon 
what he heard. 

It will be seen that the only valid objections to his theory, are 
those made to its hypothesis as such—to what suggested it—not 
to what it suggests; to its propositions rather than to its results. 
His most unwarranted assumption was that of piving the atoms a 
movement towards a centre, in the very face of his evident under- 
standing that these atoms, in unlimited succession, extended 
throughout the Universal space. I have already shown that, un- 
der such circumstances, there could have occurred no movement 
at all; and Laplace, consequently, assumed one on no more philo- 
sophical ground than that something of the kind was necessary 
for the establishment of what he intended to establish. 

His original idea seems to have been a compound of the true 
Epicurean atoms with the false nebulz of his contemporaries; and 
thus his theory presents us with the singular anomaly of absolute 
truth deduced, as a mathematical result, from a hybrid datum of 
ancient imagination intertangled with modern inacumen. La- 
place’s real strength lay, in fact, in an almost miraculous mathe- 
matical instinct :—on this he relied; and in no instance did it fail 
or deceive him:—in the case of the Nebular Cosmogony, it led 
him, blindfolded, through a labyrinth of Error, into one of the 
most luminous and stupendous temples of Truth. 

Let us now fancy, for the moment, that the ring first thrown 
off by the Sun—that is to say, the ring whose breaking-up con- 
stituted Neptune—did not, in fact, break up until the throwing- 
off of the ring out of which Uranus arose; that this latter ring, 
again, remained perfect until the discharge of that out of which 
sprang Saturn; that this latter, again, remained entire until the 
discharge of that from which originated Jupiter—and so on. Let 
us imagine, in a word, that no dissolution occurred among the 
rings until the final rejection of that which gave birth to Mercury. 


EUREKA. | 179 


We thus paint to the eye of the mind a series of céexistent con- 
centric circles; and looking as well at them as at the processes by 
which, according to Laplace’s hypothesis, they were constructed, 
we perceive at once a very singular analogy with the atomic 
strata and the process of the original irradiation as I have des- 
cribed it. Is it impossible that, on measuring the forces, respec- 
tively, by which each successive planetary circle was thrown off— 
that is to say, on measuring the successive excesses of rotation 
over gravitation which occasioned the successive discharges—we 
should find the analogy in question more decidedly confirmed? Js 
tt emprabable that we should discover these forces to have varied— 
as in the original a aa to the squares of the 
distances ? 

Our solar system, sidang in chief, of one sun, with sixteen 
planets certainly, and possibly a few more, revolving about it at 
various distances, and attended by seventeen moons assuredly, but 
very probably by several others—is now to be considered as an 
example of the innumerable agglomerations which proceeded to 
take place throughout the Universal Sphere of atoms on with- 
drawal of the Divine Volition. I mean to say that our solar sys- 
tem is to be understood as affording a generic instance of these 
agglomerations, or, more correctly, of the ulterior conditions at 
which they arrived. If we keep our attention fixed on the idea’ 
of the utmost possible Relation as the Omnipotent design, and on 
the precautions taken to accomplish it through difference of form, 
among the original atoms, and particular inequidistance, we shall 
find it impossible to suppose for a moment that even any two of 
the incipient agglomerations reached precisely the same result in 
the end. We shall rather be inclined to think that no two stel- 
lar bodies in the Universe—whether suns, planets or moons—are 
particularly, while alZ are generally, similar. Still less, then, can 
we imagine any two assemblages of such bodies—any two “sys- 
tems”—as having more than a general resemblance.* Our teles- 


* It is not impossible that some unlooked-for optical improvement may 
disclose to us, among innumerable varieties of systems, a luminous sun, en- 
circled by luminous and non-luminous rings, within and without and between 
which, revolve luminous and non-luminous planets, attended by moons hay- 
ing moons—and even these latter again having moons, 


180 EUREKA. 


copes, at this point, thoroughly confirm our deductions. Taking 
our own solar system, then, as merely a loose or general type of 
all, we have so far proceeded in our subject as to survey the Unt- 
verse under the aspect of a spherical space, throughout which, 
dispersed with merely general equability, exist a number of but 
generally similar systems. 

Let us now, expanding our conceptions, look upon each of these 
systems as in itself an atom; which in fact it is, when we consider 
it as but one of the countless myriads of systems which constitute 
the Universe. Regarding all, then, as but colossal atoms, each 
with the same ineradicable tendency to Unity which characterizes 
‘the actual atoms of which it consists—we enter at once upon a 
new order of aygregations. The smaller systems, in the vicinity 
of a larger one, would, inevitably, be drawn into still closer vicin- 
ity. A thousand would assemble here; a million there—per- 
haps here, again, even a billion—leaving, thus, immeasurable 
vacancies in space. And if, now, it be demanded why, in the case 
of these systens—of these merely Titanic atoms—lI speak, sim- 
ply, of an “assemblage,” and not, as in the case of the actual 
atoms, of a more or less consolidated agglomeration :—if it be 
asked, for instance, why I do not carry what I suggest to its legi- 
timate conclusion, and describe, at once, these assemblages of sys- 
tem-atoms as rushing to conSolidation in spheres—as each 
becoming condensed into one magniticent sun—my reply is 
that pedrAovra sravra—I am but pausing, for a moment, on the 
awful threshold of the Future. For the present, calling these 
assemblages “clusters,” we see them in the incipient stages 
of their consolidation. Their absolute consolidation is to 
come. 

We have now reached a point from which we behold the Uni- 
verse as a spherical space, interspersed, wnequably, with clusters. 
It will be noticed that I here prefer the adverb “ unequably” to 
the phrase “with a merely general equability,” employed before. 
It is evident, in fact, that the equability of distribution will 
diminish in the ratio of the agglomerative processes—that is to 
say, as the things distributed diminish in number. Thus the 
increase of inequability—an increase which must continue until, 
sooner or later, an epoch will arrive at which the largest agglome- 


EUREKA. 181 


ration will absorb all the others—should be viewed as, simply, a 
corroborative indication of the tendency to One. 

And here, at length, it seems proper to inquire whether the 
ascertained facts of Astronomy confirm the general arrangement 
which I have thus, deductively, assigned to the Heavens. Tho- 
roughly, they do. Telescopic observation, guided by the laws of 
perspective, enables us to understand that the perceptible Universe 
exists as a cluster of clusters, irregularly disposed. . 

The “clusters” of which this Universal “cluster of clusters” 
consists, are merely what we have been in the practice of desig- 
nating “nebulea”—and, of these “ nebule,” one is of paramount 
interest to. mankind. I allude to the Galaxy, or Milky Way. 
This interests us, first and most obviously, on account of its great 
superiority in apparent size, not only to any one other cluster in 
the firmament, but to all the other clusters taken together. The 
largest of these latter occupies a mere point, comparatively, and is 
distinctly seen only with the aid of a telescope. The Galaxy 
sweeps throughout the Heaven and is brilliantly visible to the 
naked eye. But it interests man. chiefly, although less immedi- 
ately, on account of its being his home; the home of the Earth 
on which he exists; the home of the Sun about which this Earth 
revolves ; the home of that “system” of orbs of which the Sun 
is the centre and primary—the Earth one of sixteen secondaries, 
or planets—the Moon one of seventeen tertiaries, or satellites. The 
Galaxy, let me repeat, is but one of the clusters which I have been 
describing—but one of the mis-called “ nebulz” revealed to us— 
by the telescope alone, sometimes—as faint hazy spots in various 
quarters of the sky. We have no reason to suppose the Milky 
Way really more extensive than the least of these “nebulz.” Its 
vast superiority in size is but an apparent superiority arising from 
our position in regard to it—that is to say, from our position in its 
midst. However strange the assertion may at first appear to those 
unversed in Astronomy, still the astronomer himself has no hesi- 
tation in asserting that we are in the midst of that inconceivable 
host of stars—of suns—of systems—which constitute the Galaxy. 
Moreover, not only have we-—not only has our Sun a right to claim 
the Galaxy as its own especial cluster, but, with slight reservation, 
it may be said that all the distinctly visible stars of the firmament 


182 EUREKA. 


————— 


—all the stars visible to the naked eye—have equally a right to 
claim it as their own. 

There has been a great deal of misconception in respect to the 
shape of the Galaxy; which, in nearly all our astronomical trea- 
tises, is said to resemble that of a capital Y. The cluster in ques- 
tion has, in reality, a certain general—very general resemblance to 
the planet Saturn, with its encompassing triple ring. Instead of 
the solid orb of that planet, however, we must picture to ourselves 
a lenticular star-island, or collection of stars; our Sun lying ex- 
centrically—near the shore of the island—on that side of it which 
is nearest the constellation of the Cross and farthest from that of 
Cassiopeia. The surrounding mng, where it approaches our posi- 
tion, has in it a longitudinal gash, which does, in fact, cause the 
ring, in our vicinity, to assume, loosely, the appearance of a capi- 
tal Y. 

We must not fall into the error, however, of conceiving the 
somewhat indefinite girdle as at all remote, comparatively speaking, 
from the also indefinite lenticular cluster which it surrounds; and 
thus, for mere purpose of explanation, we may speak of our Sun 
as actually situated at that point of the Y where its three com- 
ponent lines unite; and, conceiving this letter to be of a certain 
solidity—of a certain thickness, very trivial in comparison with its 
length—we may even speak of our position as in the middle of 
this thickness. Fancying ourselves thus placed, we shall no longer 
find difficulty in accounting for the phenomena presented— 
which are perspective altogether. When we look upward or down- 
ward—that is so say, when we cast our eyes in the direction of 
the letter’s thackness—we look through fewer stars than when we 
cast them in the direction of its length, or along either of the 
three component lines. Of course, in the former case, the stars 
appear scattered—in the latter, crowded.—To reverse this explana- 
tion :—An inhabitant of the Earth, when looking, as we commonly 
express ourselves, a¢ the Galaxy, is then beholding it in some of 
the directions of its length—is looking along the lines of the Y— 
but when, looking out into the general Heaven, he turns his eyes 
jrom the Galaxy, he is then surveying it in the direction of the 
letter’s thickness ; and on this account the stars seem to him scat- 
tered; while, in fact, they are as close together, on an average, as 


EUREKA. 183 


in the mass of the cluster. Vo consideration could be better 
adapted to convey an idea of this cluster’s stupendous extent. 

If, with a telescope of high space-penetrating power, we care- 
fully inspect the firmament, we shall become aware of a belt of 
clusters—of what we have hitherto called “ nebule”—a band, of 
varying breadth, stretching from horizon to horizon, at right angles 
to the general course of the Milky Way. This band is the ulti- 
mate cluster of clusters. This belt is Zhe Universe. Our Galaxy 
is but one, and perhaps one of the most inconsiderable, of the 
clusters which go to the constitution of this ultimate, Universal 
belt or band. The appearance of this cluster of clusters, to our 
_ eyes, as a belt or band, is altogether a perspective phenomenon 
of the same character as that which causes us to behold our own 
individual and roughly-spherical cluster, the Galaxy, under guise 
also of a belt, traversing the Heavens at right angles.to the Uni- 
versal one. The shape of the all-inclusive cluster is, of course 
generally, that of each individual cluster which it includes. Just 
as the scattered stars which, on looking from the Galaxy, we see 
in the general sky, are, in fact, but a portion of that Galaxy itself, 
and as closely intermingled with it as any of the telescopic points 
in what seems the densest portion of its mass—so are the scat- 
tered “ nebule” which, on casting our eyes from the Universal 
belt, -we perceive at all points of the firmament—so, I say, are 
.these scattered “ nebulz”.to be understood as only perspectively 
scattered, and as part and parcel of the one supreme and Uni- 
versal sphere. — | 

No astronomical fallacy 1s more untenable, and none has been 
more pertinaciously adhered to, than that of the absolute «lcmi- 
tation of the Universe of Stars. The reasons for limitation, as 
I have already assigned them, @ priori, seem to me unanswer- 
able; but, not to speak of these, observation assures us that there 
is, in numerous directions around us, certainly, if not in all, a posi- 
tive limit—or, at- the very least, affords us no basis whatever for . 
thinking otherwise. Were the succession of stars endless, then 
the background of the sky would present us an uniform lumi- 
nosity, like that displayed by the Galaxy—since there could be 
absolutely no point, in all that background, at which would not 
exist a star. The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a 


184 EUREKA. 


state of affairs, we could comprehend the vozds which our tele- 
scopes find in innumerable directions, would be by supposing the 
distance of the invisible background so immense that no ray from 
it has yet been able to reach us at all. That this may be so, who 
shall venture to deny? I maintain, simply, that we have not even 
the shadow of a reason for believing that it 1s so. 

When speaking of the vulgar propensity to regard all bodies 
on the Earth as tending merely to the Earth’s centre, I observed 
that, “with certain exceptions to be specitied hereafter, every body 
on the Earth tended not only to the Earth’s centre, but in every 
conceivable direction besides.”* The “ exceptions” refer to those 
frequent gaps in the Heavens, where our utmost scrutiny can de- 
tect not only no stellar bodies, but no indications of their exist- 


ence :—where yawning chasms, blacker than Erebus, seem to 
. afford us glimpses, through the boundary walls of the Universe 
of Stars, into the illimitable Universe of Vacancy, beyond. Now 


as any body, existing on the Earth, chances to pass, either through 
its own movement or the Earth’s, into a line with any one of these 
voids, or cosmical abysses, it clearly is no longer attracted in the 
direction of that void, and for the moment, consequently, is “ hea- 
vier” than at any period, either after or before. Independently 
of the consideration of these voids, however, and looking only at 
the generally unequable distribution of the stars, we see that the 


absolute tendency of bodies on the Earth to the Earth’s centre, is. 


in a state of perpetual variation. 

We comprehend, then, the insulation of our Universe. We per- 
ceive the isolation of that—of all that which we grasp with the 
senses. We know that there exists one cluster of clusters—a collec- 
tion around which, on a!l sides,extend the immeasureable wildernesses 
of a Space to all human perception untenanted. But because 
upon the confines of this Universe of Stars we are compelled to 
pause, through want of farther evidence from the senses, is it right 
to conclude that, in fact, there 7s no material point beyond that 
which we have thus been permitted to attain? Have we, or have 
we not, an analogical right to the inference that tlis perceptible 
Universe—that this cluster of clusters—is but one of a series of 


* Page 156. 


EUREKA. 185 


clusters of clusters, the rest of which are invisible through dis- 
tance—through the diffusion of their light being so excessive, ere 
it reaches us, as not to produce upon our retinas a light-impression 
—or from there being no such emanation as light at all, in these 
unspeakably distant worlds—or, lastly, from the mere interval 
being so vast, that the electric tidings of their presence in 
Space, have not yet—through the lapsing myriads of years—been 
enabled to traverse that interval ? ; 

Have we any right to inferences—have we any ground what- 
ever for visions such as these? If we have a night to them in 
any degree, we have a right to their infinite extension. 

The human brain has obviously a leaning to the “ Jnfinite,” and 
fondles the phantom of the idea. It seems to long with a pas- 
sionate fervor for this impossible conception, with the hope of 
intellectually believing it when conceived. What is general among 
the whole race of Man, of course no individual of that race can be 
‘warranted in considering abnormal; nevertheless, there may be a 
class of superior intelligences, to whom the human bias alluded to 
may wear all the character of monomania. 

My question, however, remains unanswered :—Have we any 
right to infer—let us say, rather, to imagine—an interminable 
succession of the “clusters of clusters,” or of “ Moen: more 
or less similar ? 

I reply that the “ right,” in a case such as this, dispands abso- 
lutely upon the hardihood of that imagination which ventures to 
claim the right. Let me declare, only, that, as an individual, I 
myself feel impelled to fancy—without daring to call it more— 
that there does exist a limztless succession of Universes, more or 
less similar to that of which we have cognizance—to that of which 
alone we shall ever have cognizance—at the very least until the 
return of our own particular Universe into Unity. Jf such clus- 
ters of clusters exist, however—and they do—it is abundantly 
clear that, having had no part in our origin, they have no por- 
tion in our laws. They neither attract us, nor we them. Their 
material—their spirit is not ours—is not that which obtains 
in any part of our Universe. They could not impress our senses 
or our souls. Among them and us—considering all, for the 
moment, collectively—there are no influences in common. Each 


186 EUREKA. 


exists, apart and independently, 7m the bosom of tts proper and 
particular God. 

In the conduct of this Discourse, I am aiming less at physical 
than at metaphysical order. The clearness with which even mate- 
rial phenomena are presented to the understanding, depends very 
little, I have long since learned to perceive, upon a merely natural, 
and almost altogether upon a moral, arrangement. If then I seem 
to step somewhat too discursively from point to point of my 
topic, let me suggest that I do so in the hope of thus the better 
keeping unbroken that chain of graduated impression by which 
alone the intellect of Man can expect to encompass the grandeurs 
of which I speak, and, in their majestic totality, to comprehend 
them. 

So far, our attention has been directed, almost exclusively, to a 
general and relative grouping of the stellar bodies in space. Of 
specification there has been little; and whatever ideas of quantity 
have been conveyed—that is to say, of number, magnitude, and 
distance—have been conveyed incidentally and by way of prepa- 
ration for more definitive conceptions. These latter let us now 
attempt to entertain. 

Our solar system, as has been already mentioned, consists, in 
chief, of one sun and sixteen planets certainly, but in all probabil- 
ity a few others, revolving around it as a centre, and attended by 
seventeen moons of which we know, with possibly several more of 
which as yet we know nothing. These various bodies are not true 
spheres, but oblate spheroids—spheres flattened at the poles of the 
imaginary axes about which they rotate :—the flattening being a 
consequence of the rotation. Neither is the Sun absolutely the 
centre of the system; for this Sun itself, with all the planets, 
revolves about a perpetually shifting point of space, which is the 
system’s general centre of gravity. Neither are we to consider the 
paths through which these different spheroids move—the moons 
about the planets, the planets about the Sun, or the Sun about the 
common centre—as circles in an accurate sense. They are, in 
fact, ellipses—one of the foci being the point about which the revo- 
lution is made. An ellipse is a curve, returning into itself, one 
of whose diameters is longer than the other. In the longer diam- 
eter are two points, equidistant from the middle of the line, and 


EUREKA. 187 


so situated otherwise that if, from each of them a straight line be 
drawn to any one point of the curve, the two lines, taken together, 
will be equal to the long diameter itself. Now let us conccive 
such an ellipse. At one of the points mentioned, which are the 
foci, let us fasten an orange. By an elastic thread let us connect 
this orange with a pea; and let us place this latter on the circum- 
ference of the ellipse. Let us now move the pea continuously 
around the orange—keeping always on the circumference of the 
ellipse. The elastic thread, which, of course, varies in length as we 
move the pea, will form what in geometry is called a radius vector. 
Now, if the orange be understood as the Sun, and the pea asa 
planet revolving about it, then the revolution should be made at 
such a rate—with a velocity so varying—that the radius vector 
may pass over equal areas of space in equal times. The progress 
of the pea should be—in other words, the progress of the planet 
is, of course,—slow in proportion to its distance from the Sun— 
swift in proportion to its proximity. Those planets, moreover, 
move the more slowly which are the farther from the Sun; the 
squares of their periods of revolution having the same proportion 
to each other, as have to each other the cubes of their mean distances 
from the Sun. 

The wonderfully complex laws of revolution here described, 
however, are not to be understood as obtaining in our system 
alone. They everywhere prevail where Attraction prevails. They 
control the Universe. Every shining speck in the firmament is, 
no doubt, a luminous Sun, resembling our own, at least in its 
general features, and having in attendance upon it a greater or less 
number of planets, greater or less, whose still lingering luminosity 
is not sufficient to render them visible to us at so vast a distance, 
but which, nevertheless, revolve, moon-attended, about their starry 
centres, in obedience to the principles just detailed—in obedience 
to the three omniprevalent laws of revolution—the three immortal 
laws guessed by the imaginative Kepler, and but subsequently 
demonstrated and accounted for by the patient and mathematical 
Newton. Among a tribe of philosophers who pride themselves 
excessively upon matter-of-fact, it is far too fashionable to sneer at 
all speculation under the comprehensive sobriquet, “ ruess-work.” 
The point to be considered is, who guesses. In guessing with Plato, 


188 EUREKA. 


we spend our time to better purpose, now and then, than in hark- 
ening to a demonstration by Alemzon. 

In many works on Astronomy I find it distinctly stated that the 
laws of Kepler are the basis of the great principle, Gravitation. 
This idea must have arisén from the fact that the suggestion of 
these laws by Kepler, and his proving them @ posteriori to have 
an actual existence, led Newton to account for them by the 
hypothesis of Gravitation, and, finally, to demonstrate them a 
priori, as necessary consequences of the hypothetical principle. 
Thus so far from the laws of Kepler being the basis of Gravity; 
Gravity is the basis of these laws—as it is, indeed, of all the laws, 
of the material Universe which are not referable to Repulsion 
alone. 

The mean distance of the Earth from the Moon—that i is to say, 
from the heavenly body in our closest vicinity—is 237,000 miles. 
Mercury, the planet nearest the Sun, is distant form him 37 
millions of miles. Venus, the next, revolves at a distance of 68 
millions:—the Earth, which comes next, at a distance of 95 
millions :—-Mars, then, at a distance of 144 millions. Now come 
the eight Asteroids (Ceres, Juno, Vesta, Pallas, Astrza, Flora, Iris, 
and Hebe) at an average distance of about 250 millions. Then 
we have Jupiter, distant 490 millions ; then Saturn, 900 millions; 
then Uranus, 19 hundred millions; finally Neptune, lately discov- 
ered, and revolving at a distance, say of 28 hundred millions, 
Leaving Neptune out of the account—of which as yet we know 
little accurately and which is, possibly, one of a system of Aste- 
roids—it will be seen that, within certain limits, there exists an 
order of interval among the planets. Speaking loosely, we may 
say that each outer planet is twice as far from the Sun as is the 
next inner one. May not the order here mentioned—may not the 
law of Bode—be deduced from consideration of the analogy suggest- 
ed by me as having place between the solar discharge of rings and 
the mode of the atomic irradiation ? 

‘The numbers hurriedly mentioned in this summary of distance, 
it is folly to attempt comprehending, unless in the light of abstract 
arithmetical facts. They are not practically tangible ones. Théy 
convey no precise ideas. I have stated that Neptune, the planet 
farthest from the Sun, revolves about him at a distance of 28 


EUREKA. 189 


hundred millions of miles. So far good :—I have stated a mathe- 
matical fact; and, without comprehending it in the least, we may 
put it to use—mathematically. But in mentioning, even, that the 
Moon revolves about the Earth at the comparatively trifling 
distance of 237,000 miles, I entertained no expectation of giving 
any one to understand—to know—to feel—how far from the 
Earth the Moon actually 7s. 237,000 miles / There are, perhaps, 
few of my readers who have not crossed the Atlantic ocean ; yet 
how many of them have a distinct idea of even the 3,000 miles 
intervening between shore and shore? I doubt, indeed, whether 
the man lives who can force into his brain the most remote con- 
ception of the interval between one milestone and its next neigh- 
bor upon the turnpike. We are in some measure aided, however, 
in our consideration of distance, by combining this consideration 
with the kindred one of velocity. Sound passes through 1100 
feet of space in a second of time. Now were it possible for an 
inhabitant of the Earth to see the flash of a cannon discharged in ° 
the Moon, and to hear the report, he would have to wait, after 
perceiving the former, more than 13 entire days and nights before 
getting any intimation of the latter. 

However feeble be the impression, even thus conveyed, of the 
Moon’s real distance from the Earth, it will, nevertheless, effect a 
good object in enabling us more clearly to see the futility of 
attempting to grasp such intervals as that of the 28 hundred 
millions of miles between our Sun and Neptune; or even that of 
the 95 millions between the Sun and the Earth we inhabit. A 
cannon-ball, flying at the greatest velocity with which such a ball 
has ever been known to fly, could not traverse the latter interval 
in less than 20 years; while for the former it would require 590. 

Our Moon’s real diameter is 2160 miles; yet she is compara- 
tively so trifling an object that it would take nearly 50 such orbs 
to compose one as great as the Earth. 

The diameter of our own globe is 7912 miles—but from the 
enunciation of these numbers what positive idea do we derive ? 

If we ascend an ordinary mountain and look around us from its 
summit, we behold a landscape stretching, say 40 miles, in every 
direction; forming a circle 250 miles in circumference; and 
including an area of 5000 square miles. The extent of such a 


190 EUREKA. 


prospect, on account of the successiveness with which its portions 
necessarily present themselves to view, can be only very feebly 
and very partially appreciated :—yet the entire panorama would 
comprehend no more than one 40,000th part of the mere surface 
of our globe. Were this panorama, then, to be succeeded, after 
the lapse of an hour, by another of equal extent; this again by a 
third, after the lapse of an hour; this again by a fourth after 
lapse of another hour—and so on, until the scenery of the whole 
Earth were exhausted ; and were we to be engaged in examining 
these various panoramas for twelve hours of every day ; we should 
nevertheless, be 9 years and 48 days in completing the general 
survey. 

But if the mere surface of the Earth eludes the grasp of the 
imagination, what are we to think of its cubical contents? It 
embraces a mass of matter equal in weight to at least two sextil- 
lions, two hundred quintillions of tons. Let us suppose it in a 
state of quiescence; and now let us endeavor to conceive a me- 
chanical force sufficient to set it in motion! Not the strength of 
all the myriads of beings whom we may conclude to inhabit the 
planetary worlds of our system—not the combined physical 
strength of all these beings—even admitting all to be more pow- 
erful than man—would avail to stir the ponderous mass @ single 
inch from its position. 

What are we to understand, then, of the force, which under 
similar circumstances, would be required to move the largest of 
_ our planets, Jupiter? This is 86,000 miles in diameter, and 
would include within its periphery more than a thousand orbs of 
the magnitude of our own. Yet this stupendous body is actually 
flying around the sun at the rate of 29,000 miles an hour—that 
is to say, with a velocity forty times greater than that of a can- 
non-ball! The thought of such a phenomenon cannot well be 
said to startle the mind :—it palsies and appals it. Not unfre- 
quently we task our imagination in picturing the capacities of an 
angel. Let us fancy such a being at a distance of some hundred 
miles from Jupiter—a close eye-witness of this planet as it speeds 
on its annual revolution. Now can we, I demand, fashion for 
ourselves any conception so distinct of this ideal being’s spiritual 
exaltation, as éhat involved in the supposition that, even by this 


EUREKA. 191 


immeasurable mass of matter, whirled immediately before his eyes, 
with a velocity so unutterable, he—an angel—angelic though. he 
be—is not at once struck into nothingness and overwhelmed ? 

At this point, however, it seems proper to suggest that, in fact, 
we have been speaking of comparative trifles. Our Sun—the cen- 
tral and controlling orb of the system to which Jupiter belongs— 
is not only greater than Jupiter, but greater by far than all the 
planets of the system taken together. This fact is an essential 
condition, indeed, of the stability of the system itself. The diam- 
eter of Jupiter has been mentioned: it is 86,000 miles :—that of 
the Sun is 882,000 miles. An inhabitant of the latter, travelling 
ninety miles a day, would be more than eighty years in going 
round a great circle of its circumference. It occupies a cubical 
space of 681 quadrillions, 472 trillions of miles. The Moon, as 
has been stated, revolves about the Earth at a distance of 237,000 
miles—in an orbit, consequently, of nearly a million and a half. 
Now, were the Sun placed upon the Earth, centre over centre, the 
body of the former would extend, in every direction, not only to the 
line of the Moon’s orbit, but beyond it, a distance of 200,000 miles. 

And here, once again, let me suggest that, in fact, we have séil/ 
been speaking of comparative trifles. The distance of the planet 
Neptune from the Sun has been stated : it is 28 hundred millions 
of miles: the circumference of its orbit, therefore, is about 17 bil- 
lions. Let this be borne in mind while we glance at some one 
of the brightest stars. Between this and the star of our system, 
(the Sun,) there is a gulf of space, to convey any idea of which, 
we should need the tongue of an archangel. From our system, 
then, and from our Sun, or star, the star at which we suppose 
ourselves glancing is a thing altogether apart :—still, for the mo- 
ment, let us imagine it placed upon our Sun, centre over centre, 
as we just now imagined this Sun itself placed upon the Earth. 
Let us now conceive the particular star we have in mind, extend- 
ing, in every direction, beyond the orbit of Mercury—of Venus— 
of the Earth :—still on, beyond the orbit of Mars—of Jupiter— 
of Uranus—until, finally, we fancy it filling the circle—seventeen 
billions of miles in circumference—which is described by the revo 
lution of Leverrier’s planet. When we have conceived all this, 
we shall have entertained no extravagant conception. There is the 


192 2 EUREKA. 


very best reason for believing that many of the stars are even far 
larger than the one we have imagined. I mean to say, that we 
have the very best empirical basis for such belief :—and, in looking 
back at the original, atomic arrangements for diversity, which 
have been assumed as a part of the Divine plan in the constitution 
of the Universe, we shall be enabled easily to understand, and to 
credit, the existence of even far vaster disproportions in stellar size 
than any to which I have hitherto alluded. The largest orbs, of 
course, We must expect to find rolling through the widest vacan- 
cies of Space. 

I remarked, just now, that to convey an idea of the interval 
between our Sun and any one of the other stars, we should require 
the eloquence of an archangel. In so saying, I should not be 
accused of exaggeration; for, in simple truth, these are topics on 
which it is scarcely possible to exaggerate. But let us bring the 
matter more distinctly before the eye of the mind. 

In the first place, we may get a general, relative conception of 
the interval referred to, by comparing it with the inter-planetary 
spaces. If, for example, we suppose the Earth, which is, in reality, 
95 millions of miles from the Sun, to be only one foot from that 
luminary ; then Neptune would be forty feet distant; and the star 
Alpha Lyre, at the very least, one hundred and fifty-nine. 

Now I presume that, in the termination of my last sentence, 
few of my readers have noticed anything especially objectionable— 
particularly wrong. I said that the distance of the Earth from 
the Sun being taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would 
be forty feet, and that of Alpha Lyrz, one hundred and fifty-nine. 
The proportion between one foot and one hundred and fifty nine, 
has appeared, perhaps, to convey a sufficiently definite impression 
of the proportion between the two intervals—that of the Earth 
from the Sun, and that of Alpha Lyre from the same luminary. 
But my account of the matter should, in reality, have run thus :— 
The distance of the Earth from the Sun being taken at one foot, 
the distance of Neptune would be forty fect, and that of Alpha 
Lyre, one hundred and fifty-nine miles :—that is to say, I had 
assigned to Alpha Lyre, in my first statement of the case, only 
the 5280¢h part of that distance which is the least distance possible 
at which it can actually lie. 


EUREKA. 198 


To proceed :—However distant a mere planet is, yet when we 
look at it through a telescope, we see it under a certain form—of 
a certain appreciable size. Now I have already hinted at the 
probable bulk of many of the stars; nevertheless, when we view 
any one of them, even through the most powerful telescope, it is 
found to present us with no form, and consequently with no mag- 
nitude whatever. We see it as a point, and nothing more. 

Again :—Let us suppose ourselves walking, at night, on a high- 
way. Ina field on one side of the road, is a line of tall objects, 
say trees, the figures of which are distinctly defined against the 
background of the sky. This line of objects extends at right angles 
to the road, and from the road to the horizon. Now, as we pro- 
ceed along the road, we see these objects changing their positions, 
respectively, in relation to a certain fixed point in that ‘portion of 
the firmament which forms the background of the view. Let us 
suppose this fixed point—sufficiently fixed for our purpose—to be 
the rising moon. We become aware, at once, that while the tree 
nearest us so far alters its position in respect to the moon, as to 
seem flying behind us, the tree in the extreme distance has scarcely 
changed at all its relative position with the satellite. We then 
go on to perceive that the farther the objects are from us, the less 
they alter their positions; and the converse. Then we begin, 
unwittingly, to estimate the distances of individual trees by the 
- degrees in which they evince the relative alteration. Finally, we 
come to understand how it might be possible to ascertain the actual 
distance of any given tree in the line, by using the amount of rela- 
tive alteration as a basis in a simple geometrical problem. Now, 
this relative alteration is what we call “ parallax ;” and by parallax 
we calculate the distances of the heavenly bodies. Applying the 
principle to the trees in question, we should, of course, be very 
much at a loss to comprehend the distance of that tree, which, 
however far we proceeded along the road, should evince no paral- 
lax at all. This, in the case described, is a thing impossible ; but 
impossible only because all distances on our Earth are trivial in- 
deed :—in comparison with the vast cosmical quantities, we may 
speak of them as absolutely nothing. 

Now, let us suppose the star Alpha Lyre directly overhead ; 


and let us imagine that, instead of standing on the Earth, we stand 
Vou. IL—9, 


194 EUREKA. 


ut one end of a straight road stretching through Space to a dis- 
tance equalling the diameter of the Earth’s orbit—that is to say, 
to a distance of one hundred and ninety millions of miles. Having 
observed, by means of the most delicate micrometrical instruments, 
the exact position of the star, let us now pass along this incon- 
ceivable road, until we reach the other extremity. Now, once 
again, let us look at the star. It is precisely where we left it. 
Our instruments, however delicate, assure us that its relative 
position is absolutely —is identically the same, as at the commence- 
ment of our unutterable journey. Vo parallax—none whatever— 
has been found. 

The fact is, that, in regard to the distance of the fixed stars— 
of any one of the myriads of suns glistening on the farther side of 
that awful chasm which separates our system from its brothers in 
the cluster to which it belongs—astronomical science, until very 
lately, could speak only with a negative certainty. Assuming the 
brightest as the nearest, we could say, even of them, only that 
there is a certain incomprehensible distance on the hzther side of 
which they cannot be:—how far they are beyond it we had in no 
case been able to ascertain. We perceived, for example, that 
Alpha Lyrz cannot be nearer to us than 19 trillions, 200 billions 
of miles; but, for all we knew, and indeed for all we now know, it 
may be distant from us the square, or the cube, or any other 
power of the number mentioned. By dint, however, of wonder- 
fully minute and cautious observations, continued, with novel in- 
struments, for many laborious years, Bessel, not long ago deceased, 
has lately succeeded in determining the distance of six or seven 
stars; among others, that of the star numbered 61 in the constel- 
lation of the Swan. The distance in this latter instance ascer- 
tained, is 670,000 times that of the Sun; which last it will be— 
remembered, is 95 millions of miles. The star 61 Cygni, then, is 
nearly 64 trillions of miles from us—or more than three times the 
distance assigned, as the least possible, for Alpha Lyre. 

In attempting to appreciate this interval by the aid of any con- 
siderations of velocity, as we did in endeavoring to estimate the 
distance of the moon, we must leave out of sight, altogether, such 
nothings as the speed of a cannon ball, or of sound. Light, how- 
ever, according to the latest calculations of Struve, proceeds at the 


EUREKA. 195 


rate of 167,000 miles in a second. Thought itself cannot pass 
through this interval more speedily—if, indeed, thought can tra- 
verse it at all. Yet, in coming from 61 Cygni to us, even at this 
inconceivable rate, light occupies more than ten years; and, con- 
sequently, were the star this moment blotted out from the Uni- 
verse, still, for ten years, would it continue to lee on, undim- 
med in its paradoxical glory. 

Keeping now in mind whatever feeble eandepeen we may have 
attained of the interval between our Sun and 61 Cygni, let us 
remember that this interval, however unutterably vast, we are per- 
mitted to consider as but the average interval among the count- 
less host of stars composing that cluster, or “ nebula,” to which 
our system, as well as that of 61 Cygni, belongs. I have, in fact, 
stated the case with great moderation:—we have excellent reason 
for believing 61 Cygni to be one of the nearest stars, and thus for 
concluding, at least for the present, that its distance from us is. 
less than the average distance between star and star in the mage 
ficent cluster of the Milky Way. . 

And here, once again and finally, it seems proper to sapedt 
that even as yet we have been speaking of trfles. Ceasing to 
wonder at the space between star and star in our own or in any 
particular cluster, let us rather turn our thoughts to the intervals 
between cluster and cluster, in the all-comprehensive cluster of the 
Universe. - 

I have already said that light proceeds at the rate of 167,000 
miles in a second—that is, about 10 millions of miles in a minute, 
or about 600 millions of miles in an hour:—yet so far removed 
from us are some of the “nebule” that even light, speeding with 
this velocity, could not and does nor reach us, from those myste- 
rious regions, in less than 3 millions of years. This calculation, — 
moreover, is made by the elder Herschel, and in reference merely 
to those comparatively proximate clusters within the scope of his 
own telescope. There are “nebule,” however, which, through 
the magical tube of Lord Rosse, are this instant whispering in our 
ears the secrets of a million of ages by-gone. In a word, the 
events which we behold now—at this moment—in those worlds— 
are the identical events which interested their inhabitants ten hun- 
dred thousand centuries ago. In intervals—in distances such as 


196 EUREKA. 


—_— 


this suggestion forces upon the soul—rather than upon the mind 
—we find, at length, a fitting climax to all hitherto frivolous con- 
siderations of quantity. 

Our fancies thus occupied with the cosmical distances, let us 
take the opportunity of referring to the difficulty which we have so 
often experienced, while pursuing the beaten path of astronomical 
reflection, zz accounting for the immeasurable voids alluded to—in 
comprehending why chasms so totally unoccupied and therefore 
apparently so needless, have been made to intervene between star 
and star—between cluster and cluster—in understanding, to be 
brief, a sufficient reason for the Titanic scale, in respect of mere 
Space, on which the Universe is seen to be constructed. A ra- 
tional cause for the phzenomenon,'I maintain that Astronomy has 
palpably failed to assign:—but the considerations through which, 
in this Essay, we have proceeded step by step, enable us clearly 
and immediately to perceive that Space and Duration are one. 
That the Universe might endure throughout an era at all com- 
mensurate with the grandeur of its component material portions - 
and with the high majesty of its spiritual purposes, it was neces- 
sary that the original atomic diffusion be made to so inconceiva- 
ble an extent as to be only not infinite. It was required, in a 
word, that the stars should be gathered into visibility from invisi- 
ble nebulosity—proceed from nebulosity to consolidation—and so 
grow grey in giving birth and death to unspeakably numerous and 
complex variations of vitalic development:—it was required that 
the stars should do all this—should have time thoroughly to ac- 
complish all these Divine purposes—during the period in which 
all things were effecting their return into Unity with a velocity 
accumulating in the inverse proportion of the squares of the dis- 
tances at which lay the inevitable End. 

Throughout all this we have no difficulty in understanding the 
absolute accuracy of the Divine adaptation. The density of the 
stars, respectively, proceeds, of course, as their condensation dimin- 
ishes; condensation and heterogeneity keep pace with each other; 
through the latter, which is the index of the former, we estimate 
the vitalic and spiritual development. Thus, in the density of the 
globes, we have the measure in which their purposes are fulfilled. 
As density proceeds—as the divine intentions are accomplished— 


EUREKA. 107 


as less and still less remains to be accomplished—so—in the same 
ratio—should we expect to find an acceleration of the End :—and 
thus the philosophical mind will easily comprehend that the Divine 
designs in constituting the stars, advance mathematically to their 
fulfilment:—and more; it will readily give the advance a mathe- 
matical expression; it will decide that this advance is inversely 
proportional with the squares of the distances of all created things 
from the starting-point and goal of their creation. 

Not only is this Divine adaptation, however, mathematically 
accurate, but there is that about it which stamps it as divine, in 
distinction from that which is merely the work of human construc- 
tiveness. I allude to the complete mutuality of adaptation. For 
example; in human constructions a particular cause has a particu- 
lar effect; a particular intention brings to pass a particular object; 
but this is all; we see no reciprocity. The effect does not re-act 
upon the cause; the intention does not change relations with the 
object. In Divine constructions the object is either design or ob- — 
ject as we choose to regard it—and we may take at any time a 
cause for an effect, or the converse—so that we can never abso- 
lutely decide which is which. 

To give an instance:—In polar climates the human frame, to 

maintain its animal heat, requires, for combustion in the capillary 
system, an abundant supply of highly azotized food, such as 
train-oil. But again:—in polar climates nearly the sole food 
afforded man is the oil of abundant seals and whales. Now, 
whether is oil at hand because imperatively demanded, or the only 
thing demanded because the only thing to be obtained? It is 
impossible to decide. There is an absolute reciprocity of adapta- 
tion. 
The pleasure which we derive from any display of human inge- 
nuity is in the ratio of the approach to this species of reciprocity. 
In the construction of plot, for example, in fictitious literature, we 
should aim at so arranging the incidents that we shall not be able 
to determine, of any one of them, whether it depends from any 
one other or upholds it. In this sense, of course, perfectzon of plot 
is really, or practically, unattainable—but only because it is a 
finite intelligence that constructs. The plots of God are perfect. 
The Universe is a plot of God. 


198 EUREKA. 


And now we have reached a point at which the intellect is 
forced, again, to strugvle against its propensity for analogical in- 
ference—against its monomaniac grasping at the infinite. Moons 
have been seen revolving about planets; planets about stars; and 
the poetical instinct of humanity—its instinct of the symmetrical, 
if the symmetry be but asymmetry of surface:—this tnstinct, 
which the Soul, not only of Man but of all created beings, took up, 
in the beginning, from the geometrical basis of the Universal irra- 
diation—impels us to the fancy of an endless extension of this 
system of cycles. Closing our eyes equally to deduction and in- 
duction, we insist upon imagining a revolution of all the orbs of 
the Galaxy about some gigantic globe which we take to be the 
central pivot of the whole. Each cluster in the great cluster of 
clusters is imagined, of course, to be similarly supplied and con- 
structed; while, that the “analogy” may be wanting at no point, 
we go on to conceive these clusters themselves, again, as revolving 
about some still more august sphere ;—this latter, still again, with 
its encircling clusters, as but one of a yet more magnificent series 
of agglomerations, gyrating about yet another orb central to them 
—some orb still more unspeakably sublime—some orb, let us 
rather say, of infinite sublimity endlessly multiplied by the infin- 
itely sublime. Such are the conditions, continued in perpetuity, 
which the voice of what some people term “ analogy” calls upon 
the Fancy to depict and the Reason to contemplate, if possible, 
without becoming dissatisfied with the picture. Such, in general, 
are the interminable gyrations beyond gyration which we have 
been instructed by Philosophy to comprehend and to account for, 
at least in the best manner we can. Now and then, however, a 
philosopher proper—one whose frenzy takes a very determinate 
turn—whose genius, to speak more reverentially, has a strongly- 
pronounced washer-womanish bias, doing every thing up by the 
dozen—enables us to see precisely that point out of sight, at 
which the revolutionary processes in question do, and of right 
ought to, come to an end. 

It is hardly worth while, perhaps, even to sneer at the reveries 
of Fourrier :—but much has been said, latterly, of the hypothesis 
of Madler—that there exists, in the centre of the Galaxy, a stu- 
pendous globe about which all the systems of the cluster revolve. 


eo . 


EUREKA. «199 


The period of our own, indeed, has been stated—117 millions of 
years. a 

That our Sun has a motion in space, independently of its rota- 
tion, and revolution about the system’s centre of gravity, has long 
been suspected. This motion, granting it to exist, would be man- 
ifested perspectively. The stars in that firmamental region which 
we were leaving behind us, would, in a very long series of years, 
become crowded ; those in the opposite quarter, scattered. Now, 
by means of astronomical History, we ascertain, cloudily, that 
some such phenomena have occurred. On this ground it has 
been declared that our system is moving to a point in the hea- 
vens diametrically opposite the star Zeta Herculis :—but this infer 
ence is, perhaps, the maximum to which we have any logical right. 
Madler, however, has gone so far as to designate a particular star, 
Alcyone in the Pleiades, as being at or about the very spot 
around which a general revolution is performed. 

Now, since by “analogy” we are led, in the first instance, to 
these dreams, it is no more than proper that we should abide by 
analogy, at least in some measure, during their development; and 
that analogy which suggests the revolution, suggests at the same 
time a central orb about which it should be performed :—so far the 
astronomer was consistent. This central orb, however, should, dy- 
namically, be greater than all the orbs, taken together, which sur- 
round it. Of these there are about 100 millions. “ Why, then,” it 
was of course demanded, “do we not see this vast central sun—at 
least equal in mass to 100 millions of such suns as ours—why do 
we not see it— we, especially, who occupy the mid region of the clus- 
ter—the very locality near which, at all events, must be situated 
this incomparable star?” The reply was ready—“ It must be non- 
luminous, as are our planets.” Here, then, to suit a purpose, anal- 
ogy is suddenly let fall. “Not so,” it may be said—“ we know 
that non-luminous suns actually exist.” It is true that we have 
reason at least for supposing so; but we have certainly no reason 
whatever for supposing that the non-luminous suns in question are 
encircled by Zuminous suns, while these again are surrounded by 
non-luminous planets :—and it is precisely all this with which Mad- 
ler is called upon to find any thing analogous in the heavens—for 
it is precisely all this which he imagines in the case of the Galaxy. 


200 ~ EUREKA. 


Admitting the thing to be so, we cannot help here picturing to 
ourselves how sad a puzzle the why is itso must prove to all @ 
priort philosophers. 

But granting, in the very tecth of analogy and of every thing 
else, the non-luminosity of the vast central orb, we may still 
inquire how this orp, so enormous, could fail of being rendered 
visible by the flood of light thrown upon it from the 100 millions 
of glorious suns glaring in all directions about it. Upon the urg- 
ing of this question, the idea of an actually solid central sun 
appears, in some measure, to have been abandoned; and specu- 
lation proceeded to assert that the systems of the cluster perform 
their revolutions merely about an immaterial centre of gravity 
common to all. Here again then, to suit a purpose, analogy is 
let fall. The planets of our system revolve, it is true, about a 
common centre of gravity; but they do this in connexion with, 
and in consequence of, a material sun whose mass more than coun- 
terbalances the rest of the system. 

The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an infinity of 
straight lines. But this idea of the circle—an idea which, in view 
of all ordinary geometry, is merely the mathematical, as contra- 
distinguished from the practical, idea—is, in sober fact, the prac- 
tical conception which alone we have any right to entertain in 
regard to the majestic circle with which we have to deal, at least 
in fancy, when we suppose our system revolving about a point in 
the centre of the Galaxy. Let the most vizorous of human imag- 
inations attempt but to take a single step towards the compre- 
hension of a sweep so ineffable! It would scarcely be paradoxical 
to say that a flash of lightning itself, travelling forever upon the 
circumference of this unutterable circle, would still, forever, be 
travelling in a straight line. That the path of our Sun in such an 
orbit would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest 
degree from 2 straight line, even in a million of years, is a propo- 
sition not to be entertained :—yet we are required to believe that 
a curvature has become apparent during the brief period of our 
astronomical history—during a mere point—during the utter 
nothingness of two or three thousand years. 

It may be said that Madler has really aacoriaihed a curvature 
in the direction of our system’s now well-established progress 


EUREKA. 201 


through Space. Admitting, if necessary, this fact to be in reality 
such, I maintain that nothing is thereby shown except the reality 
of this fact—the fact of a curvature. For its thorough determina- 
tion, ages will be required ; and, when determined, it will be found 
indicative of some binary or other multiple relation between our 
Sun and some one or more of the proximate stars. I hazard 
nothing however, in predicting, that, after the lapse of many 
centuries, all efforts at determining the path of our Sun through 
Space, will be abandoned as fruitless. This is easily conceivable 
when we look at the infinity of perturbation it must experience, 
from its perpetually-shifting relations with other orbs, in the 
common approach of all to the nucleus of the Galaxy. . 

But in examining other “ nebule” than that of the Milky Way 
—in surveying, generally, the clusters which overspread the hea- 
vens—do we or do we not find confirmation of Madler’s hypothesis? 
‘We do not. The forms of the clusters are exceedingly diverse 
when casually viewed; but on close inspection, through powerful. 
telescopes, we recognise the sphere, very distinctly, as at least the 
proximate form of all :—their constitution, in general, being at — 
variance with the idea of revolution about a common centre. 

“It is difficult,” says Sir John Herschel, “to form any concep- 
tion of the dynamical state of such systems. On one hand, without 
a rotary motion and a centrifugal force, it is hardly possible not to 
regard them as in a state of progressive collapse. On the other, 
granting such a motion and such a force, we find it no less difficult 
to reconcile their forms with the rotation of the whole system 
[meaning cluster] around any single axis, without which internal 
collision would appear to be inevitable.” 

Some remarks lately made about the “nebule” by Dr. Nichol, 
in taking quite a different view of the cosmical conditions from 
any taken i in this Discourse—have a very peculiar appneebulty to 
the point now at issue. He says: 

“When our greatest telescopes are brought to bear upon them, 
we find that those which were thought to be irregular, are not so; 
they approach nearer to a globe. Here is one that looked oval ; 
but Lord Rosse’s telescope brought it into a circle... . Now 
there occurs a very remarkable circumstance in reference to these 
comparatively sweeping circular masses of nebula. We find they 

9 


202 EUREKA. 


are not entirely circular, but the reverse; and that all around 
them, on every side, there are volumes of stars, stretching owt 
apparently as if they were rushing towards a great central mass 
in consequence of the action of some great power.” * 

Were I to describe, in my own words, what must necessarily 
be the existing condition of each nebula on the hypothesis that all 
matter is, as I suggest, now returning to its original Unity, I 
should simply be going over, nearly verbatim, the language here 
employed by Dr. Nichol, without the faintest suspicion of that 
stupendous truth which is the key to these nebular phenomena. 

And here let me fortify my position still farther, by the voice 
of a greater than Miadler—of one, moreover, to whom all the 
data of Madler have long been familiar things, carefully and 
thoroughly considered. Referring to the elaborate calculations of 
Argelander—the very researches which form Madler’s basis— 
Humboldt, whose generalizing powers have never, perhaps, been 
equalled, has the following observation : 

“When we regard the real, proper, or non-perspective motions 
of the stars, we find many groups of them moving in opposite 
directions ; and the data as yet in hand render it not necessary, 
at least, to conceive that the systems composing the Milky Way, 
or the clusters, generally, composing the Universe, are revolving 
about any particular centre unknown, whether luminous or non- 
luminous. It is but Man’s longing for a fundamental First Cause, 
that impels both his intellect and fancy to the adoption of such an - 
hypothesis.” f 


* I must be understood as denying, especially, only the revolutionary 
portion of Miadler's hypothesis. Ofcourse, if no great central orb exists now 
in our cluster, such will exist hereafter. Whenever existing, it will be merely 
the nucleus of the consolidation. 

+ Betrachtet man die nicht perspectivischen eigenen Bewegungen der 
Sterne, so scheinen viele gruppenweise in ihrer Richtung entgegengesetzt ; 
und die bisher gesammelten Thatsachen machen es auf’s wenigste nicht noth- 
wendig, anzunehmen, dass alle Theile unserer Sternenschicht oder gar der 
gesammten Sterneninseln, welche den Weltraum fiillen, sich um einen gros- 
sen, unbekannten, leuchtenden oder, dunkeln Centralkorper bewegen. Das 
Streben nach den letzten und hoéchsten Grundursachen macht freilich die 
reflectirende Thatigkeit des Menschen, wie seine Phantasie, zu einer solchen 
Annahme geneigt. 


EUREKA. 208 


The phenomenon here alluded to—that of “many groups mo- 
ving in opposite directions”—is quite inexplicable by Madler’s 
idea; but arises, as a necessary consequence, from that which 
forms the basis of this Discourse. While the merely general di- 
rection of each atom—of each moon, planet, star, or cluster— 
would, on my hypothesis, be, of course, absolutely rectilinear ; 
while the general path of all bodies would be a right line leading 
to the centre of all; it is clear, nevertheless, that this general 
‘rectilinearity would be compounded of what, with scarcely any 
exaggeration, we may term an infinity of particular curves—an 
infinity of local deviations from rectilinearity—the result of con- 
tinuous differences of relative position among the multitudinous 
masses, as each proceeded on its own proper journey to the End. 

I quoted, just now, from Sir John Herschel, the following 
words, used in reference to the clusters :—‘ On one hand, without 
a rotary motion and a centrifugal force, it is hardly possible not 
to regard them as in a state of progressive collapse.” The fact is, 
that, in surveying the “nebule” with a telescope of high power, 
we shall find it quite impossible, having once conceived this idea 
of “collapse,” not to gather, at all points, corroboration of the 
idea. A nucleus is always apparent, in the direction of which the 
stars seem to be precipitating themselves; nor can these nuclei 
be mistaken for merely perspective phenomena :—the clusters are 
really denser near the centre—sparser in the regions more remote 
from it.” In a word, we see every thing as we should see it were 
a collapse taking place; but, in general, it may be said of these 
clusters, that we can fairly entertain, while looking at them, the 
idea of orbitual movement about a centre, only by admitting the 
possible existence, in the distant domains of space, of dynamical 
laws with which we are unacquainted. 

On the part of Herschel, however, there is evidently a reluc- 
tance to regard the nebule as in “a state of progressive collapse.” 
But if facts—if even appearances justify the supposition of their 

being in this state, why, it may well be demanded, is he disinclined 
to admit it? Simply on account of a prejudice ;-—merely because 
the supposition is at war with a pre-conceived and utterly baseless 
notion—that of the endlessness—that of the eternal stability of 
the Universe. 


204 EUREKA. 


If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the “state of 
progressive collapse” is precisely that state in which alone we are 


warranted in considering All Things; and, with due humility, let 


me here confess that, for my part, I am at a loss to conceive how 
any other understanding of the existing condition of affairs, could 
ever have made its way into the human brain. “The tendency 
to collapse” and “the attraction of gravitation” are convertible 
phrases. In using either, we speak of the réaction of the First 
Act. Never was necessity less obvious than that of supposing 
Matter imbued with an ineradicable quality forming part of its 
material nature—a quality, or instinct, forever inseparable from it, 
and by dint of which inalienable principle every atom is perpetually 
impelled to seek its fellow-atom. Never was necessity less ob- 
vious than that of entertaining this unphilosophical idea. Going 
boldly behind the vulgar thought, we have to conceive, metaphysi- 
cally, that the gravitating principle appertains to Matter tempo- 
rarily—only while diffused—only while existing as Many instead 
of as One—appertains to it by virtue of its state of irradiation 
alone—appertains, in a word, altogether to its condition, and not 
in the slightest degree to itself. In this view, when the irradiation 
shall have returned into its source—when the réaction shall be 
completed—the gravitating principle will no longer exist. And, 
In fact, astronomers, without at any time reaching the idea here 
suggested, seem to have been approximating it, in the assertion 
that “if there were but one body in the universe, it would be im- 
possible to understand how the principle, Gravity, could obtain :” 
that is to say, from a consideration of Matter as they find it, they 
reach a conclusion at which I deductively arrive. That so preg- 
nant a suggestion as the one quoted should have been permitted 
to remain so long unfruitful, is, nevertheless, a mystery which I 
find it difficult to fathom. 

It is, perhaps, in no little degree, however, our propensity for 
the continuous—for the analogical—in the present case more par- 
ticularly for the symmetrical—which has been leading us astray. 
And, in fact, the sense of the symmetrical is an instinct which 
may be depended upon with an almost blindfold reliance. It is 
the poetical essence of the Universe—of the Universe which, in 
the supremeness of its symmetry, is but the most sublime of 


EUREKA. 205 


poems. Now symmetry and consistency are convertible terms :— 
thus Poetry and Truth are one. A thing is consistent in the ratio 
of its truth—true in the ratio of its consistency. A perfect con- 
sistency, I repeat, can be nothing but an absolute truth. We may 
take it for granted, then, that Man cannot long or widely err, if 
he suffer himself to be guided by his poetical, which I have main- 
tained to be his truthful, in being his symmetrical, instinct. He 
must have a care, however, lest, in pursuing too heedlessly the 
superticial symmetry of forms and motions, he leave out of sight 
the really essential symmetry of the principles which determine 
and control them. 

That the stellar bodies would finally be merged in one—that, 
at last, all would be drawn into the substance of one stupendous 
central orb already existing—is an idea which, for some time past, 
seems, vaguely and indeterminately, to have held possession of 
the fancy of mankind. It is an idea, in fact, which belongs to the 
class of the excessively obvious. It springs, instantly, from a su- 
perficial observation of the cyclic and seemingly gyrating or vorti- 
cial movements of those individual portions of the Universe which 
come most immediately and most closely under our observation. 
There is not, perhaps, a human being, of ordinary education and 
of average reflective capacity, to whom, at some period, the fancy 
in question has not occurred, as if spontaneously, or intuitively, 
and wearing all the character of a very profound and very original 
conception. This conception, however, so commonly entertained, 
has never, within my knowledge, arisen out of any abstract con- 
siderations. Being, on the contrary, always suggested, as I say, 
by the vorticial movements about centres, a reason for it, also,— 
a cause for the ingathering of all the orbs into one, imagined to 
be already existing, was naturally sought in the same direction— 
among these cyclic movements themselves. 

Thus it happened that, on announcement of the gradual and 
perfectly regular decrease observed in the orbit of Encke’s comet, 
at every successive revolution about our Sun, astronomers were 
nearly unanimous in the opinion that the cause in question was 
found—that a principle was discovered sufficient to account, phy- 
sically, for that final, universal agglomeration which, I repeat, the 
analogical, symmetrical, or poetical instinct of man had pre-de- 


| 


206 EUREKA. 


termined to understand as something more than a simple hypo- 
thesis. 

This cause—this sufficient reason for the final ingathering—was 
declared to exist in an exceedingly rare but still material medium 
pervading space; which medium, by retarding, in some degree, 
the progress of the comet, perpetually weakened its tangential 
force; thus giving a predominance to the centripetal; which, of 
course, drew the comet nearer and nearer at each revolution, and 
would eventually precipitate it upon the Sun. 

All this was strictly logical—admitting the medium or ether ; 
but this ether was assumed, most illogically, on the ground that 
no other mode than the one spoken of could be discovered, of ac- 
counting for the observed decrease in the orbit of the comet :—as 
if from the fact that we could discover no other mode of account- 
ing for it, it followed, in any respect, that no other mode of ac- 
counting for it existed. It is clear that innumerable causes might 
operate, in combination, to diminish the orbit, without even a 
possibility of our ever becoming acquainted with one of them. 
In the meantime, it has never been fairly shown, perhaps, why 
the retardation occasioned by the skirts of the Sun’s atmosphere, 
through which the comet passes at perihelion, is not enough to 
account for the phenomenon. That Encke’s comet will be absorb- 
ed into the Sun, is probable; that all the comets of the system 
will be absorbed, is more than merely possible; but, in such case, 
the principle of absorption must be referred to eccentricity of or- 
bit—to the close approximation to the Sun, of the comets at their 
perihelia; and is a principle not affecting, in any degree, the pon- 
derous spheres, which are to be regarded as the true material con- 
stituents of the Universe. Touching comets in general, let me here 
suggest, in passing, that we cannot be far wrong in looking upon 
them as the lightning-flashes of the cosmical Heaven. 

The idea of a retarding ether, and, through it, of a final agglo- 
meration of all things, seemed at one time, however, to be confirm- 
ed by the observation of a positive decrease in the orbit of the solid 
moon. By reference to eclipses recorded 2500 years ago, it was 
found that the velocity of the satellite’s revolution then was con- 
siderably less than it is now ; that on the hypothesis that its mo- 
tions in its orbit is uniformly in accordance with Kepler’s law, and 


EUREKA. 207 


was accurately determined then—2500 years ago—it is now in 
advance of the position it should occupy, by nearly 9000 miles. 
The increase of velocity proved, of course, a diminution of orbit; 
and astronomers were fast yielding to a belief in an ether, as the 
sole mode of accounting tor the phenomenon, when Lagrange 
came to the rescue. He showed that, owing to the configurations 
of the spheroids, the shorter axes of their ellipses are subject to 
variation in length; the longer axes being permanent; and that 
this variation is continuous and vibratory—so that every orbit is 
in a state of transition, either from circle to ellipse, or from ellipse 
to circle. In the case of the moon, where the shorter axis is de- 
creasing, the orbit is passing from circle to ellipse, and, consequent- 
ly, is decreasing too; but, after a long series of ages, the ultimate 
eccentricity will be attained; then the shorter axis will proceed 
to increase, until the orbit becomes a circle; when the process of 
shortening will again take place ;—and so on forever. In the case 
of the Earth, the orbit is passing from ellipse to circle. The facts 
thus demonstrated do away, of course, with all necessity for sup- 
posing an ether, and with all apprehension of the system’s insta- 
bility—on the ether’s account. 

It will be remembered that I have myself assumed what we 
may term an ether. I have spoken of a subtle influence which 
we know to be ever in attendance upon matter, although becoming 
manifest only through matter’s heterogeneity. To this influence 
—without daring to touch it at all in any effort at explaining its 
awful nature—I have referred the various phenomena of electri- 
city, heat, light, magnetism; and more—of vitality, consciousness, 
and thought—in a word, of spirituality. It will be seen, at once, 
then, that the ether thus conceived is radically distinct from the 
ether of the astronomers; inasmuch as theirs is matter and mine 
not. 

With the idea of material ether, seems, thus, to have departed 
altogether the thought of that universal agglomeration so long 
predetermined by the poetical fancy of mankind :—an agglomera- 
tion in which a sound Philosophy might have been warranted in 
putting faith, at least to a certain extent, if for no other reason 
than that by this poetical fancy it had been so predetermined. 
But so far as Astronomy—-so far as mere Physics have yet spoken, 


208 EUREKA. 


the cycles of the Universe has no conceivable end. Had an end 
been demonstrated, however, from so purely collateral a cause as 
an ether, Man's instinct of the Divine capacity to adapt, would 
have rebelled against the demonstration. We should have been 
forced to regard the Universe with some such sense of dissatisfac- 
tion as we experience in contemplating an unnecessarily complex 
work of human art. Creation would have affected us as an imper- 
fect plot in a romance, where the dénoiment is awkwardly brought 
about by interposed incidents external and foreign to the main 
subject; instead of springing out of the bosom of the thesis— 
out of the heart of the ruling idea—instead of arising as a result 
of the primary proposition—as inseparable and inevitable part 
and parcel of the fundamental conception of the book. 

What I mean by the symmetry of mere surface will now be 
more clearly understood. It is simply by the blandishment of 
this symmetery that we have been beguiled into the general idea 
of which Madler’s hypothesis is but a part—the idea of the vor- 
ticial indrawing of the orbs. Dismissing this nakedly physical 
conception, the symmetry of principle sees the end of all things 
metaphysically involved in the thought of a beginning; seeks and 
finds in this origin of all things the rudiment of this end; and 
perceives the impiety of supposing this end likely to be brought 
about less simply—less directly—less obviously—less artistically 
—than through the réaction of the originating Act. 

Recurring, then, to a previous suggestion, let us understand the 
systems—let us understand each star, with its attendant planets— 
as but a Titanic atom existing in space with precisely the same in- 
clination for Unity which characterized, in the beginning, the actual 
atoms after their irradiation throughout the Universal sphere. As 
these original atoms rushed towards each other in generally straight 


lines, so let us conceive as at least generally rectilinear, the paths 


of the system-atoms towards their respective centres of aggrega- 
tion :—and in this direct drawing together of the systems into 
clusters, with a similar and simultaneous drawing together of the 
clusters themselves while undergoing consolidation, we have at 
length attained the great Mow—the awful Present—the Existing 
Condition of the Universe. 

Of the still more awful Future a not irrational analogy may 


~——e | ae as 


ee en 


EUREKA. 209 


guide us in framing an hypothesis. The equilibrium between the 
centripetal and centrifugal forces of each system, being necessarily 
destroyed upon attainment of a certain proximity to the nucleus 
of the cluster to which it belongs, there must occur, at once, a 
chaotic or seemingly chaotic precipitation, of the moons upon the 
planets, of the planets upon the suns, and of the suns upon the 
nuclei; and the general result of this precipitation must be the 
gathering of the myriad now-existing stars of the firmament into 
an almost infinitely less number of almost infinitely superior 
spheres. In being immeasurably fewer, the worlds of that day 
will be immeasurably greater than our own. Then, indeed, 
amid unfathomable abysses, will be glaring unimaginable suns, 
But all this will be merely a climacic magnificence forebo- 
ding the great End. Of this End the new genesis described, 
can be but a very partial postponement. While undergoing con- 
solidation, the clusters themselves, with a speed prodigiously accu- 
mulative, have been rushing towards their own general centre— 
and now, with a thousand-fold electric velocity, commensurate only 
with their material grandeur and with the spiritual passion of 
their appetite for oneness, the majestic remnants of the tribe of 
Stars flash, at length, into a common embrace. The inevitable 
catastrophe is at hand. 

But this catastrophe—what is it? We have seen accomplished 
the ingathering of the orbs. Henceforward, are we not to under- 
stand one material globe of . globes as constituting and comprehend- 
ing the Universe? Such a fancy would be altogether at war with 
every assumption and consideration of this Discourse. 

I have already alluded to that absolute reciprocity of adaptation 
which is the idiosyncrasy of the divine Art—stamping it divine. 
Up to this point of our reflections, we have been regarding the elec- 
trical influence as a something by dint of whose repulsion alone 
Matter is enabled to exist in that state of diffusion demanded for 
the fulfilment of its purposes :—so far, in a word, we have been 
considering the influence in question as ordained for Matter’s sake 
to subserve the objects of matter. With a perfectly legitimate 
reciprocily, we are now permitted to look at Matter, as created 
solely for the sake of this influence—solely to serve the objects of 
this spiritual Ether. Through the aid—by the means—through 


210 EUREKA. 


the agency of Matter, and by dint of its heteroveneity—is this 
Ether manifested—is Spirtt individualized. It is merely in the 
development of this Ether, through heterogeneity, that particular 
masses of Matter become animate—sensitive—and in the ratio of 
their heterogeneity ;—some reaching a degree of sensitiveness 
involving what we call Thought, and thus attaining Conscious In- 
telligence. 

In this view, we are enabled to perceive Matter as a Means— 
not asan End. Its purposes are thus seen to have been compre- 
hended in its diffusion; and with the return into Unity these 
purposes cease. The absolutely consolidated globe of globes would 
be objectless :—therefore not for a moment could it continue to 
exist. Matter, created for an end, would unquestionably, on ful- 
filment of that end, be Matter no longer. Let us endeavor to 
understand that it would disappear, and that God would remain 
all in all. 

That every work of Divine conception must céexist and cdex- 
pire with its particular design, seems to me especially obvious ; 
and I make no doubt that, on perceiving the final globe of globes 
to be oljectless, the majority of my readers will be satisfied with 
my “therefore it cannot continue to exist.” Nevertheless, as the 
startling thought of its instantaneous disappearance is one which 
the most powerful intellect cannot be expected readily to entertain 
on grounds so decidedly abstract, let us endeavor to look at the 
idea from some other and more ordinary point of view:—let us 
see how thoroughly and beautifully it is corroborated in an &@ poste- 
riort consideration of Matter as we actually find it. 

I have before said that “ Attraction and Repulsion being unde- 
niably the sole properties by which Matter is manifested to Mind, 
we are justified in assuming that Matter exists only as Attraction 
and Repulsion—in other words that Attraction and Repulsion are 
Matter; there being no conceivable case in which we may not 
employ the term Matter and the terms ‘ Attraction’ and ‘ Repul- 
sion’ taken together, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, 
expressions of Logic.”* | 

Now the very definition of Attraction implies particularity— 


* Page 188, 


EUREKA. 211 


the existence of parts, particles, or atoms; for we define it as the 
tendency of “each atom é&ec. to every other atom,” &c. according 
to a certain law. Of course where there are no parts—where 
there is absolute Unity—-where the tendency to oneness is satis- 
fied—there can be no Attraction :—this has been fully shown, and 
all Philosophy admits it. When, on fulfilment of its purposes, 
then, Matter shall have returned into its original condition of One 
—a, condition which presupposes the expulsion of the separative 
ether, whose province and whose capacity are limited to keeping 
the atoms apart until that great day when, this ether being no 
longer needed, the overwhelming pressure of the finally collective 
Attraction shall at length just sufficiently predominate* and ex- 
pel it:—when, I say, Matter, finally, expelling the Ether, shall 
have returned into absolute Unity,—it will then (to speak para- 
doxically for the moment) be Matter without Attraction and with- 
out Repulsion—in other words, Matter without Matter—in other 
words, again, Matter no more. In sinking into Unity, it will sink 
at once into that Nothingness which, to all Finite Perception, Unity 
must be—into that Material Nihility from which alone we can con- 
ceive it to have been evoked—to have been created by the Volition 
of God. 

I repeat, then—Let us endeavor to comprehend that the final 
globe of globes will instantaneously disappear, and that God will 
remain all in all. | 

But are we here to pause? Not so. On the Universal agglo- 
meration and dissolution, we can readily conceive that a new and 
perhaps totally different series of conditions may ensue—another 
creation and irradiation, returning into itself—another action and 
réaction of the Divine Will. Guiding our imaginations by that 
omniprevalent law of laws, the law of periodicity, are we not, in- 
deed, more than justified in entertaining a belief—let us say, rather, 
in indulging a hope—that the processes we have here ventured to 
contemplate will be renewed forever, and forever, and forever; a 

novel Universe swelling into existence, and then subsiding into 
— nothingness, at every throb of the Heart Divine? _ 
And now—this Heart Divine—what is it? Jt 1s our own. 


& 


#* “ Gravity, therefore, must be the strongest of forces.”—See page 140. 


212 EUREKA. 


Let not the merely seeming irreverence of this idea frighten our 
souls from that cool exercise of consciousness—from that deep 
tranquillity of self-inspection—through which alone we can hope 
to attain the presence of this, the most sublime of truths, and look 
it leisurely in the face. 

The phenomena on which our conclusions must at this point 
depend, are merely spiritual shadows, but not the less thoroughly 
substantial. 

. We walk about, amid the destinies of our world-existence, en- 
compassed by dim but ever present Memories of a Destiny more 
vast—very distant in the by-gone time, and infinitely awful. 

We live out a Youth peculiarly haunted by such dreams; yet 
never mistaking them for dreams. As Memories we know them. 
During our Youth the distinction is too clear to deceive us even 
for a moment. 

So long as this Youth endures, the feeling that we ezist, is the 
most navuval of all feelings. We understand it thoroughly. That 
there was a period at which we did not exist—or, that it might so 
have happened that we never had existed at all—are the conside- 
rations, indeed, which during this youth, we find difficulty in un- 
derstanding. Why we should not exist, is, up to the epoch of our 
Manhood, of all queries the most unanswerable. Existence—self- 
existence—existence from all Time and to all Eternity—seems, up 
to the epoch of Manhood, a normal and unquestionable condition: 
—seems, because it 28. 

But now comes the period at which a conventional World- 
Reason awakens us from the truth of our dream. Doubt, Sur- 
prise and Incomprehensibility arrive at the same moment. They 
say :—“‘ You live, and the time was when you lived not. You 
have been created. An Intelligence exists greater than your own; 
and it is only through this Intelligence you live at all.” These 
things we struggle to comprehend and cannot:—cannol, because 
these things, being untrue, are thus, of necessity, incomprehen- 
sible. | 

No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life 
of thought, has not felt himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts 
at understanding or believing, that anything exists greater than 
his own soul. The utter impossibility of any one’s soul. feeling 


EUREKA. 218 


itself inferior to another; the intense, overwhelming dissatisfaction 
and rebellion at the thought ;—these, with the omniprevalent aspi- 
rations at perfection, are but the spiritual, coincident with the 
material, struggles towards the original Unity—are, to my mind 
at least, a species of proof far surpassing what Man terms demon- 
stration, that no one soul zs inferior to another—that nothing is, 
or can be, superior to any one soul—that each soul is, in part, its 
own God—its own Creator:—in a word, that God—the material 
and spiritual God—now exists solely in the diffused Matter and 
Spirit of: the Universe; and that the regathering of this diffused 
Matter and Spirit will be but the re-constitution of the purely 
Spiritual and Individual God. 

In this view, and in this view alone, we comprehend the riddles 
of Divine Injustice—of Inexorable Fate. In this view alone the 
existence of Evil becomes intelligible; but in this view it becomes 
more—it becomes endurable. Our souls no longer rebel at a Sor- 
row which we ourselves have imposed upon ourselves, in further- 
ance of our own purposes—with a view—if even with a futile 
view—to the extension of our own Joy. 

I have spoken of Memories that haunt us during our youth. 
They sometimes pursue us even in our Manhood :—assume gra- 
dually less and less indefinite shapes :—now and then speak to us 
with low voices, saying: 

“There was an epoch in the Night of Time, when a still-exist- 
ent Being existed—one of an absolutely infinite number of similar 
Beings that people the absolutely infinite domains of the abso- 
lutely infinite space.* It was not and is not in the power of this 
Being—any more than it is in your own—to extend, by actual 
increase, the joy of his Existence; but just as it ¢s in your power 
to expand or to concentrate your pleasures (the absolute amount 
of happiness remaining always the same) so did and does a simi- 
lar capability appertain to this Divine Being, who thus passes his 
Eternity in perpetual variation of Concentrated Self and almost 
Infinite Self-Diffusion. What you call The Universe is but his 
present expansive existence. He now feels his life through an in- 


* See pages 185-186-Paragraph commencing “I reply that the right,” 
and ending “ proper and particular God.” 


214 EUREKA. 


finity of imperfect pleasures—the partial and pain-intertangled 
pleasures of those inconceivably numerous things which you desig- 
nate as his creatures, but which are really but infinite individuali- 
zations of Himself. All these creatures—al/—those which you term 
aniinate, as well as those to whom you deny life for no better rea- 
son than that you do not behold it in operation—all these crea- 
tures have, in a greater or less degree, a capacity for pleasure and 
for pain:—but the general sum of their sensations is precisely 
that amount of Happiness which appertains by right to the Divine 
Being when concentrated within Himself. These creatures are all 
too, more or less conscious Intelligences; conscious, first, of a pro- 
per identity; conscious, secondly, and by faint indeterminate 
glimpses, of an identity with the Divine Being of whom we speak 
—of an identity with God. Of the two classes of consciousness, 
fancy that the former will grow weaker, the latter stronger, during 
the long succession of ages which must elapse before these myriads 
of individual Intelligences become blended—when the bright stars 
become blended—into One. Think that the sense of individual 
identity will be gradually merged in the general consciousness— 
that Man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to feel himself Man, 
will at length attain that awfully triumphant epoch when he shall 
recognise his existence as that of Jehovah. In the meantime bear 
in mind that all is Life—Life—Life within Life—the less within 
the greater, and all within the Spirtt Divine. 


~~ Poe’s own copy of “ Eureka,” which we possess (New 
York: Geo. P, Putnam, 1848), is corrected throughout 
for a future edition, which it never reached in its author’s 
lifetime. The last page contains, in pencil, the following 
summing up of its philosophy : “ Note.—The pain of the 
consideration that we shall lose our individual identity 
ceases at once when we further reflect that the process, 
as above described, is neither more nor less than that of ' 
the absorption, by each individual intelligence, of all: 
other intelligences (that is, of the universe) into its own. | 
That God may be all in all, cach must become God.” | 


Sed ——_— 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 215 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


PPP LPL IO 


Tue word “Verse” is here used not in its strict or primitive 
sense, but as the term most convenient for expressing generally 
and without pedantry all that is involved in the consideration of 
rhythm, rhyme, metre, and versification. 

There is, perhaps, no topic in polite literature which has been 
more pertinaciously discussed, and there is certainly not one about 
which so much inaccuracy, confusion, misconception, misrepresen- 
tation, mystification, and downright ignorance on all sides, can be 
fairly said to exist. Were the topic really difficult, or did it lie, 
even, in the cloud-land of metaphysics, where the doubt-vapors 
may be made to assume any and every shape at the will or at the 
fancy of the gazer, we should have less reason to wonder at all 
this contradiction and perplexity; but in fact the subject is 
exceedingly simple; one tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethical; 
nine tenths, however, appertain to the mathematics; and the 
whole is ineluded within the limits of the commonest common 
sense. | 

“ But, if this is the case, how,” it will be asked, “can so much 
misunderstanding have arisen? Is it conceivable that a thousand 
profound scholars, investigating so very simple a matter for centu- 
ries, have not been able to place it in the fullest light, at least, of . 
which it is susceptible?” These queries, I confess, are not easily 
answered :—at all events, a satisfactory reply to them might cost 
more trouble than would, if properly considered, the whole verata 
gueestio to which they have reference. Nevertheless, there is little 
difficulty or danger in suggesting that the “thousand profound 


216 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE, 


_— 


scholars” may have failed, first, because they were scholars, secondly, 

because they were profound, and thirdly, because they were a thou- , 
sand—the impotency of the scholarship and profundity having 
been thus multiplied a thousand fold. I am serious in these sug- 
gestions; for, first again, there is something in “scholarship” 
which seduces us into blind worship of Bacon’s Idol of the Thea- 
tre—into irrational deference to antiquity; secondly, the proper 
“profundity” is rarely profound—it is the nature of Truth in 
general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most 
superficial ; thirdly, the clearest subject may be overclouded by 
mere superabundance of talk. In chemistry, the best way of 
separating two bodies is to add a third ; in speculation, fact often 
agrees with fact and argument with argument, until an additional 
well-meaning fact or argument sets every thing by the ears. In 
one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because 
it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because 
excessively discussed. When a topic is thus circumstanced, the 
readiest mode of investigating it is to forget that any previous 
investigation has been attempted. 

But, in fact, while much has been written on the Greek and 
Latin rhythms, and even on the Hebrew, little effort has been 
made at examining that of any of the modern tongues. As 
regards the English, comparatively nothing has been done. It 
may be said, indeed, that we are without a treatise on our own 
verse. In our ordinary grammars and in our works on rhetoric 
or prosody in general, may be found occasional chapters, it is 
true, which have the heading, “ Versification,” but these are, in 
all instances, exceedingly meagre. They pretend to no analysis ; 
they propose nothing like system; they make no attempt at even 
rule; every thing depends upon “authority.” They are con- 
fined, in fact, to mere exemplification of the supposed varieties of 
English feet and English lines ;—although in no work with which 
‘I am acquainted are these feet correctly given or these lines 
detailed in anything like their full extent. Yet what has been 
mentioned is all—if we except the occasional introduction of some 
pedagogue-ism, such as this, borrowed from the Greek Prosodies : 
“When a syllable is wanting, the verse is said to be catalectic ; when 
the measure is exact, the line is acatalectic; when there is a 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 217 


redundant syllable it forms hypermeter.” Now whether a line be 
termed catalectic or acatalectic is, perhaps, a point of no vital 
importance ;—it is even possible that the student may be able to 
decide, promptly, when the @ should be employed and when 
omitted, yet be incognizant, at the same time, of add that is worth 
knowing in regard to the structure of verse. 

A leading defect in each of our treatises, (if treatises they can 
be called,) is the confining the subject to mere Versification, while 
Verse in general, with the understanding given to the term in the 
heading of this paper, is the real question at issue. Nor am I 
aware of even one of our Grammars which so much as properly 
defines the word versification itself. “ Versification,” says a work 
now before me, of which the accuracy is far more than usual—the 
“English Grammar” of Goold Brown—“ Versification is the art 
of arranging words into lines of correspondent length, so as to 
produce harmony by the regular alternation of syllables differing 
in quantity.” The commencement of this definition might apply, 
indeed, to the art of versification, but not versification itself. Ver- 
sification is not the art of arranging, &c., but the actual arranging 
—a distinction too obvious to need comment. The error here is 
identical with one which has been too long permitted to disgrace 
the initial page of every one of our school grammars. I allude to 
the definitions of English Grammar itself. ‘“ English Grammar,” 
it is said, “‘is the art of speaking and writing the English language 
correctly.” This phraseology, or something essentially similar, 1s 
employed, I believe, by. Bacon, Miller, Fisk, Greenleaf, Ingersoll, 
Kirkland, Cooper, Flint, Pue, Comly and many others. These 
gentlemen, it is presumed, adopted it without examination from 
Murray, who derived it from Lily, (whose work was “ guam solam 
Regia Majestas in omnibus scholis docendam precipit,”) and who 
appropriated it without acknowledgment, but with some unimpor- 
tant modification, from the Latin Grammar of Leonicenus. It 
may be shown, however, that this definition, so complacently 
received, is not, and cannot be, a proper definition of English 
Grammar. A definition is that which so describes its object as to 
distinguish it from all others:—it is no definition of any one 
thing if its terms are applicable to any one other. But if it be 
asked—“ What is the design—the end—the aim of English 

Vor. II.—10. , 


218 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


Grammar?” our obvious answer is, “The art of speaking and 
writing the English language correctly :’—that is to say, we must 
use the precise words employed as the definition of English Gram- 
mar itself. But the object to be obtained by any means is, assu- 
redly, not the means. English Grammar and the end contemplated 
by English Grammar, are two matters sufficiently distinct; nor 
can the one be more reasonably regarded as the other than a fish- 
ing-hook as a fish. The definition, therefore, which is applicable 
in the latter instance, cannot, in the former, be true. Grammar 
in general is the analysis of language; English Grammar of the 
English. 

But to return to Versification as defined in our extract above. 
“It is the art,” says the extract, “ of arranging words into lines of 
correspondent length.” Not so:—a correspondence in the length of 
lines is by no means essential. Pindaric odes are, surely, in- _ 
- stances of versification, yet these compositions are noted for extreme 
diversity in the length of their lines. 

The arrangement is moreover said to be for the purpose of pro- 
ducing “harmony by the regular alternation,” &. But harmony 
is not the sole aim—not even the principal one. In the construc- 
tion of verse, melody should never be left out of view; yet this is 
a point which all our Prosodies have most unaccountably forborne 
to touch. Reasoned rules on this topic should form a portion of 
all systems of rhythm. 

‘“‘So as to produce harmony,” says the definition, “ by the regu- 
lar alternation,” &c. A regular alternation, as described, forms 
no part of any principle of versification. The arrangement of 
spondees and dactyls, for example, in the Greek hexameter, is an 
arrangement which may be termed at random. At least it is 
arbitrary. Without interference with the line as a whole, a dactyl 
may be substituted for a spondee, or the converse, at any point 
other than the ultimate and penultimate feet, of which the former 
is always a spondee, the latter nearly always a dactyl. Here, it 
is clear, we have no “ regular alternation of syllables differing in 
quantity.” 

“So as to produce harmony,” proceeds the definition, “ by the 
regular alternation of syllables differing in quantity,”—in other 
words by the alternation of long and short syllables; for in 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 219 


rhythm all syllables are necessarily either short or long. But not 
only do I deny the necessity of any regularity in the succession 
of feet. and, by consequence, of syllables, but dispute the essen- 
tiality of any alternation, regular or irregular, of syllables long and 
short. Our author, observe, is now engaged in a definition of ver- 
sification in general, not of English versification in particular. But 
the Greek and. Latin metres abound in the spondee and pyrrhic— 
the former consisting of two long syllables; the latter of two 
short; and there are innumerable instances of the immediate 
succession of many spondees and many pyrrhics. 
Here is a passage from Silius Italicus : 


. Fallis te mensas inter quod credis inermem 
Tot bellis quesita viro, tot ceedibus armat 
Majestas eterna ducem: si admoveris ora 
Cannas et Trebium ante oculos Trasymenaque busta, 
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. 


Making the elisions demanded by the classic Prosodies, we 
should scan these Hexameters thus: 


Fallis | té mén—sds in | tér qfiod | crédis in | érmém | 
Tot bél—lis qiiz | sitd vi | rd tét—caedibiis | armat | 
Majés | tas é | térnd di { cém s’Ad | movéris | Gra | 
Cannas | ét Trébr | ant’écii | lds Trasy | méndqiie | basta 
ét Pau | lista | r'ingén | tém mi | rabéris | imbram | 


It will be seen that, in the first and last of these lines, we have 
only two short syllables in thirteen, with an uninterrupted succes- 
sion of no less than nine long syllables. But how are we to 
reconcile all this with a definition of versification which describes 
it as “the art of arranging words into lines of correspondent 
length so as to produce harmony by the regular alternation of 
syllables differing in quantity 2?” 

It may be urged, however, that our prosodist’s intention was to 
speak of the English metres alone, and that, by omitting all men- 
tion of the spondee and pyrrhic, he has virtually avowed their 
exclusion from our rhythms. A grammarian is never excusable 
on the ground of good intentions. We demand from hin, if 
from any one, rigorous precision of style. But grant the design. 


220 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


Let us admit that our author, following the example of all authors 
on English Prosody, has, in defining versification at large, intended 
a definition merely of the English. All these prosodists, we will 
say, reject the spondee and pyrrhic. Still all admit the iambus, 
which consists of a short syllable followed by a long; the trochee, 
which is the converse of the iambus ; the dactyl, formed of one 
long syllable followed by two short; and the anapzest—two short 
succeeded by a long. The spondee is improperly rejected, as I 
shall presently show. The pyrrhic is rightfully dismissed. Its 
existence in either ancient or modern rhythm is purely chimeri- 
cal, and the, insisting on so perplexing a nonentity as a foot of 
two short syllables, affords, perhaps, the best evidence of the 
gross irrationality and subservience to authority which .charac- 
terize our Prosody. In the meantime the acknowledged dactyl 
and anapest are enough to sustain my proposition about the 
“ alternation,” &c., without reference to feet which are assumed 
to exist in the Greek and Latin metres alone: for an anapest and 
a dactyl may meet in the same line; when of course we shall 
have an uninterrupted succession of four short syllables. The 
meeting of these two feet, to be sure, is an accident not contem- 
plated in the definition now discussed; for this definition, in 
demanding a “regular alternation of syllables differing in quan- 
tity,” insists on a regular succession of similar feet. But here is 
an example : 


Sing t8 m& | Isibelle. 


This is the opening line of a little ballad now before me, which 
proceeds in the same rhythm—a peculiarly beautiful one. More 
than all this :—English lines are often well composed, entirely, of a 
regular succession of syllables all of the same quantity :—the first 
lines, for instance, of the following quatrain by Arthur C. Coxe : 


March! march! march ! 
Making sounds as they tread, 
Ho! ho! how they step, 
Going down to the dead |! 


The line italicised is formed of three czesuras. The cesura, of 
which I have much to say hereafter, is rejected by the English 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 221 


Prosodies and grossly misrepresented in the classic. It is a per- 
fect foot—the most important in all verse—and consists of a angie 
long syllable ; but the length of this syllable varies. 

It has thus been made evident that there is not one point of the 
definition in question which does not involve an error. And for 
anything more satisfactory or more intelligible we shall look in 
vain to any published treatise on the topic. 

So general and so total a failure can be referred only to 
radical misconception. In fact the English Prosodists have 
blindly followed the pedants. These latter, like les moutons de 
Panurge, have been occupied in incessant tumbling into ditches, 
for the excellent reason that their leaders have so tumbled before. 
The Iliad, being taken as a starting point, was made to stand in 
stead of Nature and common sense. Upon this poem, in place 
of facts and deduction from fact, ot from natural law, were 
built systems of feet, metres, rhythms, rules,—rules that contra- 
dict each other every five minutes, and for nearly all of which 
there may be found twice as many exceptions as examples. If 
any one has a fancy to be thoroughly confounded—to see how far 
the infatuation of what is termed “classical scholarship” can lead 
a book-worm in the manufacture of darkness out of sunshine, let 
him turn over, for a few moments, any of the German Greek Pro- 
sodies. The only thing clearly made out in them is a very mag- 
nificent contempt for Liebnitz’s principle of “a sufficient reason.” 

To divert attention from the real matter in hand by any farther 
reference to these works, is unnecessary, and would be weak. I 
cannot call to mind, at this moment, one essential particular of 
information that is to be gleaned from them ; and I will drop them 
here with merely this one observation: that, employing from 
among the numerous “ancient” feet the spondee, the trochee, the 
iambus, the anapest, the dactyl, and the cesura alone, I will 
engage to scan correctly any of the Horatian rhythms, or any true 
rhythm that human ingenuity can conceive. And this excess of chi- 
merical feet is, perhaps, the very least of the scholastic supereroga- 
tions. Hz uno disce omnia. The fact is that Quantity is a point in 
whose inv estigation the lumber of mere learning may be dispensed 
with, if ever inany. Its appreciation is universal. It appertains to 
no region, nor race, nor rain especial. To melody and to harmony 


222 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


the Greeks hearkened with ears precisely similar to those which 
we employ for similar purposes at present; and I should not be 
condemned for heresy in asserting that a pendulum at Athens 
would have vibrated much after the same fashion as does a*pen- 
dulum in the city of Penn. 

Verse originates in the human enjoyment of equality, fitness. 
To this enjoyment, also, all the moods of verse—rhythm, metre, 
stanza, rhyme, alliteration, the refrain, and other analogous effects 
—are to be referred. As there are some readers who habitually 
confound rhythm and metre, it may be as well here to say that 
the former concerns the character of fect (that is, the arrangements 
of syllables) while the latter has to do with the number of these 
feet. Thus by “a dactylic rhythm” we express a sequence of 
dactyls. By “a dactylic hexameter” we imply a line or measure 
consisting of six of these dactyls. 

To return to equality. Its idea embraces those of similarity, 
proportion, identity, repetition, and adaptation or fitness. It 
might not be very difficult to go even behind the idea of equality, 
and show both how and why it is that the human nature takes 
pleasure in it, but such an investigation would, for any purpose 
now in view, be supererogatory. It is sufficient that the fact is 
undeniable—the fact that man derives enjoyment from his percep- 
tion of equality. Let us examine a crystal. We are at once 
interested by the equality between the sides and between the 
angles of one of its faces: the equality of the sides pleases us; 
that of the angles doubles the pleasure. On bringing to view a- 
second face in all respects similar to the first, this pleasure seems 
to be squared; on bringing to view a third it appears to be cubed, 
and soon. Ihave no doubt, indeed, that the delight experienced, 
if measurable, would be found to have exact mathematical rela- 
tions such as I suggest; that is to say, as far as a certain point, 
beyond which there would be a decrease in similar relations. 

The perception of pleasure in the equality of sounds is the prin- 
ciple of Music. Unpractised ears can appreciate only simple 
equalities, such as are found in ballad airs. While comparing one 
simple sound with another they are too much occupied to be 
capable of comparing the equality subsisting between these two | 
simple sounds, taken conjointly, and two other similar simple 


rd 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 228 


OC 


sounds taken conjointly. Practised ears, on the other hand, 
appreciate both equalities at the same instant—although it is 
absurd to suppose that both are heard at the same instant. One 
is heard and appreciated from itself: the other is heard by the 
memory ; and the instant glides into and is confounded with the 
secondary, appreciation. Highly cultivated musical taste in this 
manner enjoys not only these double equalities, all appreciated at 
once, but takes pleasurable cognizance, through memory, of equali- 
ties the members of which occur at intervals so great that the 
uncultivated taste loses them altogether. That this latter can 
properly estimate or decide on the merits of what is called scien- 
tific music, is of course impossible. But scientific music has no 
claim to intrinsic excellence—it is fit for scientific ears alone. In 
its excess it is the triumph of the physique over the morale of 
music. The sentiment is overwhelmed by the sense. On the 
whole, the advocates of the simpler melody and harmony have 
infinitely the best of the argument ;—although there has been 
very little of real argument on the subject. 

In verse, which cannot be better designated than as an inferior 
or less capable Music, there is, happily, little chance for complexity. 
Its rigidly simple character not even Science—not even Pedantry 
cap greatly pervert. | 

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee. 
The very germ of a thought seeking satisfaction in equality of 
sound, would result in the construction of words of two syllables, 
equally accented. In corroboration of this idea we find that 
spondees most abound in the most ancient tongues. The second 
step we can easily suppose to be the comparison, that is to say, 
the collocation, of two spondees—of two words composed each 
of a spondee. The third step would be the juxta-position of 
three of these words. By this time the perception of mono- 
tone would induce farther consideration: and thus arises what 
Leigh Hunt so flounders in discussing under the title of “The 
Principle of Variety in Uniformity.” Of course there is no prin- 
ciple in the case—nor in maintaining it. The “Uniformity” is 
the principle :—the “ Variety ” is but the principle’s natural safe- 
gunrd from self-destruction by excess of self. “ Uniformity,” 


224 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


besides, is the very worst word that could have been chosen for 
the expression of the general idea at which it aims. 

The perception of monotone having given rise to an attempt at 
its relief, the first thought in this new direction would be that of 
collating two or more words formed each of two syllables differ- 
ently accented (that is to say, short and long) but having the 
same order in each word :—in other terms, of collating two or 
more iambuses, or two or more trochees. And here let me pause 
to assert that more pitiable nonsense has been written on the topic 
of long and short syllables than on any other subject under the 
sun. In general, a syllable is long or short, just as it is difficult 
or easy of enunciation. The natural long syllables are those en- 
cumbered—the natural short syllables are those wnencumbered, 
with consonants; all the rest is mere artificiality and jargon. The 
Latin Prosodies have a rule that “a vowel before two consonants 
is long.” This rule is deduced from “ authority’—that is, from 
the observation that vowels so circumstanced, in the ancient 
poems, are always in syllables long by the laws of scansion. The 
philosophy of the rule is untouched, and lies simply in the physi- 
eal difficulty of giving vuice to such syllables—of performing the 
lingual evolutions necessary for their utterance. Of course, it is 
not the vowel that is long, (although the rule says so) but the syl- 
lable of which the vowel is a part. It will be seen that the 
length of a syllable, depending on the facility or difficulty of its 
enunciation, must have great variation in various syllables; but 
for the purposes of verse we suppose a long syllable equal to two 
“short ones:—and the natural deviation from this relativeness we 
correct in perusal. The more closely our long syllables approach 
this relation with our short ones, the better, ceteris paribus, will be 
our verse: but if the relation does not exist of itself, we force it by 
emphasis, which can, of course, make any syllable as long as de- 
sired ;—or, by an effort we can pronounce with unnatural brevity 
a syllable that is naturally too long. Accented syllables are of 
course always long—but, where wnencumbered with consonants, 
must be classed among the unnaturally long. Mere custom has 
declared that we shall accent them—that is to say, dwell upon 
them ; but no inevitable lingual difficulty forces us to do so. In 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 225 


fine, every long syllable must of its own accord occupy in its utter- 
ance, or must be made to occupy, precisely the time demanded for 
two short ones. The only exception to this rule is found in the 
czsura—of which more anon. 

The success of the experiment with the trochees or iambuses 
(the one would have suggested the other) must have led to a trial 
of dactyls or anapzsts—natural dactyls or anapzests—dactylic or 
anapestic words. And now some degree of complexity has been 
attained. There is an appreciation, first, of the equality between 
the several dactyls, or anapzsts, and, secondly, of that between 
the long syllable and the two short conjointly. But here it may 
be said, that step after step would have been taken, in continuation 
of this routine, until all the feet of the Greek Prosodies became 
exhausted. Not so:—these remaining feet have no existence 
except in the brains of the scholiasts. It is needless to imagine 
men inventing these things, and folly to explain how and why they 
invented them, until it shall be first shown that they are actually 
invented. All other “feet” than those which I have specified, are, 
if not impossible at first view, merely combinations of the speci- 
fied; and, although this assertion is rigidly true, I will, to avoid 
misunderstanding, put it in a somewhat different shape. I will 
say, then, that at present I am aware of no rhythm—nor do I be- 
lieve that any one can be constructed—which, in its last analysis, 
will not be found to consist altogether of the feet I have mention- 
ed, either existing in their individual and obvious condition, or 
interwoven with each other in accordance with simple natural laws 
which I will endeavor to point out hereafter. 

We have now gone so far as to suppose men constructing indefi- 
nite sequences of spondaic, iambic, trochaic, dactylic, or anapzestic 
words. In extending these sequences, they would be again arrest- 
ed by the sense of monotone. A succession of spondees would 
immediately have displeased; one of iambuses or of trochees, on 
account of the variety included within the foot itself, would have 
taken longer to displease; one of dactyls or anapzsts, still longer : 
but even the last, if extended very far, must have become weari- 
some. The idea, first, of curtailing, and, secondly, of defining the 
length of, a sequence, would thus at once have arisen. Here then 


10* 


226 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


is the line, or verse proper.* The principle of equality being con- 
stantly at the bottom of the whole process, lines would naturally 
be made, in the first instance, equal in the number of their feet; 
in the second instance, there would be variation in the mere uum- 
ber; one line would be twice as long as another; then one would 
be some less obvious multiple of another; then still less obvious 
proportions would be adopted :—nevertheless there would be pro- 
portion, that is to say, a phase of equality, still. 

Lines being once introduced, the necessity of distinctly defining 
these lines to the ear, (as yet written verse does not exist,) would 
lead to a scrutiny of their capabilities at their terminations :—and 
now would spring up the idea of equality in sound between the 
final syllables—in other words, of rhyme. First, it would be used 
only in the iambic, anapestic, and spondaic rhythms, (granting 
that the latter had not been thrown aside, long since, on account 
of its tameness ;) because in these rhythms, the concluding syllable 
being long, could best sustain the necessary protraction of the 
voice. No great while could elapse, however, before the effect, 
found pleasant as well as useful, would be applied to the two re- 
maining rhythms. But as the chief force of rhyme must lie in 
the accented syllable, the attempt to create rhyme at all in these 
two remaining rhythms, the trochaic and dactylic, would neces- 
sarily result in double and triple rhymes, such as beauty with duty 
(trochaic,) and beautiful with dutiful (dactylic.) 

It must be cbserved, that in suggesting these processes, I assign 
them no date; nor do I even insist upon their order. Rhyme is © 
supposed to be of modern origin, and were this proved, my posi- 
tions remain untouched. I may say, however, in passing, that 
several instances of rhyme occur in the the “Clouds” of Aristo- 
phanes, and that the Roman poets occasionally employ it. There 
is an effective species of ancient rhyming which has never descend- 


* Verse, from the Latin vertere, to turn, is so called on account of the 
turning or re-ccommencement of the series of feet. Thus a verse, strictly 
speaking, is a line. In this sense, however, I have preferred using the 
latter word alone; employing the former in the general acceptation Even it 
in the heading of this paper. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 227 


ed to the moderns: that in which the ultimate and penultimate 
syllables rhyme with each other. For example: 


Parturiunt montes et nascitur ridiculus mus, 
And again: 


Litoreis ingens inventa sub ilicibus sus. 


The terminations of Hebrew verse, (as far as understood,) show 
no signs of rhyme; but what thinking person can doubt that it 
did actually exist? That men have so obstinately and blindly 
insisted, in general, even up to the present day, in confining rhyme 
to the ends of lines, when its effect is even better applicable else- 
where, intimates, in my opinion, the sense of some necessity in the 
connexion of the end with the rhyme—hints that the origin of 
rhyme lay in a necessity which connected it with the end—shows 
that neither mere accident nor mere fancy gave rise to the con- 
nexion—points, in a word, at the very necessity which I have sug- 
gested, (that of some mode of defining lines to the ear,) as the true 
origin of rhyme. Admit this, and we throw the origin far back 
in the night of Time—beyond the origin of written verse. 

But, to resume. The amount of complexity I have now sup- 
posed to be attained, is very considerable. Various systems of 
equalization are appreciated at once (or nearly so) in their respec- 
tive values and in the value of each system with reference to all 
the others. As our present ultimatum of complexity, we have 
arrived at triple-rhymed, natural-dactylic lines, existing proportion-. 
ally as well as equally with regard to other triple-rhymed, natural- 
dactylic lines. For example: 


Virginal Lilian, rigidly, humblily dutiful ; 
Saintlily, lowlily, 
Thrillingly, holily 

Beautiful ! 


Here we appreciate, first, the absolute equality between the 
long syllable of each dactyl and the two short conjointly ; second- 
ly, the absolute equality between each dactyl and any other dac- 
tyl—in other words, among all the dactyls; thirdly, the absolute 
equality between the two middle lines; fourthly, the absolute 


228 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


equality between the first line and the three others taken conjoint- 
ly; fifthly, the absolute equality between the last two syllables of 
the respective words “dutiful” and “ beautiful;” sixthly, the abso- 
lute equality between the two last syllables of the respective words 
“lowlily” and “holily ;” seventhly, the proximate equality be- 
tween the first syllable of “dutiful ” and the first syllable of “beau- 
tiful;” eighthly, the proximate equality between the first syllable 
of “lowly” and that of “holily;” ninthly, the proportional 
equality (that of five to one,) between the first line and each of 
its members, the dactyls; tenthly, the proportional equality (that. 
of two to one,) between each of the middle lines and its members, 
the dactyls; eleventhly, the proportional equality between the first’ 
line and each of the two middle—that of five to two; twelfthly, 
the proportional equality between the first line and the last—that 
of five to one; thirteenthly, the proportional equality between each 
of the middle lines and the last—that of two to one; lastly, the 
proportional equality, as concerns number, between all the lines, 
taken collectively and any individual line—that of four to one. 
The consideration of this last equality would give birth imme- 
diately to the idea of stanza*—that is to say, the insulation of 
lines into equal or obviously proportional masses. In its primitive 
(which was also its best) form, the stanza would most probably 
have had absolute unity. In other words, the removal of any one 
of its lines would have rendered it imperfect ; as in the case above, 
where, if the last line, for example, be taken away, there is left 
no rhyme to the “dutiful” of the first. Modern stanza is exces- 
sively loose—and where so, ineffective, as a matter of course. 
Now, although in the deliberate written statement which I have 
here given of these various systems of equalities, there seems to 
be an infinity of complexity—so much that it is hard to conceive 
the mind taking cognizance of them all in the brief period occu- 
pied by the perusal or recital of the stanza—yet the difficulty is in 
fact apparent only when we will it to become so. Any one fond 
of mental experiment may satisfy himself, by trial, that, in listening 
to the lines, he does actually (although with a seeming uncon- 
sciousness, on account of the rapid evolutions of sensation,) recog- 


* A stanza is often vulgarly, and with gross impropriety, called a verse. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 229 


nise and instantaneously appreciate (more or less intensely as his 
ear is cultivated,) each and all of the equalizations detailed. The’ 
pleasure received, or receivable, has very much such progressive 
increase, and in very nearly such mathematical relations, as those 
which I have suggested in the case of the crystal. 

It will be observed that I speak of merely a proximate equality 
between the first syllable of “dutiful” and that of “beautiful ;” 
and it may be asked why we cannot imagine the earliest rhymes 
to have had absolute instead of proximate equality of sound. But 
absolute equality would have involved the use of identical words ; 
and it is the duplicate sameness or monotony—that of sense as 
well as that of sound—which would have caused these rhymes to 
be rejected in the very first instance. 

The narrowness of the limits within which verse composed of 
natural feet alone, must necessarily have been confined, would have 
led, after a very brief interval, to the trial and immediate adoption 
of artificial feet—that is to say, of feet not constituted each of a 
single word, but two or even three words; or of parts of words. 
These feet would be intermingled with natural ones. For ex- 
ample : 


& bréath | cin make | thém 4s | & breath | his made. 


This is an iambic line in which each iambus is formed of two 
words. Again: 


Thé fin | ima | gina | blé might | Sf Jove. 


This is an iambic line in which the first foot is formed of a word 
and a part of a word; the second and third, of parts taken from 
the body or interior of a word; the fourth, of a part and a whole; 
the fifth, of two complete words. There are no natural feet in 
either lines. Again: 
ut 
Can it bé | fanciéd that | Déity | évér vin | dictively 
Made in his | image & | mannikin | mérely td | maddén it 


These are two dactylic lines in which we find natural feet, 
(“ Deity,” “mannikin ;”) feet composed of two words (“fancied 
that,” “image a,” “merely to,” “ madden it ;”) feet composed of 


230 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


three words (“can it be,” “made in his;”) a foot composed of a 
‘part of a word (“dictively ;”) and a foot composed of a word and 
a part of a word (“ever vin.”) 

' And now, in our supposititious progress, we have gone so far 
as to exhaust all the essentialities of verse. What follows may, 
strictly speaking, be regarded as embellishment merely—but even 
in this embellishment, the rudimental sense of equality would 
have been the never-ceasing impulse. - It would, for example, be 
simply in seeking farther administration to this sense that men 


would come, in time, to think of the refrain, or burden, where, at. 


the closes of the several stanzas of a poem, one word or phrase is 
repeated ; and of alliteration, in whose simplest form a consonant 
is repeated in the commencements of various words. This effect 
would be extended so as to embrace repetitions both of vowels and 
of consonants, in the bodies as well as in the beginnings of words; 
and, at a later period, would be made to infringe on the province 
of rhyme, by the introduction of general similarity of sound be- 
tween whole feet occurring in the body of a line :—all of which 
modifications I have exemplified in the line above, 


Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it. © 


Farther cultivation would improve also the refrazn by relieving its 
monotone in slightly varying the phrase at each repetition, or, (as 
I have attempted to do in “ The Raven,”) in retaining the phrase 
and varying its application—although this latter point is not 
strictly a rhythmical effect alone. Finally, poets when fairly wea- 
ried with following precedent—following it the more closely the less 
they perceived it in company with Reason—would adventure so 
far as to indulge in positive rhyme at other points than the ends 
of lines. First, they would put it in the middle of the line ; then at 
some point where the multiple would be less obvious; then, alarmed 
at their own audacity, they would undo all their work by cutting 
these lines in two. And here is the fruitful source of the infinity 
of “short metre,” by which modern poetry, if not distinguished, 
is at least disgraced. It would require a high degree, indeed, both 
of cultivation and of courage, on the part of any versifier, to 
enable him to place his rhymes—and let them remain—at un- 


Ow 


a 


~ | wm 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 281 


questionably their best position, that of unusual and unanticipated 
intervals. 

On account of the stupidity of some people, or, (if talent be a 
- more respectable word,) on account of their talent for misconcep- 
tion—I think it necessary to add here, first, that I believe the 
“ processes” above detailed to be nearly if not accurately those 
which did occur in the gradual creation of what we now call verse ; 
secondly, that, although I so believe, I yet urge neither the 
assumed fact nor my belief in it, as a part of the true proposi- 
tions of this paper; thirdly, that in regard to the aim of this 
paper, it is of no consequence whether these processes did occur 
either in the order I have assigned them, or at all; my design 
being simply, in presenting a general type of what such processes 
might have been and must have resembled, to help them, the 
“some people,” to an easy understanding of what I have farther 
to say on the topic of Verse. 

There is one point which, in my summary of the processes, I 
have purposely forborne to touch; because this point, being the 
most important of all, on account of the immensity of error usu- 
ally involved in its consideration, would have led me into a series 
of detail inconsistent with the object of a summary. 

Every reader of verse must have observed how seldom it hap- 
pens that even any one line proceeds uniformly with a succession, 
such as I have supposed, of absolutely equal feet; that is to say, 
with a succession of iambuses only, or of trochees only, or of dac- 
tyls only, or of anapzsts only, or of spondees only. Even in the 
most musical lines we find the succession interrupted. The iambic 
pentameters of Pope, for example, will be found on examination, 
frequently varied by trochees in the beginning, or by (what seem 
to be) anapzsts in the body, of the line. 


oh thou | whaté | vér ti | tlé pledse | thine ear | 
Déan Dra | piér Bick | érstaff | Sr Gal | ivér 
Whiéthér | théu chodse | Cérvan | tés’ sé | riots dir | 
‘Or laigh | and shake | in Rab | élais’ ea | sy chair. | 


Were any one weak enough to refer to the Prosodies for the sohu- 
tion of the difficulty here, he would find it solved as usual by a 
rule, stating the fact, (or what it, the rule, supposes to be the fact,) 


232 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE 


but without the slightest attempt at the rationale. “By a | 


syneresis of the two short syllables,” say the books, “ an anapest 
may sometimes be employed for an iambus, or a dactyl for a 
trochee. . . . Inthe beginning of a line a trochee is often 
used for an iambus.” 

Blending is the plain English for synerests—but there should 
be no blending; neither is an anapzst ever employed for an iam- 
bus, or a dactyl fot a trochee. These feet differ in time ; and no 
feet so differing can ever be legitimately used in the same line. 
An anapest is equal to four short syllables—an iambus only to 
three. Dactyls and trochees hold the same relation. The prin- 
ciple of equality, in verse, admits, it is true, of variation at certain 
points, for the relief of monotone, as I have already shown, but the 
point of time is that point which, being the rudimental one, must 
never be tampered with at all. 

To explain :—In farther efforts for the relief of monotone than 
those to which I have alluded in the summary, men soon came to 
see that there was no absolute necessity for adhering to the pre- 
cise number of syllables, provided the time required for the whole 
foot was preserved inviolate. They saw, for instance, that in such 
a line as 


dr laugh | dnd shike | in Rab | Glais’ éa | sy chair, | 


the equalization of the three syllables elazs ea with the two sylla- 
bles composing any of the other feet, could be readily effected by 
pronouncing the two syllables edais in double quick time. By 
pronouncing each of the syllables e and dais twice as rapidly as 
the syllable sy, or the syllable zn, or any other short syllable, they 


could bring the two of them, taken together, to the length, that | 


is to say to the time, of any one short syllable. This consideration 
enabled them to affect the agreeable variation of three syllables in 
place of the uniform two. And variation was the object—varia- 
tion to the ear. What sense is there, then, in supposing this ob- 
ject rendered null by the blending of the two syllables so as to 
render them, in absolute effect, one? Of course, there must be no 
blending. Each syllable must be pronounced as distinctly as pos- 
sible, (or the variation is lost,) but with twice the rapidity in which 


me, re 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE : : 283 


the ordinary short syllable is enunciated. That the syllables elazs 
2a do not compose an anapest is evident, and the signs (444) of 
their accentuation are erroneous. The foot might be written thus 
(eee) the inverted crescents expressing double quick time; and 
might be called a bastard iambus. 

Here is a trochaic line: 


Sée thé délic&te | footéd | réin-deér. | 


The prosodies—that is to say the most considerate of them— 
would here decide that “ delicate” is a dactyl used in place of a 
trochee, and would refer to what they call their “ rule,” for justifi- 
cation. Others, varying the stupidity, would-insist upon a Pro- 
crustean adjustment thus (del’cate)—an adjustment recommended 
to all such words as silvery, murmuring, etc., which, it is said, 
should be not only pronounced, but written silv’ry, murm’ring, 
and so on, whenever they find themselves in trochaic predicament. 
I have only to say that “ delicate,” when circumstanced as above, 
is neither a dactyl nor a dactyl’s equivalent ; that I would suggest 
for it this (egg) accentuation ; that I think it as well to call ita 
bastard trochee ; and that all words, at all events, should be writ- 
ten and pronounced im full, and as nearly as possible as nature 
intended them. 

About eleven years ago, there appeared in “The American 
Monthly Magazine,” (then edited, I believe, by Mess. Hoffman and 
Benjamin,) a review of Mr. Willis’ Poems; the critic putting forth 
his strength, or his weakness, in an endeavor to show that the 
poet was either absurdly affected, or grossly ignorant of the laws 
of verse; the accusation being based altogether on the fact that 
Mr. W. made occasional use of this very word “delicate,” and 
other similar words, in “the Heroic measure which every one 
knew consisted of feet of two syllables.” Mr. W. has often, for 
example, such lines as 


That binds him to a woman’s delicate love-— 
In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm— 
With its invisible fingers my loose hair. 


Here, of course, the feet licate love, verent in, and sible fin, are 
bastard iambuses ; are not anapests ; and are not improperly used. 


2384 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


Their employment, on the contrary, by Mr. Willis, is but one of the 
innumerable instances he has given of keen sensibility in all those 
matters of taste which may be classed under the general head of 
fanciful embellishment. 

It is also about eleven years ago, if I am not mistaken, since 
Mr. Horne, (of England,) the author of “ Orion,” one of the noblest 
epics in any language, thought it necessary to preface his “Chaucer 
Modernized” by a very long and evidently a very elaborate essay, 
of which the greater portion was occupied in a discussion of the 
seemingly anomalous foot of which we have been speaking. Mr. 
Horne upholds Chaucer in its frequent use ; maintains his supe- 
riority, on account of his so frequently using it, over all English 
versifiers ; and, indignantly repelling the common idea of those 
who make verse on their fingers—that the superfluous syllable is 
a roughness and an error—very chivalrously makes battle for it as 
“a grace.” That a grace it 7s, there can be no doubt; and what 
I complain of is, that the author of the most happily versified 
long poem in existence, should have been under the necessity of 
discussing this grace merely as a grace, through forty or fifty 
vague pages, solely because of his inability to show how and why 
it is a grace—by which showing the question would have been 
settled in an instant. 

About the trochee used for an iambus, as we see in the begin- 
ning of the line, 


Whéthér thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, 


there is little that need be said. It brings me to the general pro- 
position that, in all rhythms, the prevalent or distinctive feet may 
be varied at will, and nearly at random, by the occasional intro- 
duction of equivalent feet—that is to say, feet the sum of whose 
syllabic times is equal to the sum of the syllabic times of the dis- 
tinctive feet. Thus the trochee, whéthér, is equal, in the sum of 
the times of its syllables, to the iambus, thou chodse, in the sum 
of the times of cts syllables; each foot being, in time, equal to 
three short syllables. Good versifiers who happen to be, also, good 
poets, contrive to relieve the monotone of a series of feet, by the 
use of equivalent feet only at rare intervals, and at such points of 
their subject as seem in accordance with the startling character of 


ef 


lia 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 235 


the variation. Nothing of this care is seen in the line quoted 
above—although Pope has some fine instances of the duplicate 
effect. Where vehemence is to be strongly expressed, I am not 
sure that we should be wrong in venturing on two consecutive 
equivalent feet—although I cannot say that I have ever known 
the adventure made, except in the following passage, which occurs 
in “ Al Aaraaf,” a boyish poem, written by myself when a boy. I 
am referring to the sudden and rapid advent of a star. 


Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 

Alone could see the phantom in the skies, 

Whén first thé phantém’s course wads found td bé 
Héadling hithérward o'er the starry sea. 


In the “ general proposition” above, I speak of the occasional 
introduction of equivalent feet. It sometimes happens that un- 
skilful versifiers, without knowing what they do, or why they do 
it, introduce so many “ variations” as to exceed in number the 
“ distinctive” feet ; when the ear becomes at once balked by the 
bouleversement of the rhythm. Too many trochees, for example, 
inserted in an iambic rhythm, would convert the latter to a tro- 
chaic. I may note here, that, in all cases, the rhythm designed 
should be commenced and continued, without variation, until the 
ear has had full time to comprehend what zs the rhythm. In vio- 
lation of a rule so obviously founded in common sense, many 
even of our best poets, do not scruple to begin an iambic rhythm 
with a trochee, or the converse ; or a dactylic with an anapeest, or 
the converse ; and so on. 

A somewhat less objectionable error, although still a decided 
one, is that of commencing a rhythm, not with a different equiva- 
lent foot, but with a “ aS. foot of the rhythm intended. 
For example : 


Many & | thoight will | cme td | mémory. | 


Here many a is what I have explained to be a bastard trochee, 
and to be understood should be accented with inverted crescents. 
It is objectionable solely on account of its position as the opening 
foot of a trochaic rhythm. Memory, similarly accented, is also a 


236 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


bastard trochee, but wnobjectionable, although by no means de- 
manded. : 

The farther illustration of this point will enable me to take an 
important step. 

One of our finest poets, Mr. Christopher Pease Cranch, begins a 
very beautiful poem thus : 


Many are the thoughts that come to me 
In my lonely musing; . 

And they drift so strange and swift 
There’s no time for choosing 

Which to follow ; for to leave 
Any, seems a losing. 


“ A losing” to Mr. Cranch, of course—but this en passant. It 
will be seen here that the intention is trochaic ;—although we do 
not see this intention by the opening foot, as we should do—or 
even by the opening line. Reading the whole stanza, however, 
we perceive the trochaic rhythm as the general design, and so, 
after some reflection, we divide the first line thus: 


Many are the | thoughts that | cdme té | mé. | 


Thus scanned, the line will seem musical. It is—highly so. And 
it 1s because there is no end to instances of just such lines of 
apparently incomprehensible music, that Coleridge thought proper 
to invent his nonsensical system of what he calls “scanning by 
accents”—as if “scanning by accents” were anything more than 
a phrase. Whenever “ Christabel” is really not rough, it can be 
as readily scanned by the true /aws (not the supposititious rules) 
of verse, as can the simplest pentameter of Pope; and where it zs 
rough (passim) these same laws will enable any one of common 
sense to show why it is rough and to point out, instantaneously, 
the remedy for the roughness. 

A reads and re-reads a certain line, and pronounces it false in 
rhythm—urmusical. B, however, reads it to A, and A is at once 
struck with the perfection of the rhythm, and wonders at his dul- 
ness in not “catching” it before. Henceforward he admits the 
line to be musical. B, triumphant, asserts that, to be sure, the 
line is musical—for it is the work of Coleridge—and that it is 4 


ve. 


yo 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 237 


who is not ; the fault being in A’s false reading. Now here A is 
right and Bwrong. That rhythm is erroneous, (at some point or 
other more or less obvious,) which any ordinary reader can, with- 
out design, read improperly. It is the business of the poet so to 
construct his line that the intention must be caught at once. 
Even when these men have precisely the same understanding of a 
sentence, they differ and often widely, in their modes of enunciat- 
ing it. Any one who has taken the trouble to examine the topic 
of emphasis, (by which I here mean not accent of particular sylla- 
bles, but the dwelling on entire words;) must have seen that men 
emphasize in the most singularly arbitrary manner. There are 
certain large classes of people, for example, who persist in empha- 
sizing their monosyllables. Little uniformity of emphasis pre- 
vails; because the thing itself—the idea, emphasis—is refera- 
ble to no natural—at least, to no well comprehended and there- 
fore uniform law. Beyond a very narrow and vague limit, the 
_ whole matter is conventionality. And if we differ in emphasis 
even when we agree in comprehension, how much more so in the 
former when in the latter too! Apart, however, from the con- 
sideration of natural disagreement, is it not clear that, by tripping 
here and mouthing there, any sequence of words may be twisted 
into any species of rhythm? But are we thence to deduce that 
all sequences of words are rhythmical in a rational understanding 
of the term !—for this is the deduction, precisely to which the 
reductio ad absurdum will, in the end, bring all the proposi- 
tions of Coleridge. Out of a hundred readers of “ Christabel,” 
fifty will be able to make nothing of its rhythm, while forty-nine 
of the remaining fifty will, with some ado, fancy they comprehend 
it, after the fourth or fifth perusal. The one out of the whole 
hundred who shall both comprehend and admire it at first sight 
—must be an unaccountably clever person—and I am by far too 
modest to assume, for a moment, that that very clever person 1s 
myself. 

In illustration of what is here advanced I cannot do better than 
quote a poem : 


Pease porridge hot—pease porridge cold— 
Pease porridge in the pot—nine days old. 


238 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


Now those of my readers who have never heard this poem pro- 
nounced according to the nursery conventionality, will find its 
rhythm as obscure as an explanatory note ; while those who have 
heard it, will divide it thus, declare it musical, and wonder how 
there can be any doubt about it. 

Pease | porridge | hot | pease | porridge | cold | 

Pease | porridge | in the | pot | nine | days | old. | 


The chief thing in the way of this species of rhythm, is the ne- 


cessity which it imposes upon the poet of travelling in constant 
company with his compositions, so as to be ready at a moment’s 
notice, to avail himself of a well understood poetical license—that 
of reading aloud one’s own doggrel. 

In Mr. Cranch’s line, 


Many are the | thoughts that | come to | me, | 


the general error of which I speak is, of course, very partially 
exemplified, and the purpose for which, chiefly, I cite it, lies yet 
further on in our topic. 

The two divisions (thoughts that) and (come to) are ordinary 
trochees. Of the last division (me) we will talk hereafter. The 
first division (many are the) would be thus accented by the Greek 
Prosodies (many &re thé) and would be called by them a¢rgoAovoc. 
The Latin books would style the foot Peon Primus, and both 
Greek and Latin would swear that it was composed of a trochee 
and what they term a pyrrhic—that is to say, a foot of two short 
syllables—a thing that cannot be, as I shall presently show. 

But now, there is an obvious difficulty. The astrologos, ac- 
cording to the Prosodies’ own showing, is equal to five short sylla- 


bles, and the trochee to three—yet, in the line quoted, these two. 


feet are equal. They occupy precisely the same time. In fact, 
the whole music of the line depends upon their being made to 
occupy the same time. The Prosodies then, have demonstrated 
what all mathematicians have stupidly failed in demonstrating— 
that three and five are one and the same thing. 

After what I have already said, however, about the bastard tro- 
chee and the bastard iambus, no one can have any trouble in un- 
derstanding that many are the is of similar character. It is merely 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 239 


a bolder variation than usual from the routine of trochees, and 
introduces to the bastard trochee one additional syllable. But 
this syllable is not short. That is, it is not short in the sense of 
“short” as applied to the final syllable of the ordinary trochee, 
where the word means merely the half of long. 

In this case, (that of the additional syllable) “short,” if used 
at all, must be used in the sense of the sixth of long. And all 
the three final syllables can be called short only with the same 
understanding of the term. The three together are equal only to 
the one short syllable (whose place they supply) of the ordinary 
trochee. It follows that there is no sense in thus (~) accenting 
these syllables. We must devise for them some new character 
which shall denote the sixth of long. Let it be (c )—the crescent 
placed with the curve to the left. The whole foot (many are thé) 
might be called a quick trochee. 

We come now to the final division (me) of Mr. Cranch’s line. 
It is clear that this foot, short as it appears, is fully equal in time 
to each of the preceding. It is in fact the cesura—the foot which, 
in the beginning of this paper, I called the most important in all 
verse. Its chief office is that of pause or termination ; and here 
—at the end of a line—its use is easy, because there is no danger 
of misapprehending its value. We pause on it, by a seeming 
necessity, just so long as it has taken us to pronounce the pre- 
ceding feet, whether iambusses, trochees, dactyls, or anapests. It 
is thus a variable foot, and, with some care, may be well intro- 
duced into the body of a line, as in a little poem of great beauty 
by Mrs. Welby : 


I have | a lit | tle step | son | of on | ly three | years old. | 


Here we dwell on the cesura, son, just as long as it requires us to 
pronounce either of the preceding or succeeding iambusses. Its 
value, therefore, in this line, is that of three short syllables. In 
the following dactylic line its value is that of four short syllables. 


Pale as a | lily was | Emily | Gray. 


I have accented the csesura with a (~~~) by way of expressing this 
variability of value. 
I observed, just now, that there could be no such foot as one 


240 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


of two short syllables. What we start from in the very begin- 
ning of all idea on the topic of verse, is quantity, length. Thus 
when we enunciate an independent syllable it is long, as a matter 
of course. If we enunciate two, dwelling on both equally, we 
express equality in the enumeration, or length, and have a right — 
to call them two long syllables. If we dwell on one more than 
the other, we have also a right to call one short, because it is short 
in relation to the other. But if we dwell on both equally and 
with a tripping voice, saying to ourselves here are two short 
syllables, the query might well be asked of us—“in relation to 
what are they short ?” Shortness is but the negation of length. 
To say, then, that two syllables, placed independently of any 
other syllable, are short, is merely to say that they have no posi- 
tive length, or enunciation—in other words that they are no sylla- 
bles—that they do not exist at all. And if, persisting, we add 
anything about their equality, we are merely floundering in the 
idea of an identical equation, where, z being equal to z, nothing 
is shown to be equal to zero. In a word, we can form no concep- 
tion of a pyrrhic as of an independent foot. It is a mere chimera 
bred in the mad fancy of a pedant. 

From what I have said about the equalization of the several 
feet of a une, it must not be deduced that any necessity for equal- 
ity in time exists between the rhythm of several lines. A poem, 
or even a stanza, may begin with iambusses, in the first line, and 
proceed with anapeests in the second, or even with the less accor- 
dant dactyls, as in the opening of quite a pretty specimen of 
verse by Miss Mary A. S. Aldrich : 

The wa | ter li] ly sleeps] in pride] 
Down in thé | dépths df thé | azire | lake. | 


Here azure is a spondee, equivalent to a dactyl ; lake a czesura. 
I shall now best proceed in quoting the initial lines of Byron’s 
“ Bride of Abydos :” 


Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime— 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle 
Now melt into softness, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. ys! 


Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, 
And the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom? 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit 

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute— 

Where the virgins are soft as the ruses they twine, 

And all save the spirit of man is divine ? 

Tis the land of the East—’tis the clime of the Sun— 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
Oh, wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell 

Are the hearts that they bear and the tales that they tell. 


Now the flow of these lines, (as times go,) is very sweet and mu- 
sical. They have been often admired, and justly—as times go— 
that is to say, it is a rare thing to tind better versification of its 
kind. And where verse is pleasant to the ear, it is silly to find 
fault with it because it refuses to be scanned. Yet I have heard 
men, professing to be scholars, who made no scruple of abusing 
these lines of Byron’s on the ground that they were musical in 
spite of all law. Other gentlemen, not scholars, abused “all law” 
_ for the same reason:—and it occurred neither to the one party 
nor to the other that the law about which they were disputing 
might possibly be no law at all—an ass of a law in the skin of a lion. 

The Grammars said something about dactylic lines, and it was 
easily seen that these lines were at least meant for dactylic. The 
first one was, therefore, thus divided: 


Know yé thé | land whére thé | cypréss dnd | myrtld. | 


The concluding foot was a mystery; but the Prosodies said some- 
thing about the dactylic “‘ measure” calling now and then for a 
double rhyme; and the court of inquiry were content to rest in 
the double rhyme, without exactly perceiving what a double 
rhyme had to do with the question of an irregular foot. Quitting 
the first line, the second was thus scanned: 


Aré émbléms | df deéds that | are ddne in | thair clime. | 


It was immediately seen, however, that this would not do:—it 
was at war with the whole emphasis of the reading. It could not 
be supposed that Byron, or any one in his senses, intended to 
Vou. IL—11. 


242 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


place stress upon such monosyllables ‘as “are,” “of,” and “their,” 


nor could “their chme,” collated with “to crime,” in the corres- 
ponding line below, be fairly twisted into anything like a “ double 
rhyme,” so as to bring everything within the category of the 
Grammars. But farther these Grammars spoke not. The in- 
quirers, therefore, in spite of their sense of harmony in the lines, 
when considered without reference to scansion, fell back upon the 
idea that the “Are” was a blunder—an excess for which the poet 
should be sent to Coventry—and, striking it out, they scanned 
the remainder of the line as follows : 


——émbléms df | deéds that dre | dine in théir clime. | 


This answered pretty well; but the Grammars admitted no such 
foot as a foot of one syllable; and besides the rhythm was dac- 
tylic. In despair, the books are well searched, however, and at 
last the investigators are gratified by a full solution of the riddle 
in the profound “Observation” quoted in the beginning of this 
article:—“‘ When a syllable is wanting, the verse is said to be 
catalectic; when the measure is exact, the line is acatalectic; when 
there is a redundant syllable it forms hypermeter.” This is 
enough. The anomalous line is pronounced to be catalectic at the 
head and to form hypermeter at the tail :—and so on, and so on; 
it being soon discovered that nearly all the remaining lines are in 
a similar predicament, and that what flows so smoothly to the 
ear, although so roughly to the eye, is, after all, a mere jumble 
of catalecticism, acatalecticism, and hypermeter—not to say worse. 

Now, had this court of inquiry been in possession of even the 
shadow of the philosophy of Verse, they would have had no trou- 
ble in reconciling this oil and water of the eye and ear, by merely 
scanning the passage without reference to lines, and, continuous- 
ly, thus: 


Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle Are | emblems 
of | deeds that are | done in their | clime Where the | rage of the | vul- 
ture the | love of the | turtle Now | melt into | softness now | madden 
to | crime | Know ye the | land of the | cedar and | vine Where the | 

flowers ever | blossom the | beams ever | shine Where the | iight wings 
of | Zephyr op | pressed by per | fume Waz | faint o’er the [ gardens of | 

Gul in their | bloom Where the | citron and | olive are | fairest of | fruit 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 248 


And the | voice of the | nightingale | never is | mute Where the | virgins 
are | soft as the | roses they | twine And | all save the | spirit of | man 
is di | vine ’Tis the | land of the | East ’tis the | clime of the | Sun Can 
he | smile on such | deeds as his | children have | done Oh | wild as the | 
accents of | lovers’ fare | well Are the | hearts that:they | bear and the | 
tales that they | tell. 


Here “crime” and “tell” (italicised) are caesuras, each having the 
value of a dactyl, four short syllables; while “fume Wax,” “twine 
and,” and “done Oh,” are spondees which, of course, being com- 
posed of two long syllables, are also equal to four short, and are 
the dactyl’s natural equivalent. The nicety of Byron’s ear has 
led him into a succession of feet which, with two trivial exceptions 
as regards melody, are absolutely accurate—a very rare occur- 
rence this in dactylic or anapzstic rhythms. The exceptions are 
found in the spondee “twine And,” and the dactyl, “smzle on 
such.” Both feet are false in point of melody. In “twine And,” 
to make out the rhythm, we must force “And” into a length 
which it will not naturally bear. We are called on to sacrifice 
either the proper length of the syllable as demanded by its posi- 
tion as a member of a spondee, or the customary accentuation of 
the word in conversation. There is no hesitation, and should be 
none. We at once give up the sound for the sense; and the 
rhythm js imperfect. In this instance it is very slightly so;—not 
one person in ten thousand could, by ear, detect the inaccuracy. 
But the perfection of verse, as regards melody, consists in its 
never demanding any such sacrifice as is here demanded. The 
rhythmical must agree, thoroughly, with the reading, flow. This 
perfection has in no instance been attaimed—but is unquestionably 
attainable. “Smile on such,” the dactyl, is incorrect, because 
“such,” from the character of the two consonants ch, cannot easily 
be enunciated in the ordinary time of a short syllable, which its 
position declares that it is. Almost every reader will be able to 
appreciate the slight difficulty here; and yet the error is by no 
means so important as that of the “And” in the spon®&e. By 
dexterity we may pronounce “such” in the true time; but the 
attempt to remedy the rhythmical deficiency of the And by draw- 
“ing it out, merely aggravates the offence against natural enuncia-— 
tion, by directing attention to the offence. 


244 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


My main object, however, in quoting these lines, is to show 
that, in spite of the Prosodies, the length of a line is entirely an 
arbitrary matter. We might divide the commencement of Byron’s 


poem thus: : : 


Know ye the | Jand where the. | 
or thus: 
Know ye the | land where the | cypress and. | 
or thus: 
Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle are. | 
or thus: | 
Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle are | emblems of. | 


In short, we may give it any division we please, and the lines will 
be good—provided we have at least two feet in a line. As in 
mathematics two units are required to form number, so rhythm, 
(from the Greek «p:dy0s, number,) demands for its formation at 
least two feet. Beyond doubt, we often see such lines as 


Know ye the— 
Land where the— 


lines of one foot; and our Prosodies admit such; but with impro- 
priety; for common sense would dictate that every so obvious 
division of a poem as is made by a line, should include within 
itself all that is necessary for its own comprehension; but in a line 
of one foot we can have no appreciation of rhythm, which depends 
upon the equality between two or more pulsations. The false 
lines, consisting sometimes of a single czsura, which are seen in 
mock Pindaric odes, are of course “rhythmical” only in connec- 
tion with some other line; and it is this want of independent 
rhythm which adapts them to the purposes of burlesque alone. 
Their effect is that of incongruity (the principle of mirth;) for they 
include the blankness of prose amid the harmony of verse. 

My sgcond object in quoting Byron’s lines, was that of showing 
how absurd it often is to cite a single line from amid the body of 
a poem, for the purpose of instancing the perfection or imperfec- 
tion cf the line’s rhythm. Were we to see by itself 


Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle, 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 245 


we might justly condemn it as defective in the final foot, which is 
equal to only three, instead of being equal to four, short syllables. 

In the foot ( flowers ever) we shall find a further exemplification 
of the principle of the bastard iambus, bastard trochee, and quick 
trochee, as i have been at some pains in describing these feet 
above. All the Prosodies on English verse would insist upon 
making an elision in “flowers,” thus (flow’rs,) but this is nonsense. 
In the quick trochee (many &re thé) occurring in Mr. Cranch’s 
trochaic line, we had to equalize the time of the three syllables 
(ny, are, the,) to that of the one short syllable whose position 
they usurp. Accordingly each of these syllables is equal to the 
third of a short syllable, that is to say, the sixth of a long. But 
in Byron’s dactylic rhythm, we have to equalize the time of the 
three syllables (ers, ev, er,) to that of the one long syllable whose 
position they usurp, or, (which is the same thing,) of the two 
short. Therefore the value of each of the syllables (ers, ev, and er) 
is the third of a long. We enunciate them with only half the 
rapidity we employ in enunciating the three final syllables of the 
quick trochee—which latter is a rare foot. The “flowers ever,” 
on the contrary, is as common in the dactylic rhythm as is the 
bastard trochee in the trochaic, or the. bastard iambus in the iam- 
bic. We may as well accent it with the curve of the crescent to 
the right, and call it a bastard dactyl. A bastard anapest, whose 
nature I now need be at no trouble in explaining, will of course 
occur, now and then, in an anapestic rhythm. 

In order to avoid any chance of that confusion which is apt to 
be introduced in an essay of this kind by too sudden and radical 
an alteration of the conventionalities to which the reader has been 
accustomed, I have thought it right to suggest for the accent 
marks of the bastard trochee, bastard iambus, etc., etc., certain 
characters which, in merely varying the direction of the ordinary 
short accent (~) should imply, what is the fact, that the feet them- 
selves are not new feet, in any proper sense, but simply modifica- 
tions of the feet, respectively, from which they derive their names. 
Thus a bastard iambus is, in its essentiality, that is to say, in its 
time, an iambus. The variation lies only in the distribution of 
this time. The time, for example, occupied by the one short (or 
half of long) syllable, in the ordinary iambus, is, in the bastard, 


246 ‘THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


spread equally over two syllables, which are accordingly the fourth 
of long. 

But this fact—the fact of the essentiality, or whole time, of the 
foot being unchanged, is now so fully before the reader, that I 
may venture to propose, finally, an accentuation which shall 
answer the real purpose—that is to say, what should be the real 
purpose of all accentuation—the purpose of expressing to the eye 
the exact relative value of every syllable employed in Verse. 

I have already shown that enunciation, or length, is the point 
from which we start. In other words, we begin with a long sylla- 
ble. This then is our unit; and there will be no need of accent- 
ing it at all. An unaccented syllable, in a system of accentua- 
tion, is to be regarded always as a long syllable. Thus a spondee 
would be without accent. In an iambus, the first syllable being 
“short,” or the half of long, should be accented with a small 2, 
placed beneath the syllable; the last syllable, being long, should 
be unaccented ;—the whole would be thus (control.) In a trochee, 


these accents would be merely conversed, thus (manly.) In a 
3 


dactyl, each of the two final syllables, being the half of long, should, 

also, be accented with a small 2 beneath the syllable; and, the 

first syllable left unaccented, the whole would be thus (happiness.) 
3 63 


In an anapzst we should converse the dactyl thus, (in the land.) 


In the bastard dactyl, each of the three concluding syllables being 

the third of long, should be accented with a small 3 beneath the 

syllable and the whole foot would stand thus, (flowers ever.) In 
3s 3 8 


the bastard anapest we should converse the bastard dactyl thus, 
(in the rebound.) In the bastard iambus, each of the two initial 


syllables, being the fourth of long, should be accented, below with 
a small 4; the whole foot would be thus, (in the rain.) In the 


bastard trochee, we should converse the bastard iambus thus, 
(many a.) In the quick trochee, each of the three concluding 
44 : 


syllables, being the stzth of long, should be accented, below, with 
a small 6; the whole foot would be thus, (many are the.) The 
6 6 


quick iambus is not yet created, and most probably never will be; 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 247 


for it will be excessively useless, awkward, and liable to miscon- 
_ception—as I have already shown that even the quick trochee is : 
—but, should it appear, we must accent it by conversing the quick 
trochee. The cxsura, being variable in length, but- always longer 
than “long,” should be accented, above, with a number expressing 
the length, or value, of the distinctive foot of the rhythm in which - 
it occurs. Thus a cesura, occurring in a spondaic rhythm, would 
be accented with a small 2 above the syllable, or, rather, foot. 
Occurring in a dactylic or anapestic rhythm, we also accent it 
with the 2, above the foot. Occurring in an iambic rhythm, 
however, it must be accented, above, with 1}; for this is the rela- 
tive value of the iambus. Occurring in the trochaic rhythm, we 
give it, of course, the same accentuation. For the complex 1}, 
however, it would be advisable to substitute the simpler expression 
# which amounts to the same thing. 

In this system of accentuation Mr. Cranch’s lines, quoted above, 
would thus be written : 


Many are the | thoughts that | come to | me 
6 6 6 
In my | lonely | musing, | 


And they | drift so | strange and | swift 
3 3 3 
There's no | time for | choosing | 
3 2 3 


t 
Which to | follow | for to | leave 
3 2 2 


Any, | seems a | losing. | 


In the ordinary system the accentuation would be thus: 


Many aré thé | thoughts that | cOme td | mé 
In my | lonely | mising, | 

and théy | drift sd | strange dnd | swift | 
Theré’s né | timé for | chodsing | 

Which té | folléw, | for td | leave 
any, | seéms & | losing. | 


It must be observed, here, that I do not grant this to be the 
“ordinary” scansion. On the contrary, I never yet met the man 


248 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


who had the faintest comprehension of the true scanning of these 
lines, or of such as these. But granting this to be the mode in 
which our Prosodies would divide the feet, they would accentuate 
the syllables as just above. 

Now, let any reasonable person compare the two modes. The 
first advantage seen in my mode is that of simplicity—of time, 
labor, and ink saved. Counting the fractions as two accents, even, 
there will be found only twenty-six accents to the stanza. In the 
cominon accentuation there are forty-one. But admit that all this 
is a trifle, which it is not, and let us proceed to points of importance. 
Does the common accentuation express the truth, in particular, in 
general, or in any regard? Is it consistent with itself? Does it 
convey either to the ignorant or to the scholar a just conception 
of the rhythm of the lines? Each of these questions must be 
answered in the negative. The crescents, being precisely similar, 
must be understood as expressing, all of them, one and the same 
thing: and so all prosodies have always understood them and 
wished them to be understood. They express, indeed, “ short”— 
but this word has all kinds of meanings. It serves to represent 
(the reader is left to guess when) sometimes the half, sometimes 
the third, sometimes the fourth, sometimes the sixth, of “long”— 
while “ long” itself, in the books, is left undefined and undescribed. 
On the other hand, the horizontal accent, it may be said, expresses 
sufficiently well, and unvaryingly, the syllables which are meant to 
be long. It does nothing of the kind. ‘This horizontal accent is 
placed over the cxesura (wherever, as in the Latin Prosodies, the 
czsura is recognised) as well as over the ordinary long syllable, 
and implies anything and everything, just as the crescent. But 
grant that it does express the ordinary long syllables, (leaving the 
cesura out of question,) have I not given the identical expression, 
by not employing any expression at all? In a word, while the 
Prospdies, with a certain number of accents, express precisely noth- 
ing whatever, I, with scarcely half the number, have expressed 
everything which, in a system of accentuation, demands expres- 
sion. In glancing at my mode in the lines of Mr. Cranch, it will 
be seen that it conveys not only the exact relation of the sylla- 
bles and feet, among themselves, in those particular lines, 
but their precise value in relation to any other existing or con- 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 249 


 ceivable feet or syllables, in any existing or conceivable system of 
rhythm. 

The object of what we call scansion is the distinct ‘marking of 
the rhythmical flow. Scansion with accents or perpendicular lines 
between the feet—that is to say scansion by the voice only—is scan- 
sion fo the ear only; and all very good in its way. The written 
scansion addresses the ear through the eye. In either case the 
object is the distinct marking of the rhythmical, musical, or read- 
ing flow. There can be no other object and there is none. Of 
course, then, the scansion and the reading flow should go hand in 
hand. The former must agree with the latter. The former represents 
and expresses the latter; and is good or bad as it truly or falsely 
represents and expresses it. If by the written scansion of a line 
we are not enabled to perceive any rhythm or music in the line, 
then either the line is unrhythmical or the scansion false. Apply 
all this to the English lines which we have quoted, at various 
points, in the course of this article. It will be found that the 
scansion exactly conveys the rhythm, and thus thoroughly fulfils 
the only purpose for which scansion is required. 

But let the scansion of the schools be applied to the Greek and 
Latin verse, and what result do we find ?!—that the verse is one 
thing and the scansion quite another. The ancient verse, read 
aloud, isin general musical, and occasionally very musical. Scan- 
ned by the Prosodial rules we can, for the most part, make noth- 
ing of it whatever. In the case of the English verse, the more 
emphatically we dwell on the divisions between the feet, the more 
distinct is our perception of the kind of rhythm intended. In the 
case of the Greek and Latin, the more we dwell the less distinct is 
this perception. To make this clear by an example: 


Meecenas, atavis edite regibus, 

. O, et presidium et dulce decus meum, 
Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum 
Collegisse juvat, metaque fervidis 
Evitata rotis, palmaque nobilis 
Terrarum dominos evehit ad Deos. 


Now in reading these lines, there is scarcely one person in a 


thousand who, if even ignorant of Latin, will not immediately feel 
11* - 


250 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. ; 


and appreciate their flow—their music. A prosodist, however, 
informs the public that the scansion runs thus : 


Mece | nas ata | vis | edite | regibus | 

O, et | preesidi’ | et | dulce de | cus meum | 
Sunt quos | curricu | lo | pulver’ O | lympicum | 
Colle | gisse ju | vat | metaque | fervidis | 

Evi | tata ro | tis | palmaque | nobilis | 

Terra | rum domi | nos | evehit | ad Deos. | 


Now I do not deny that we get a certain sort of music from 
the lines if we read them according to this scansion, but I wish to 
call attention to the fact that this scansion and the certain sort of 
music which grows out of it, are entircly at war not only with the 
reading flow which any ordinary person would naturally give the 
lines, but with the reading flow universally given them, and never 
denied them, by even the most obstinate and stolid of scholars. 

And now these questions are forced upon us—‘‘ Why exists this 
discrepancy between the modern verse with its scansion, and the 
ancient verse with its scansion ?”——“ Why, in the former case, are 
there agreement and representation, while in the latter there is 
neither the one or the other!” or, to come to the point,—“ How 
are we to reconcile the ancient verse with the scholastic scansion 
of it?” This absolutely necessary conciliation—shall we bring it 
about by supposing the scholastic scansion wrong because ‘the 
ancient verse is right, or by maintaining that the ancient verse is 
wrong because the scholastic scansion is not to be gainsayed ? 

Were we to adopt the latter mode of arranging the difficulty, 
we might, in some measure, at least simplify the expression of the 
arrangement by putting it thus—Because the ia have no 
eyes, therefore the old poets had no ears. 

“But,” say the gentlemen without the eyes, “the scholastic 
scansion, although certainly not handed down to us in form from 
the old poets themselves (the gentlemen without the ears,) is 
nevertheless deduced from certain facts which are supplied us by 
careful observation of the old poems. 

And let us illustrate this strong position by an example from 
an American poet—who must be a poet of some eminence, or he 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 261 


will not answer the purpose. Let us take Mr. Alfred B. Street. 
I remember these two lines of his: 


His sinuous path, by blazes, wound 
Among trunks grouped in myriads round. 


With the sense of these lines I have nothing to do. "When a poet 
is in a “fine frenzy,” he may as well imagine a large forest as 
a small one—and “by blazes!” is not intended for an oath. My 
concern is with the rhythm, which is iambic. 

Now let us suppose that, a thousand years hence, when the 
“ American language” is dead, a learned prosodist should be de- 
ducing from “ careful observation” of our best poets, a system of 
scansion for our poetry. And let us suppose that this prosodist 
had so little dependence in the generality and immutability of the 
laws of Nature, as to assume in the outset, that, because we lived 
a thousand years before his time, and made use of steam-engines 
instead of mesmeric balloons, we must therefore have had a very 
singular fashion of mouthing our vowels, and altogether of hud- 
sonizing our verse. And let us suppose that with these and other 
fundamental propositions carefully put away in his brain, he should 
arrive at the line,— 


Among | trunks grouped | in my | riads round. 


Finding it an obviously iambic rhythm, he would divide it as 
-above ; and observing that “ trunks” made the first member of an 
jambus, he would call it short, as Mr. Street intended it to be. 
Now farther :—if instead of admitting the possibility that Mr. 
Street, (who by that time would be called Street simply, just as 
we say Homer,)—that Mr. Street might have been in the habit of 
writing carelessly, as the poets of the prosodist’s own era did, and 
as all poets will do (on account of being geniuses,)—instead of 
admitting this, suppose the learned scholar should make a “rule” 
and put it in a book, to the effect that, in the American verse, the 
vowel u, when found imbedded among nine consonants, was short : 
what, under such circumstances, would the sensible people of the 
scholar’s day have a right not only to think, but to say of that 
scholar ?/—why, that he was “a fool—by blazes !” 


252 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


I have put an extreme case, but it strikes at the root of the error. 
The “rules” are grounded in “authority ;” and this “authority ”— 
can any one tell us what it means? or can any one suggest any- 
thing that it may not mean? Is it not clear that the “scholar” 
above referred to, might as readily have deduced from authority 
a totally false system as a partially true one? To deduce from 
authority a consistent prosody of the ancient metres would indeed 
have been within the limits of the barest possibility ; and the task 
has not been accomplished, for the reason that it demands a spe- 
cies of ratiocination altogether out of keeping with the brain of a 
bookworm. A rigid scrutiny will show that the very few “rules” 
which have not as many exceptions as examples, are those which 
have, by accident, their true bases not in authority, but in the 
omniprevalent laws of syllabification; such, for example, as the 
rule which declares a vowel before two consonants to be long. 

In a word, the gross confusion and autagonism of the scholastic 
prosody, as well as its marked inapplicability to the reading flow 
of the rhythms it pretends to illustrate, are attributable, first, to 
the utter absence of natural principle as a guide in the investiga- 
tions which have been undertaken by inadequate men; and sec- 
ondly, to the neglect of the obvious consideration that the ancient 
poems, which have been the criteria throughout, were the work 
of men who must have written as loosely, and with as little defin- 
itive system, as ourselves. 

Were Horace alive to-day, he would divide for us his first Ode 
thus, and “make great eyes” when assured by the prosodists that 
he had no business to make any such division ! 


Mecenas | atavis | edite | regibus | 
22 2 32 2 2 2 3 
O et pra | sidium et | dulce de | cus meum | 
2 2 3 3 38 2 #32 23 
Sunt quos cur | riculo | pulverem O | lympicum | 
22 8 3 93 3 2 
Collegisse | juvat | metaque | fervidis | 
$3 8 2 #63 2 3 
Evitata | rotis | palmaque | nobilis | 
33 8 2 #3 22 


Terrarum | dominos | evehit | ad Deos. | 
3 #3 3 3 2 3 323 


Read by this scansion, the flow is preserved; and the more we 
dwell on the divisions, the more the intended rhythm becomes 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 258 


a 
apparent.. Moreover, the feet have all the same time; while, in 
the scholastic scansion, trochees—admitted trochees—are absurdly 
employed as equivalents to spondees and dactyls. The books de- 
clare, for instance, that Colle, which begins the fourth line, is a 
trochee, and seem to be gloriously unconscious that to put a tro- 
chee in opposition with a longer foot, is to violate the inviolable 
principle of all music, teme. 

It will be said, however, by “some people,” that I have no busi- 
ness to make a dacty! out of such obviously long syllables as sunt, 
quos, cur, Certainly I have no business to do so. I never do so. 
And Horace should not have done so. But he did. Mr. Bryant 
and Mr. Longfellow do the same thing every day. And merely 
because these gentlemen, now and then, forget themselves in this 
way, it would be hard if some future prosodist should insist upon 
twisting the “Thanatopsis,” or the “Spanish Student,” into a 
jumble of trochees, spondees, and dactyls. 

It may be said, also, by some other people, that in the word 
decus, I have succeeded no better than the books, in making the 
scansional agree with the reading flow; and that decus was not 
pronounced decus. I reply, that there can be no doubt of the 
word having been pronounced, in this case, decus. It must be 
observed, that the Latin inflection, or variation of a word in its 
terminating syllables, caused the Romans—must have caused them, 
to pay greater attention to the termination of a word than to its 
commencement, or than we do to the terminations of our words. 
The end of the Latin word established that relation of the word 
with other words which we establish by prepositions or auxiliary 
verbs. Therefore, it would seem infinitely Jess odd to them than 
it does to us, to dwell at any time, for any slight purpose, abnor- 
mally, on a terminating syllable. In verse, this license—scarcely 
a license—would be frequently admitted. These ideas unlock the 
secret of such lines as the 


Litoreis ingens inventa sub ilicidus sus, 
and the 


Parturiunt montes et nascitur ridiculus mus, 


which I quoted, some time ago, while speaking of rhyme. 
As regards the prosodial elisions, such as that of rem before O, 


254 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


in pulverem Olympicum, it is really difficult to understand how 
so dismally silly a notion could have entered the brain even of a 
pedant. Were it demanded of me why the books cut off one 
vowel before another, I might say—It is, perhaps, because the 
books think that, since a bad reader is so apt to slide the one 
vowel into the other at any rate, it is just as well to print them 
ready-slided. But in the case of the terminating m, which is the 
most readily pronounced of all consonants, (as the infantile mamma 
will testify,) and the most impossible to cheat the ear of by any 
system of sliding—in the case of the m, I should be driven to 
reply that, to the best of my belief, the prosodists did the thing, 
- because they had a fancy for doing it, and wished to see how funny 
it would look after it was done. The thinking reader will per- 
ceive that, from the great facility with which em may be enun- 
ciated, it is admirably suited to form one of the rapid short syl- 
lables in the bastard dacty] (pulverem O ;) but because the books 


had no conception of a bastard dactyl, they knocked it in the head 
at once—by cutting off its tail! 

Let me now give a specimen of the true scansion of another 
Horatian measure—embodying an instance of proper elision. 


Integer | vitee | scelerisque | purus | 
2 3 363 3 

Non eget | Mauri | jaculis ne | que arcu | 
2 2 33 63 : 

Nec vene | natis | gravida sa | gittis, : 
2 23 33 3 

Fusce, pha | retra. 
3 2 


Here the regular recurrence of the bastard dactyl, gives great 
animation to the rhythm. The e before the a in que arcu, is, 
almost of sheer necessity, cut off—that is to say, run into the a 
so as to preserve the spondee. But even this license it would 
have been better not to take. 

Had I space, nothing would afford me greater pleasure than 
to proceed with the scansion of ald the ancient rhythms, and to 
show how easily, by the help of common sense, the intended mu- 
sic of each and all can be rendered instantaneously apparent. But 
I have already overstepped my limits, and must bring this paper 
to an end. 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 255 


SS ee —_ 


It will never do, however, to omit all mention of the heroic 
hexameter. 

I began the “ processes” by a suggestion of the spondee as the 
first step towards verse. But the innate monotony of the spon- 
dee has caused its disappearance, as the basis of rhythm, from all 
modern poetry. We may say, indeed, that the French heroic— 
the most wretchedly monotonous verse in existence—is, to all 
intents and purposes, spondaic. But it is not designedly spon- 
daic—and if the French were ever to examine it at all, they would 
no doubt pronounce it iambic. It must be observed, that the 
French language is strangely peculiar in this point—that it is 
without accentuation, and consequently without verse. The genius 
of the people, rather than the structure of the tongue, declares 
that their words are, for the most part, enunciated with an uni- 
form dwelling on each syllable. For example—we say, “syllabifi- 
cation.” A Frenchman would say, syl-la-bi-fi-ca-ti-on; dwelling 
on no one of the syllables with any noticeable particularity. Here 
again I put an extreme case, in order to be well understood ; but 
the general fact is as I give it—that, comparatively, the French 
have no accentuation. And there can be nothing worth the name 
of verse, without. Therefore, the French have no verse worth the 
name—which is the fact, put in sufficiently plain terms. Their 
iambic rhythm so superabounds in absolute spondees, as to war- 
rant me in calling its basis spondaic ;- but French is the only mod- 
ern tongue which has any rhythm with such basis; and even in 
the French, it is, as I have said, unintentional. 3 

Admitting, however, the validity of my suggestion, that the 
spondee was the first approach to verse, we should expect to find, 
first, natural spondees (words each forming just a spondee,) most 
abundant in the most ancient languages ; and, secondly, we should 
expect to find spondees forming the basis of the most ancient 
rhythms. These expectations are in both cases confirmed. 

Of the Greek hexameter, the intentional basis is spondaic. The 
dactyls are the variation of the theme. It will be observed that 
there is no absolute certainty about ther points of interposition. 
The penultimate foot, it is true, is usually a dactyl; but not uni- 
formly so; while the ultimate, on which the ear lingers is always 
aspondee. Even that the penultimate is usually a dactyl may be 


256 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


clearly referred to the necessity of winding up with the distinctive 
spondee. - In corroboration of this idea, again, we should look to 
find the penultimate spondee most usual in the most ancient verse ; 
and, accordingly, we find it more frequent in the Greek an in 
the Latin hexameter. — 

But besides all this, spondees are not only more prevalent in 
the heroic hexameter than dactyls, but occur to such an extent as 
is even unpleasant to modern ears, on account’ of monotony. 
What the modern chiefly appreciates and admires in the Greek . 
hexameter, is the melody of the abundant vowel sounds. The 
Latin hexameters really please very few moderns—although so 
many pretend to fall into ecstasies about them. In the hexame- 
ters quoted, several pages ago, from Silius Italicus, the prepon- 
derance of the spondee is strikingly manifest. Besides the natural 
spondees of the Greek and Latin, numerous artificial ones arise in 
the verse of these tongues on account of the tendency which 
inflection has to throw full accentuation on terminal syllables; and 
the preponderance of the spondee is farther ensured by the com- 
parative infrequency of the small prépositions which we have to 
serve us instead of case, and also the absence of the diminutive 
auxiliary verbs with which we have to eke out the expression of 
our primary ones. These are the monosyllables whose abundance 
serve to stamp the poetic genius of a language as tripping or 
dactylic. 

Now paying no attention to these facts, Sir Philip Sidney, Pro- 
fessor Longfellow, and innumerable other persons more or less 
modern, have busied themselves in constructing what they sup- 
posed to be “‘ English hexameters on the model of the Greek.” 
The only difficulty was that (even leaving out of question the 
melodious masses of vowel,) these gentlemen never could get their 
English hexameters to sound Greek. Did they look Greek !—that 
should have been the query; and the reply might have led toa 
solution of the riddle. In placing a copy of ancient hexameters 
side by side with a copy (in similar type) of such hexameters as 
Professor Longfellow, or Professor Felton, or the Frogpondian 
Professors collectively, are in the shameful practice of composing 
“on the model of the Greek,” it will be seen that the latter (hex- 
ameters, not professors) are about one third longer to the eye, on 


THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 257 


an average, than the former. The more abundant dactyls make 
the difference. And it is the greater number of spondees in the 
Greek than in the English—in the ancient than in the modern 
tongue—which has caused it to fall out that while these eminent 
scholars were groping about in the dark for a Greek hexameter, 
which is a spondaic rhythm varied now and then by dactyls, they 
merely stumbled, to the lasting scandal of scholarship, over some- 
thing which, on account of its long-leggedness, we may as well 
term a Feltonian hexameter, and which is a dactylic rhythm, inter- 
rupted, rarely, by artificial spondees which are no spondees at all, 
and which are curiously thrown in by the heels at all kinds of 
improper and impertinent points. 
Here is a specimen of the Longfellownian hexameter. 


Also the | church with | in was a | dorned for | this was the | season | 

In which the | young their | parents’ | hope and the | loved ones of | Hea- 
ven | | 

Should at the | foot of the |-altar re | new the | vows of their | baptism | 

Therefore each | nook and | corner was | swept and | cleaned and the | dust 
was | 

Blown from the | walls and | ceiling and | from the | oil-painted | benches. | 


Mr. Longfellow is a man of imagination—but can he imagine that 
any individual,’with a proper understanding of the danger of lock- 
jaw, would make the attempt of twisting his mouth into the shape 
necessary for the emission of such spondees as “ parenés,” and 
“from the,” or such dactyls as “cleaned and the” and “loved 
ones of?” “Baptism” is by no means a bad spondee—perhaps 
because it happens to be a dacty! ;—of all the rest, however, [am 
dreadfully ashamed. 

But these feet—dactyls and spondees, all together,—should 
thus be put at once into their proper position : 


“ Also, the church within was adorned; for this was the season in which 
the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved ones of Heaven, should, at the 
feet of the «ltar, renew the vows of their baptism. Therefore, each nook and 
corner was swept and cleaned; and the dust was blown from the walls and 
ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches.” 


There !—That is respectable prose; and it will incur no danger 


258 THE RATIONALE OF VERSE. 


of ever getting its character ruined by any body’s mistaking it 
for verse. 

But even when we let these modern hexameters go, as Greek, 
and merely hold them fast in their proper character of Longfellow- 
nian, or Feltonian, or Frogpondian, we must still condemn them 
as having been committed in a radical misconception of the phi- 
losophy of verse. The spondee, as I observed, is the theme of the 
Greek line. Most of the ancient hexameters begin with spondees, 
for the reason that the spondee zs the theme; and the ear is filled 
with it as with a burden. Now the Feltonian dactylics have, in the 
same way, dactyls for the theme, and most of them begin with 
dactyls—which is all very proper if not very Greek—but, unhap- 
pily, the one point at which they are very Greek is that point, 
precisely, at which they should be nothing but Feltonian. They 
always close with what is meant foraspondee. To be consistently 
silly, they should die off in a dactyl. 

That a truly Greek hexameter cannot, however, be readily com- 
posed in English, is a proposition which I am by no means inclined 
to admit. I think I could manage the point myself. For example: 


Do tell! | when may we | hope to make | men of sense | out of the | Pun- 
. dits | 
Born and brought | up with their | snouts deep | down in the | mud of the | 
Frog-pond ? 
Why ask ? | who ever | yet saw | money made | out of a | fat old | 
Jew, or | downright | upright | nutmegs | out of a | pine-knot ? | 


The proper spondee predominance is here preserved. Some of the 
dactyls are not so good as I could wish—but, upon the whole, the 
_ rhythm is very decent—to. say nothing of its excellent sense. 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 259 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


PPPBID PP PPP PPD PLL 


CuarLes Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to - 


an examination I once made of the mechanism of “ Barnaby 
Rudge,” says—“ By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote 
his ‘Caleb Williams’ backwards? He first involved his hero in a 
web of difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for the 
first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had 
been done.” 

I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part 
of Godwin—and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not 
altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens’ idea—but the author 
of “Caleb Williams” was too good an artist not to perceiye the 
advantage derivable from at least a somewhat similar process. 
Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must 
be elaborated to its dénouement before any thing be attempted 
with the pen. It is only with the dénowement constantly in view 
that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or 
causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all 
points, tend to the development of the intention. 

There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of construct- 
_Ingastory. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested 
by an incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to 
work in the combination of striking events to form merely the 
basis of his narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with descrip- 
tion, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or 
action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent. 

I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping 


| 
| 


260 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


originality always in view—for he is false to himself who ventures 
to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of 
interest—I say to myself, in the first place, “Of the innumerable 
effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more 
generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present 
occasion, select?” Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a 
vivid effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident 
or tone—whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the 
converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone—afterward 
looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, 
or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. 

I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might 
be written by any author who would—that is to say, who could— 
detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compo- 
sitions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a 
paper has never been given to the world, 1 am much at a loss to 
say—but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more te do with 
the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in 
especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a spe- 
cies of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would positively 
shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the 
elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at the true pur- 
poses seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses 
of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully 
matured fancies discarded in despair as nnmanageable—at the 
cautious selections and rejections—at the painful erasures and 
interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and pinions—the tackle 
for scene-shifting—-the step-ladders and demon-traps—the cock’s 
feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety- 
nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the 
literary hestrio. 

I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means 
common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the 
steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, 
suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in 
a similar manner. 

For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repug- 
nance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 261 


to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions ; and, 
since the interest of an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have 
considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fan- 
cied interest in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a 
breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by 
which some one of my own works was put together. I select 
“The Raven” as most generally known. It is my design to ren- 
der it manifest that no one point in its composition is refenible 
either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded, step by 
step, to its completion with the precision and ngid consequence 
of a mathematical problem. | 

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circum- 
stance—or say the necessity—which, in the first place, gave rise 
to the intention of composing @ poem that should suit at once the 
popular and the critical taste. 

We commence, then, with this intention. 

The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary 
work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to 
dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity 
of impression—for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the 
world interfere, and every thing like totality is at once destroyed. 
But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with any 
thing that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whe- 
ther there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss 
of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once.. What we 
term along poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones— 
that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demon- 
strate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, 
by elevating, the soul ; and all intense excitements are, through a 
psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the 
“Paradise Lost” is essentially prose—a succession of poetical ex- 
citements interspersed, tnevztably, with corresponding depressions 
—the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, 
of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect. 

It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards 
length, to all works of literary art—the limit of a single sitting— 
and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as 


“ Robinson Crusoe,” (demanding no unity,) this limit may be ad- 


262 - THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


vantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a 
poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to 
bear mathematical relation to its merit—in other words, to the 
excitement or elevation—again, in other words, to the degree of 
the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is 
clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the 
intended effect :—this, with one proviso—that a certain degree 
of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any 


effect at all. 
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of 


excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below 
the critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper 
length for my intended poem—a length of about one hundred 
lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight. 

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or 
effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, 
throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of 
rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried 
too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point 
upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, 
stands not in the slightest need of demonstration—the point, I mean, 
that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few 
words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of 
my friends have evinced adisposition to misrepresent. That pleasure 
which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most 
pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. 
When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a 
quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they refer, in short, just to that 
intense and pure elevation of sou/—not of intellect, or of heart— 
upon which | have commented, and which is experienced in conse- 
quence of contemplating “the beautiful.” Now I designate Beauty 
as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of 
Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes—that 
objects should be attained through means best adapted for their at- 
tainment—no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the 
peculiar elevation alluded to, is most readily attained in the poem. 
Now the object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the 
object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although 


; THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 268 


re Seeies 2 floes we ee a 


attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable 
in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a 
homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are 
absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the 
excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means 
follows from any thing here said, that passion, or even truth, may 
not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poeem— 
for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do 
discords in music, by contrast—but the true artist will always con- 
trive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predomi- 
nant.aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that 
Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. 

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question re- 
ferred to the tone of its highest manifestation—and all experience 
has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever 
kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive 
soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the 
poetical tones. 

The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, 
I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining 
some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the 
construction of the poem—some pivot upon which the whole struc- 
ture might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic 
effects—or more properly points, in the theatrical sense—I did not 
fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally 
employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employ- 
ment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value,.and spared me 
the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, how- 
ever, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw 
it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the refrain, 
or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its im- 
pression upon the force of monotone—both in sound and thought. 
The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity—of repe- 
tition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by adhering, 
in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that 
of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously 
novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain— 
the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. 


264 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


These points being settled, I next bethouzht me of the nature 
of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, 
it was clear that the refrazn itself must be brief, for there would 
have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of 
application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity 
of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. 
This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. 

The question now arose as to the character of the word. Hav- 
ing made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into 
stanzas was, of course, a corollary: the refrain forming the close 
to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonor- 
ous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: 
and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the 
most sonorous vowel, in connection with r as the most producible 
consonant. 

The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became ne- 
cessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same 
time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I 
had predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it 
would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word 
“Nevermore.” In fact, it was the very first which presented 
itself. 

The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of 
the one word “nevermore.” In observing the difficulty which I 
at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its con- 
tinuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty 
arose solely from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so 
continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being—I did 
not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconcil- 
lation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of 
the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose 
the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of specch; and, very 
naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was 
superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, 
and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone. 

I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven—the bird 
of ill omen—monotonously repeating the one word, “ Nevermore,” 

at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 265 


in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of 
the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked my- 
self— Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal 
understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?” Death— 
was the obvious reply. ‘“ And when,” I said, “is this most mel- 
ancholy of topics most poetical?” From what I have already ex- 
plained at some length, the answer, here also, is obvious—* When 
it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beauti- 
ful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world 
—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such 
' topic are those of a bereaved lover.” 

I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his 
deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word 
“‘ Nevermore.”—I had to combine these, bearing in mind my de- 
sign of varying, at every turn, the application of the word repeat- 
ed; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of 
imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries 
of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity 
afforded for the effect on which I had been depending—that is to 
say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could 
make the first query propounded by the lover—the first query to 
which the Raven should reply “‘ Nevermore”—that I could make 
this first query a commonplace one—the second less so—the third 
atill less, and so on—until at length the lover, startled from his 
original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word it- 
self—by its frequent repetition—and by a consideration of the 
ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it—is at length excited 
to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different 


character—queries whose solution he has passionately at heart— ; 
propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of - 
despair which delights in self-torture—propounds them not alto- — 


gether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character — 
of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a les- . 


son learned by rote) but because he experiences a frenzied plea- 
gure in so modeling his questions as to receive from the expected 


“ Nevermore” the most delicious because the most intolerable of ; 
sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me—or, more ' 


strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction— 
Vou. H—12, 


ore 


266 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query—that 
query to which “ Nevermore” should be in the last place an answer 
—that query in reply to which this word “ Nevermore” should in- 
volve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair. 

Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning—at the 
end, where all works of art should begin—for it was here, at this 
point of my preconsiderations, that I first put pen to paper in the 
composition of the stanza: 


“ Prophet,” said I, “ thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore, 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a eainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” 
Quoth the raven “ Nevermore.” 


I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing 
the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seri- 
ousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover—and, 
secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and 
the length and general arrangement of the stanza—as well as 
graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them 
might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the 
subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, I 
should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not 
to interfere with the climacteric effect. 

And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. 
My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which 
this has been neglected, in versification, is one of the most unac- 
countable things in the world. Admitting that there is little pos- 
sibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible 
varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite—and yet, for 
centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think 
of doing, an original thing. The fact is, that originality (unless 
in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some 
suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must 
be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest 
class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation. 

Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. ‘ 267 


metre of the “Raven.” The former is trochaic—the latter is octa- 
meter acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated 
in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrame- 
ter catalectic. Less pedantically—the feet employed throughout 
(trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first 
line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet—the second of 
seven and a half (in effect two-thirds)—the third of eight—the 
fourth of seven and a half—the fifth the same—the sixth three 
and a.half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, has been 
employed before, and what originality the “Raven” has, is in 
their combination into stanza ; nothing even remotely approaching 
this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this ori- 
ginality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some alto- 
gether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application 
of the principles of rhyme and alliteration. 

The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing to- 
gether the lover and the Raven—and the first branch of this con- 
sideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion 
might seem to be a forest, or the fields—but it has always ap- 
peared-to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely 
necessary to the effect of insulated incident :—it has the force of a 


eS eee 


frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keep- . 


ing concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be con- 
founded with mere unity of place. 

I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a 
chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had fre- 
quented it. The room is represented as richly furnished—this in 
mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the sub- 
ject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. 

The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the 
bird—and the thought of introducing him through the window, 
was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first 
instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the 
shutter, is a “tapping” at the door, originated in a wish to in- 
crease, by prolonging, the reader’s curiosity, and in a desire to ad- 
mit the incidental effect arising from the lover’s throwing open the 
door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it 
was the spirit of his mistress that knocked. 


\ 


268 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven’s 
seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the 
(physical) serenity within the chamber. 

I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect 
of contrast between the marble and the plumage—it being under- 
stood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird—the bust 
of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholar- 
ship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, 
Pallas, itself. 

About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the 
force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. 
For example, an air of the fantastic—approaching as nearly to the 
ludicrous as was admissible—is given to the Raven’s entrance. 
He comes in “with many a flirt and flutter.” 


Not the least obeisance made he—not a moment stopped or stayed he, 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. 


In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously 
carried out :— | 


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

Quoth the Raven “ Nevermore.” 


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
With such name as “ Nevermore.” 


The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I imme- 
diately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound serious- 
ness :—this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the 
one last quoted, with the line, 


But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, ete. 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 269 


From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no longer sees any 
thing even of the fantastic in the Raven’s demeanor. He speaks 
of him as a “grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 
of yore,” and feels the “ fiery eyes” burning into his “ bosom’s 
core.” This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover’s part, 
is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader—to 
bring the mind into a proper frame for the dénouement—which is 
now brought about as rapidly.and as directly as possible. 

With the dénouement proper—with the Raven’s reply, “ Never- 
more,” to the lover’s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in 
another world—the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple 
narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing 
is within the limits of the accountable—of the real. A raven, 
having learned by rote the single word “ Nevermore,” and having 
escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, 
through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window 
from which a light still gleams—the chamber-window of a student, 
occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a 
beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at 
the fluttering of the bird’s wings, the bird itself perches on the 
most convenient seat out of the immediate‘reach of the student, 
who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visiter’s 
demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, 
its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, 
“‘ Nevermore”—a word which finds immediate echo in the melan- 
choly heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain 
thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl’s 
repetition of “ Nevermore.” The student now guesses the state 
of the case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the 
human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to pro- 
pound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the 
most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer 
“Nevermore.” With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self- 
torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious 
phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no 
overstepping of the limits of the real. . 
_ But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however 

vivid an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or 


270 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 


nakedness, which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invari- 
ably required—first, some amount of complexity, or more prop- 
erly, adaptation ; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness— 
‘some under current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this 
latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that 
richness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are 
too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the excess of the 
suggested meaning—it is the rendering this the upper instead of 
the under current of the theme—which turns into prose (and that 
of the very flattest kind) the so called poetry of the so called 
transcendentalists. 

Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of 
the poem—their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all 
the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of 
meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines— 


“Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door |” 
Quoth the Raven “ Nevermore !” 


It will be observed that the words, “from out my heart,” involve 
the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the 
answer, “ Nevermore,” dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that 
has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard 
the Raven as emblematical—but it is not until the very last line 
of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emble- 
matical of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance is permitted 
distinctly to be seen: 


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


THE POWER OF WORDS. 271 


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 par- 
don is to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing 
of intuition. For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may 
be given ! 

Oinos.—But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at 
once cognizant of all things, and thus at once happy in being cog- 
nizant of all. 

Agathos.—Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acqui- 
sition edge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever bee 
ed; but to know all, were the curse of a fiend. 

Oinos.—But does not The Most High know all! 

A gathos.— 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 ? 


Se Sh ay onan ee a aan 


272 THE POWER OF WORDS. 


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 intinity of matter, the sole purpose is to 
afford infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst ¢o 
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 understood not what 
you hinted to me, just now, of the modes or of the methods of 
what, during mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do 
you mean to say that the Creator is not God ? 

Agathos.—I mean to say that the Deity does not create, 

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 crea- 
tive power. 

Oinos.—Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be consider- 
ed 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 opera- 
tions 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, | well remember, many very successful experiments in what 
some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation 
of animalcule. 

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. 


THE POWER OF WORDS. 278 


Oinos.—Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of non- 
entity, 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, we gave vibration to the atmosphere which 
engirdled it. This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave 
impulse to every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, 
and 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 deter- 
mine in what precise period an impulse of given extent would 
engirdle the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmos- 
phere 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 pro- 
gress—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 e end, impress ass every individual thing that 
exists within the universe ;—and the being of infinite understand- 


ing—the being whom we ‘have imagined—might trace the remote 
12* 


274 THE POWER OF WORDS. 


undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in 
their influences upon all particles of all matter—upward and on- 
ward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other 
words, in their creation of new—until he found them reflected— 
unimpressive at Jast—back from the throne of the Godhead. And 
not only could such a being do this, but at any epoch, should a 
given result be afforded him—should one of these numberless 
comets, for 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 mee a hte creates ? 


Agathos.—It must: but a true philosophy has long taught 


that the source of all motion is sonst ei 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 : 2 Is not every 
word an dan impulse ot 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 


THE POWER OF WORDS. 275 


three centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, ») 
at the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate sen- | 
tences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers ave the dearest of all un- 
fulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions of the 


most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts. 
WMloe ig a ore 


M2 


é en a 


276 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


Madovra ravra° 


Sophocles—Antig : 
These things are in the 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 himsclf 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 pleas. 
ures ! 

Una. Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How 
often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its na- 
ture! 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. 


ee hes! 


ee, Md — eee |" Ah see _ ee )) Ae ~<a ,, Geico WE] See, ne Ja ae a a 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 277 


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 ? 
_ [have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above 

all, | 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 ccssation— 
but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having 
abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, 
and J 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 im- 
mediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous in- 
tellect, 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 in- 
tervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance 
in practical science as a retro-gradation in the true utility. Oc- 
casionally 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 


278 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


of the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-pro- 
ducing, 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 solomnly 
deep-toned was happiness—holy, august and blissful days, when 
blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest 
solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. 

Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but 
to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the 
most evil of all our evil days. The great ‘“‘ movement’’—that 
was the cant term—went on: a diseased commotion, moral and 
physical. Art—the Arts—arose supreme, and, once enthronea, 
cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. 
Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Na- 
ture, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-in- 
creasing 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 in- 
fected with system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself 
in generalities. Among other odd ideas, that of universal equal- 
ity 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 ¢aste, or rather in the blind neglect of its culture in the 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 279 


schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that tast® alone—that 
faculty which, holding a middle position between the pure intel- 
lect and the moral sense, could never safely have been disregard- 
ed—it was now that taste alone could have led us gently back to 
Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure con. 
templative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the 
povowxn which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient education for 
the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since both were most des- 
perately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or 
despised.* 

Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how truly ! 
—‘ que tout notre rarsonnement se réduit @ 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 historyt of these regions I met with a ray from the Fu- 


. * “Tt will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that 
which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this may be 
summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and music for the soul.” 
—Repub. lib. 2. “ For this reason is a musical education most essential ; since 
it causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul, ta- 
king the strongest hold upon it, filling it with beauty and making the man beau- 
tiful-minded. . . . . He will praise and admire the beautiful ; will receive it 
with joy into his soul, will feed upon it, and assimilate his own condition with 
at.” —Ibid. lib. 3. Music (poverxn) had, however, among the Athenians, a far 
more comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the har- 
monies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and creation, 
each in its widest sense. The study of music was with them, in fact, the gen- 
‘-eral cultivation of the taste—of that which recognizes the beautiful—in con- 
‘ tra-distinction from reason, which deals only with the true. 

+t “ History,” from icropsy, to contemplate. 


| 


280 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


ture. The ifidividual 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 spir- 
its, daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed 
of the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, 
having undergone that purification* which alone could efface its 
rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure 
and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and 
be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for man :—for man the 
Death-purged—for man to whose now exalted intellect there 
should be poison in knowledge no more—for the redeemed, regen- 
erated, 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 war. 
rant 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 to- 
gether once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impa- 
tience of duration, yet, my Monos, it was a century still. 

Monos. Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unques. 
tionably, 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. 


* The word “ purification * seems here to be used with reference to its root 
in the Greek xvp, fire. 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 281 


sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the ex- 
treme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and pro- 
foundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer 
noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the 
mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by ex- 
ternal disturbances. 

I breathed no longer. ‘The pulses were still. The heart had 
ceased to beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. 
The senses were unusually active, although eccentrically so—as- 
suming often each other’s functions at random. The taste and 
the smell were inextricably confounded, and became one senti- 
ment, 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 bloom. 
ing around us. The eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered 
no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance, 
the balls could not roll in their sockets—but all objects within the 
range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less dis- 
tinctness ; 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 present. 


ing 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 sensi- 
bility. 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 rec- 
ognised through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled 
my whole being with a sensual delight immeasurable. I say 
with a sensual delight. Ad/ 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 under- 
standing. Of pain there was some little ; of pleasure there was 


ee er 


282 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


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 whis- 
pers—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 pos- 
sessed 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 com- 
mingling with melancholy dreams. Night arrived ; and with its 
shadows a heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the op. 
pression 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 circum- 
stances had called forth, a something akin to sentiment itself—a 


2 V gee wo a Te at 


wee gee, Ae _——_ > ee ee, | eee) oem, |, A. eee, O's. ee. —“—Zb> fe Am , 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 288 


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 stil] physical, in- 
asmuch 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 fir- 
mamental orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid ] 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 devi- 
ations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of ab- 
stract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. Al.- 
though no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the indi- 
vidual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in hold- 
ing steadily in mind the tonés, and the respective momentary 
errors of each. And this—this keen, perfect, self-existing senti- 
ment of duration—this sentiment existing (as man could not pos- 
sibly 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 intempo- — 


ral 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 


Pd 


284 THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 


uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shock like that of elec- 
tricity 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 senti- 
ment of duration. The mortal body had been at ee 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. 1 appreciated the direful change now in ope- 
ration 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 hour- 
ly more indistinct, and that of mere Jocality had, in great meas- 
ure, usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming 
merged in that of place. The narrow space immediately sur- 
rounding 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 quies- 


4 


THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. 1 285 


cence. Many Justra 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 por- 
' tion—for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the 
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates. 


°g§6 THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 


THE 


CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 


TIvp got TpocoLcw ° 
I will bring fire to thee. 
Euripides—Androm : 


EIROS. 
Way 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 1 underwent 


{eee ee, ee, (ees O_o ae i ow, eee, ee ee 


en aa, , on gy SE, sam, ee! 


THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 287 


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 overburtnened with the 
majesty of ,all things—of the unknown now known—of the spec- 
ulative 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 re- 
lief in the exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor 
forward—but back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the de. 
tails 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, | 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, in- 
deed, I knew little of the speculative philosophy of the day, 


EIROS. 
The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unantici- 


288 THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 


pated ; but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject o” dis- 
cussion with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my fi.end, 
that, even when you left us, men had agreed to understand those 
passages in the most holy writings which speak of the final de- 
struction of all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of 
the earth alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the 
ruin, speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronom- 
ical knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors 
of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been 
well established. They had been observed to pass among the 
satellites of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible altera- 
tion either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary 
planets. We had long regarded the wanderers as vapory cre. 
ations of inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of 
doing injury to our substantial globe, even in the event of con. 
tact. But contact was not in any degree dreaded ; for the ele- 
ments of all the comets were accurately known. That among 
them we should look for the agency of the threatened fiery de- 
struction 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 announce. 
ment 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 can- 
not very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon 
the people. For a few short days they would not believe an as- 
sertion which their intellect, so long employed among worldly con- 
siderations, 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 approagh 
was not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of 


~ 


. THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 289 . 


very ‘unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had ligtde per- 
.,¢ptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material in- 
crease 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 con- 
siderations. 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 strengtll 
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 hour- 
ly 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 pesti- 
lences 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 dis- 
turbances, of probable alterations in climate, and consequently in 
vegetation ; of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many 

Vor. I1.—18. 


t 


i 


290 THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 


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 Bearer: 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 chimerica] 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 historccal 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 ashadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable 
rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, extend- 
ing 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 fore- 
sight 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 conforma- 
tion of this atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it 
- might be subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The re- 


THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. 291 


sult 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 power- 
ful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, 
was incapable of supporting either animal life or flame. An un- 
natural excess of oxygen would result, it had been ascertained, 
in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had lat- 
terly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea, 
which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a to- 
tal 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-in- 
spiring 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 in. 
spired us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of de- 
spair. 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 tumul- 
tuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed 
all men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threat- 
ening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nu- 
cleus 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 
-verwhelmed. 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. 


292 SHADOW.—A PARABLE. 


SHADOW —A PARABLE 


+ 


Yea! though I walk through the valley of the Shadow :—Psalm of David, 


Yez 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 com- 
pany of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save 
by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the arti- 
san Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from 


SHADOW.—A PARABLE. 298 


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—heavi- 
ness in the atmosphere—a sense of suffocation—anxiety—and, 
above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experi- 
ence 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 iron lamps which illumined our revel. Up- 
rearing 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 


294 ° SHADOW.—A PARABLE. 


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 God—neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldza, 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 en- 
shrouded. Lut we, the seven there assembled, having scen the 
shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not stead- 
ily 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 duskily upon our ears in the 
well remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed 
friends. 


SILENCE.—A FABLE 295 


SILENCE—-A FABLE. 


OPPPPLL DP 


"Evdovew d‘ogewy Shoe TS xo papayyss 
Tlpwveg re xai yapadgas. ALCMAN, 


. The mountain pinnacles slumber ; valleys, crags and caves are silent. 


“Listen to me,” said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon 
my head. “The region of which I speak is a dreary region in 
Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet 
there, nor silence. 

“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and 
they flow not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever 
beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive 
motion. For many miles on either side of the river’s oozy bed is 
a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the 
other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long 
and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. 
And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among 
them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one 
unto the other. 

“ But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary of the 
dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the He- 
brides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is 
no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock 
eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. 
And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. 
And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed 
slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray 


296 SILENCE—A FABLE. 


clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the 
fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the 
heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither 
quiet nor silence. 

“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, 
having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among 
the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed 
one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. 

“ And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly 


mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge © 


gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted 
by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, 
and tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters 
engraven in thestone; and I walked through the morass of water- 
lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the 
characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher them. And 
I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a 
fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon 
the characters ;—and the characters were DESOLATION. 

. “ And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the sum- 
mit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I 
might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and 
stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his 
feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were 
indistinct—but his features were the features of a deity ; for the 
mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the 
dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow 
was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the 
few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and wea- 
riness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. 

“ And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his 
hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into 
the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, 
and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. 
And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the 
actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ;—but 
the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. 

“ And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked 


SILENCE—A FABLE. 207 


_out upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly 
waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the 
man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur 
that came up from among them. And I lay close within my 
covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trem- 
bled in the solitude ;—but the night waned and he sat upon the 
rock. 

“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded 
afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hip- 
popotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. 
And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behe- 
moth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully 
beneath the moon. And [I lay close within my covert and ob- 
served the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the soli- 
tude ;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock. 

“ Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; anda 
frightful tempest gathered in the heaven, where, before, there had 
been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of 
the tempest—and the rain beat upon the head of the man—and 
the floods of the river came down—and the river was tormented 
into foam—and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and 
the forest crumbled before the wind—and the thunder rolled—and 
the lightning fell—and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I 
- lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. 
And the man trembled in the solitude ;—but the night waned and 
he sat upon the rock. 

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the 
river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, 
and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they be- 
came accursed, and were still, And the moon ceased to totter up 
its pathway to heaven—and the thunder died away—and the 
lightning did not flash—and the clouds hung motionless—and the 
waters sunk to their level and remained—and the trees ceased to 
rock—and the water-lilies sighed no more—and the murmur was 
heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound 
throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the 
characters of the rock, and they were changed ;—and the charac- 


ters were SILENCE. 
13* 


298 SILENCE—A FABLE. 


— ——- 


“ And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his 
countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his 
head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. 
But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and 
the characters upon the rock were siLENcE. And the man shud- 
dered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so 
that I beheld him no more.” : 
* * * * ae a % 

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in the 
iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are 
glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the 
‘mighty sea—and of the Genii that overruled the sea, and the 
earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the say- 
ings which were said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were | 
heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona— 
but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he sat 
by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most won- 
derful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he 
fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could 
not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not 
laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came 
out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked 
at him steadily in the face. 


— 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 299 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 


ro 


In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of 
their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but 
little sentiment beyond marbles and colors. In France, meliora 
probant, deteriora sequuntur—the people are too much a race of 
gad-abouts to maintain those household proprieties of which, 
indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the elements 
of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the eastern races 
have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decor- 
ists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a cur- 
tain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are all curtains—a nation 
of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots and 
Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are 
preposterous. | 

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

- To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere 
parade of costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to 
create an impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurte- 
nances themselves—or of taste as regards the proprietor :—this 
for the reason, first, that wealth is not, in England, the loftiest 


800 PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE, 


object of ambition as constituting a nobility; and secondly, that 
there, the true nobility of blood, confining itself within the strict 
limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than affects that mere cost- 
liness in which a parvenu rivalry may at any time be successfully 
attempted. The people wi// imitate the nobles, and the result is 
a thorough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the 
coins current being the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display 
may be said, in general, to be the sole means of aristocratic dis- 
tinction; and the populace, looking always upward for models, 
are insensibly led to confound the two entirely separate ideas of 
magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of an article of furni- 
ture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole test of its 
merit in a decorative point of view—and this test, once establish- 
ed, has led the way to many analogous errors, readily traceable 
to the one primitive folly. 

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

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

Curtains are rarely well disposal: or well chosen, in respect to 
other decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of 
place; and an extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under 
any circumstances, irreconcilable with good taste—the proper quan- 
tum, as well as the proper adjustment, depending upon the charac- 
ter of the general effect. 


a a 


—_— oe 


~~¢ eee oe 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 801 


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

Glare is a leading error in the philosophy of American house- 
hold devoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from the 
perversion of taste just specified. We are violently enamored of 
gas and of glass. The former is totally inadmissible within doors. 
Its harsh and unsteady light offends. No one having both brains 
and eyes will use it. A mild, or what artists term a cool light, 
with its consequent warm shadows, will do wonders for even an 
ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely thought than 
that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp 


302 PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 


proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass 
shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut- 
glass shade is a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness 
with which we have adopted it, partly on account of its flashiness, 
but principally on account of its greater cost, is a good commen- 
tary on the proposition with which we began. It is not too much 
to say, that the deliberate employer of a cut-glass shade, is either 
radically deficient in taste, or blindly subservient to the caprices 
of fashion. The light proceeding from one of these gaudy abomi- 
nations is unequal, broken, and painful. It alone is sufficient to 
mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its influ- 
ence. Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half disen- 
chanted beneath its evil eye. 

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

The tage for glitter—because its idea has become, as we before 
observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract— 
has led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We 
line our dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we 
have done a fine thing. Now the slightest thought will be suffi- 
cient to convince any one who has an eye at all, of the ill effect 
of numerous looking-glasses, and especially of large ones. Re- 
garded apart from its reflection, the mirror presents a continuous, 
flat, colorless, unrelieved surface,—a thing always and obviously 
unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent in producing 
& monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here aggra- 
vated, not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of 
its sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room 
with four or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes 
of artistic show, a room of no shape at all. Ifwe add to this evil, 


7 a —  L a  , f ra, 


an oa 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 803 


the attendant glitter upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of 
discordant and displeasing effects. The veriest bumpkin, on enter- 
ing an apartment so bedizzened, would be instantly aware of some- 
thing wrong, although he might be altogether unable to assign a 
cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into 
a room tastefully furnished, and he would be startled into an ex- 
clamation of pleasure and surprise. 

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

It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in 
breadth—a shape affording the best (ordinary) opportunities for 
the adjustment of furniture. It has but one door—by no means 
a wide one—which is at one end of the parallelogram, and but 
two windows, which are at the other. These latter are large, 
reaching down to the floor—have deep recesses—and open on an 
Italian veranda. Their panes are of a crimson-tinted glass, set in 
rose-wood framings, more massive than usual. They are curtained 
within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to the shape of 
the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the 
recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with 
a deep network of gold, and lined with the silver tissue, which is 
the material of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the 
folds of the whole fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, 
and have an airy appearance,) issue from beneath a broad entabla- 
ture of rich giltwork, which encircles the room at the junction 
of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown open also, or 


804 PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 


closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping it, and 
resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such devices 
are apparent. The colors of the curtains and their fringe—the 
tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere in profusion, and 
determine the character of the room. The carpet—of Saxony 
material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson 
ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that 
festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the 
ground, and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a suc- 
cession of short irregular curves—one occasionally overlaying the 
other. The walls are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray 
tint, spotted with small Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the 
prevalent crimson. Many paintings relieve the expanse of the 
paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an imaginative cast—such 
as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the lake of the Dismal Swamp 
of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or four female heads, 
of an ethereal beauty—portraits in the manner of Sully. The 
tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no “ brilliant 
effects.” Repose speaks in all. Not one is of small size. Di- 
minutive paintings give that spotiy look to a room, which is the 
blemish of so-many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames 
are broad but not deep, and richly carved, without being dulled 
or filagreed. They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. 
_ They lie flat on the walls, and do not hang off with cords. The 
designs themselves are often seen to better advantage in this latter 
position, but the general appearance of the chamber is injured. 
But one mirror—and this not a very large one—is visible. In 
shape it is nearly circular—and it is hung so that a reflection of 
the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary sitting- 
places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson 
silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two 
light conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a piano- 
forte, {rose-wood, also,) without cover, and thrown open. An 
octagonal table, formed altogether of the richest gold-threaded 
marble, is placed near one of the sofas. This is also without 
cover—the drapery of the curtains has been thought sufficient. 
Four large and gorgeous Sévres vases, in which bloom a profusion 
of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded angles of 


” a? 


PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 805 


the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp 
with highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping 
friend. Some light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden 
edges and crimson silk cords with gold tassels, sustain two or 
three hundred magnificently bound books. Beyond these things, 
- there is no furniture, if we except an Argand lamp, with a plain 
crimson-tinted ground-glass shade, which depends from the lofty 
vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a tran- 
quil but magical radiance over all. 


806 A TALE OF JERUSALEM. 


A TALE OF JERUSALEM 


PAP LP PL LL LO 


Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos 
Passus erat 
Lucan—De Catone. 
a bristly bore. 
Translation. 


“Det us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben- 
Levi and Simeon the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month 
Thammuz, in the year of the world three thousand nine hundred 
and forty-one—“ let us hasten to the ramparts adjoining the gates 
of Benjamin, which is in the city of David, and overlooking the 
camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of the fourth 
watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the pro- 
mise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the 
sacrifices.” 7 

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

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

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

“Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, 
“that the Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the 


A TALE OF JERUSALEM. 807 


city of the Most High, has no assurity that we apply not the 
lambs thus purchased for the altar, to the sustenance of the body, 
rather than of the spirit.” 

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

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

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


808 A TALE OF JERUSALEM. 


“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the 


precipice, “the uncircumcised are as the sands by the sea-shore— 
as the locusts in the wilderness! The valley of The King hath 
become the vally of Adommin.” 

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

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

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

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

By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the 
heavily laden basket was now carefully lowered down among the 


multitude; and, from the giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen 
e 


A TALE OF JERUSALEM. 309 


gathering confusedly round it; but owing to the vast height and 
the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of nor operations could 
be obtained. 

Half an hour had already elapsed. 

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

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

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

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

* * * * # * * * * 

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

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

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

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

It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet. of the 

ey | 


310 A TALE OF JERUSALEM. 


Gizbarim, that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a hog of 
no common size. 

“ Now El Emanu!” slowly, and with upturned eyes ejaculated 
the trio, as, letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled 
headlong among the Philistines, “El Emanu!—God be with us! 
—it 1s the unutterable flesh!” 


ee OA eee O_o ee ee | ee | NO OO eee 


ON, y Ty, , gf aR, AA 9 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. $11 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


POPP LOL LOLI 


Dourine the fall of the year 1827, while residing near Char- 
lottesville, Virginia, I casually made the acquaintance. of Mr. 
Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in 
every respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. 
I found it impossible to comprehend him either in his moral or 
his physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no satisfactory 
account. Whence he came, I never ascertained. Even about his 
age—although I call him a young gentleman—there was some- 
thing which perplexed me in no little degree. He certainly 
seemed young—and he made a point of speaking about his youth 
—yet there were moments when I shoul have had little trouble 
in imagining him a hundred years of age. But in no regard was 
he more peculiar than in his personal appearance. He was singu- 
larly tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceed- 
ingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His 
complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large and 
flexible, and his teeth were more wildly uneven, although sound, 
than I had ever before seen teeth in a human head. The expres- 
sion of his smile, however, was by no means unpleasing, as might 
be supposed; but it had no variation whatever. It was one of 
profound melancholy—of a phaseless and unceasing gloom. His 
eyes were abnormally large, and round like those of a cat. The — 
pupils, too, upon any accession or diminution of light, underwent 
contraction or dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. 
In moments of excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost 
inconceivable; seeming to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected, 


312 A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a candle or the sun; yet their 
ordinary condition was so totally vapid, filmy and dull, as to con- 
vey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred corpse. 

These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much an- 
noyance, and he was continually alluding to them in a sort of half 
explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I first heard it, 
impressed me very painfully. I soon, however, grew accustomed 
to it, and my uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his design ra- 
ther to insinuate than directly to assert that, physically, he had 
not always been what he was—that a long series of neuralgic 
attacks had reduced him from a condition of more than usual per- 
sonal beauty, to that which I saw. For many years past he had 
been attended by a physician, named Templeton—an old gentle- 
man, perhaps seventy years of age—whom he had first encoun- 
tered at Saratoga, and from whose attention, while there, he either 
received, or fancied that he received, great benefit. The result 
was that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an arrangement 
with Doctor Templeton, by which the latter, in consideration of a 
liberal annual allowance, had consented to devote his time and med- 
ical experience exclusively to the care of the invalid. 

Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his younger days, and, 
at Paris, had become a convert, in great measure, to the doctrines 
of Mesmer. It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies that 
he had succeeded in alleviating the acute pains of his patient; and 
this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a certain 
degree of confidence in the opinions from which the remedies had 
been educed. The Doctor, however, like all enthusiasts, had strug- 
gled hard to make a thorough convert of his pupil, and finally so 
far gained his point as to induce the sufferer to submit to nume- 
rous experiments.—By a frequent repetition of these, a result had 
arisen, which of late days has become so common as to attract lit- 
tle or no attention, but which, at the period of which I write, had 
very rarely been known in America. I mean to say, that between 
Doctor Templeton and Bedloe there had grown up, little by little, 
a very distinct and strongly marked rapport, or magnetic relation. 
I am not prepared to assert, however, that this rapport extended 
beyond the limits of the simple sleep-producing power; but this 
power itself had attained great intensity. At the first attempt to 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. $13 


a . 


ques the magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entircly failed. 
In the fifth or sixth he succeeded very partially, and after long 
continued effort. Only at the twelfth was the triumph complete. 
After this the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to that of the 
physician, so that, when I first became acquainted with the two, 
sleep was brought about almost instantaneously, by the mere vo- 
lition of the operator, even when the invalid was unaware of his 
presence. It is only now, in'the year 1845, when similar miracles 
are witnessed daily by thousands, that I dare venture to record this 
apparent impossibility as a matter of serious fact. 

The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree, sensitive, 
excitable, enthusiastic. His imagination was singularly vigorous 
and creative; and no doubt it derived additional force from the 
habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in great quantity, 
and without which he would have found it impossible to exist. It 
was his practice to take a very large dose of it immediately after 
breakfast, each morning—or rather immediately after a cup of 
strong coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon—and then.set forth 
alone, or attended only by a dog, upon a long ramble among the 
chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and southward of 
Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged 
Mountains. 

Upon a dim, warm, misty day, towards the close of November, 
and during the strange interregnum of the seasons which in Ame- 
- rica is termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed as usual, 
for the hills. The day passed, and still he did not return. 

- About eight o’clock at night, having become seriously alarmed 
as his protracted absence, we were about setting out in search of 
him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no 
worse than usual, and in rather more than ordinary spirits. The 
account which he gave of his expedition, and of the events which 
_ had detained him, was a singular one indeed. 

“ You will rémember,” said he, “that it was about nine in the 
morning when I left Charlottesville. I bent my steps immediate- 
ly to the mountains, and, about ten, entered a gorge which was 
entirely new to me. I followed the windings of this pass with 
much interest.—The scenery which presented itself on all sides, 
although scarcely entitled to be called grand, had about it an in- 

Vox. IL—14. 


814 A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


describable, and to me, a delicious aspect of dreary desolation. 
The solitude seemed absolutely virgin. I could not help believing 
that the green sods and the gray rocks upon which I trod, had 
been trodden never befure by the foot of a human being. So en- 
tirely secluded, and in fact inaccessible, except through a series of 
accidents, is the entrance of the ravine, that it is by no means im- 
possible that 1 was indeed the first adventurer—the very first and 
sole adventurer who had ever penetrated its recesses. . 

“The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which distinguishes the 
Indian Summer, and which now hung heavily over all objects, 
served, no doubt, to deepen the vague impressions which these 
objects created. So dense was this pleasant fog, that I could at no 
time see more than a dozen yards of the path before me. This 
path was excessively sinuous, and as the sun could not be seen, I 
soon lost all idea of the direction in which I journeyed. In the 
meantime the morphine had its customary effect—that of enduing 
all the external world with an intensity of interest. In the quiver- 
ing of a leaf—in the hue of a blade of grass—in the shape of a 
trefuil—in the humming of a bee—in the gleaming of a dew-drop 
—in the breathing of the wind—in the faint odors that came from 
the forest—there came a whole universe of suggestion—a gay and 
motly train of rhapsodical and immethodical thought. 

“ Busied in this, I walked on for several hours, during which 
the mist deepened around me to so great an extent, that at length 
I was reduced to an absolute groping of the way. And now an 
indescribable uneasiness possessed me—a species of nervous hesi- 
tation and tremor.—I feared to tread, lest I should be precipitated 
into some abyss. I remembered, too, strange stories told about 
these Ragged Hills, and of the uncouth and fierce races of men 
who tenanted their groves and caverns. <A thousand vague fan- 
cies oppressed and disconcerted me—fancies the more distressing 
because vague. Very suddenly my attention was arrested by the 
loud beating of a drum. 

“My amazement was, of course, extreme. A drum in these 
hills was a thing unknown. I could not have been more surprised 
at the sound of the trump of the Archangel. But a new and still 
more astounding source of interest and perplexity arose. There 
came a wild rattling or jingling sound, as if of a bunch of large 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 815 


keys—and upon the instant a dusky-visaged.and half-naked man 
rushed past me with ashriek. He came so close to my person 
that I felt his hot breath upon my face. He bore in one hand an 
instrument composed of an assemblage of steel rings, and shook 
them vigorously as he ran. Scarcely had he disappeared in the 
mist, before, panting after him, with open mouth and glaring eyes, 
there darted a huge beast.. I could not be mistaken in its charac- 
ter. It was a hyena. 

“The sight of this monster rather relieved than heightened my 
terrors—for I now made sure that I dreamed, and endeavored to 
arouse myself to waking consciousness. I stepped boldly and 
briskly forward. I rubbed my eyes. I called aloud. I pinched 
my limbs. A small spring of water presented itself to my view, 
and here, stooping, I bathed my hands and my head and neck. 
This seemed to dissipate the equivocal sensations which had hither- 
to annoyed me. I arose, as I thought, a new man, and proceeded 
steadily and complacently on my unknown way. 

“ At length, quite overcome by exertion, and by a certain op- 
pressive closeness of the atmosphere, I seated myself beneath a 
tree. Presently there came a feeble gleam of sunshine, and the 
shadow of the leaves of the tree fell faintly but definitely upon the 
grass. At this shadow I gazed wonderingly for many minutes. 
Its character stupified me with astonishment. I looked upward. 
The tree was a palm. ? 

“T now arose hurriedly, and in a state of fearful agitation—for 
the fancy that I dreamed would serve me no longer. I saw—I 
felt that I had perfect command of my senses—and these senses 
now brought to my soul a world of novel and singular sensation. 
_ The heat became all at once intolerable. A strange odor loaded 
the breeze.—A_ low continuous murmur, like that arising from a 
full, but gently flowing river, came to my ears, intermingled with 
the peculiar hum of multitudinous human voices. 

“While I listened in an extremity of astonishment which I need 
not attempt to describe, a strong and brief gust of wind bore off 
the incumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter. 

“TI found myself at the foot of a high mountain, and looking 
down into a vast plain, through which wound a majestic river. 
On the margin of this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such as 


316 A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


_——— = nee eee ee eee ee 


we read of in-the Arabian Tales, but of a character even more sin- 
gular than any there described. From my position, which was 
far above the level of the town, I could perceive its every nook 
and corner, as if delineated on a map. The streets seemed innu- 
merable, and crossed each other irregularly in all directions, but 
were rather long winding alleys than streets, and absolutely 
swarmed with inhabitants. The houses were wildly picturesque. 
On every hand was a wilderness of balconies, of verandahs, of min- 
arets, of shrines, and fantastically carved oriels. Bazaars abound- 
ed; and in these were displayed rich wares in infinite variety and 
profusion—silks, muslins, the most dazzling cutlery, the most mag- 
nificent jewels and gems. Besides these things, were seen, on all 
sides, banners and palanquins, litters with stately dames close 
veiled, elephants gorgeously caparisoned, idols grotesquely hewn, 
drums, banners and gongs, spears, silver and gilded maces. And 
amid the crowd, and the clamor, and the general intricacy and 
confusion—amid the million of black and yellow men, turbaned 
and robed, and of flowing beard, there roamed a countless multi- 
tude of holy filleted bulls, while vast legions of the filthy but sa- 
cred ape clambered, chattering and shrieking, about the cornices 
of the mosques, or clung to the minarets and oriels. From the 
swarming streets to the banks of the river, there descended innu- 
merable flights of steps leading to bathing places, while the river 
itself seemed to force a passage with difficulty through the vast 
Heets of deeply-burthened ships that far and wide encountered its 
surface. Beyond the limits of the city arose, in frequent majestic 
groups, the palm and the cocoa, with other gigantic and wierd 
trees of vast age; and here and there might be seen a field of rice, 
the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, a stray temple, a gypsy 
camp, or a solitary graceful maiden taking her way, with a pitcher 
upon her head, to the banks of the magnificent river. 

“You will say now, of course, that I dreamed; but not so. 
What I saw—what I heard—what I felt—what I thought—had 
about it nothing of the unmistakeable idiosyncrasy of the dream. 
All was rigorously self-consistent. At first, doubting that I was 
really awake, I entered into a series of tests, which soon convinced 
me that I really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in the dream, 
suspects that he dreams, the suspicion never fails to confirm itself, 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 817 


and the sleeper is almost immediately aroused. Thus Novalis 
errs not in saying that ‘we are near waking when we dream that 
we dream.’ Had the vision occurred to me as I describe it, 
without my suspecting it as a dream, then a dream it might ab- 
solutely have been, but, occurring as it did, and suspected and 
tested as it was, I am forced to class it among other phenomena.” 

“In this I am not sure that you are wrong,” observed Dr. 
Templeton, “but proceed. You arose and descended into the 
city.” 

“T arose,” continued Bedloe, regarding the Doctor with an air 
of profound astonishment, “I arose, as you say, and descended 
iato the city. On my way, I fell in with an immense populace, 
crowding through every avenue, all in the same direction, and ex- 
hibiting in every action the wildest excitement. Very suddenly, 
and by some inconceivable impulse, I became intensely imbued 
with personal interest in what was going on. I seemed to feel 
that I had an important part to play, without exactly understand- 
ing what it was. Against the crowd which environed me, how- 
ever, I experienced a deep sentiment of animosity. I shrank from 
amid them, and, swiftly, by a circuitous path, reached and entered 
the city. Here all was the wildest tumult and contention. A 
small party of men, clad in garments half Indian, half European, 
and officered by gentlemen in a uniform partly British, were en- 
gaged, at great odds, with the swarming rabble of the alleys. T 
joined the weaker party, arming myself with the weapons of a 
fallen officer, and fighting I knew not whom with the nervous 
ferocity of despair. We were soon overpowered by numbers, and 
driven to seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here we barricaded 
ourselves, and, for the present, were secure. From a loop-hole 
near the summit of the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious 
agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay palace that overhung 
the river. Presently, from an upper window of this palace, there 
descended an effeminate-looking person, by means of a string made 
of the turbans of his attendants. A boat was at hand, in which 
he escaped to the opposite bank of the river. 

“ And now a new object took possession of my soul. I spoke a 
few hurried but energetic words to my companions, and, having 
succeeded in gaining over a few of them to my purpose, made a 


318 A. TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


frantic sally from the kiosk. We rushed amid the crowd that 
surrounded it. They retreated, at first, before us. They rallied, 
fought madly, and retreated again. In the meantime we were 
borne far from the kiosk, and became bewildered and entangled 
among the narrow streets of tall overhanging houses, into the 
recesses of which the sun had never been able to shine. The rab- 
ble pressed impetuously upon us, harassing us with their spears, 
and overwhelming us with flights of arrows. These latter were 
very remarkable, and resembled in some respects the writhing 
creese of the Malay. They were made to imitate the body of a- 
creeping serpent, and were long and black, with a poisoned barb. 
One of them struck me upon the right temple. I reeled and fell. 
An instantaneous and dreadful sickness seized me. I anes t= 
I gasped—I died. 

“You will hardly persist now,” said I, smiling, “ that the whole 
of your adventure was not a dream. You are not prepared to 
maintain that you are dead ?” 

When I said these words, I of course expected some lively sally 
from Bedloe in reply; but, to my astonishment, he hesitated, 
trembled, became fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I looked 
towards Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in his chair—his teeth 
chattered, and his eyes were starting from their sockets, “ Pro- 
ceed !” he at length said hoarsely to Bedloe. 

“For many minutes,” continued the latter, “ my sole sentiment 
—my sole feeling—was that of darkness and nonentity, with the 
consciousness of death. At length, there seemed to pass a violent 
and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it 
came the sense of elasticity and of light. This latter I felt—not 
saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the ground. But I had no 
bodily, no visible, audible, or palpable presence. The crowd had 
departed. The tumult had ceased. The city was in comparative 
repose. Beneath me lay my corpse, with the arrow in my temple, 
the whole head greatly swollen and disfigured. But all these 
things I felt—not saw. I took interest in nothing. Even the 
corpse seemed a matter in which I had no concern. Volition I 
‘had none, but appeared to be impelled into motion, and flitted 
buoyantly out of the city, retracing the circuitous path by which 
I had entered it. When I had attained that point of the ravine 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 819 


in the mountains, at which I had encountered the hyena, I again 
experienced a shock as of a galvanic battery ; the sense of weight, 
of volition, of substance, returned. I became my original self, and 
bent my steps eagerly homewards—but the past had not lost the 
vividness of the real—and not now, even for an instant, can I com- 
pel my understanding to regard it as a dream.” 

“ Nor. was it,” said Templeton, with an air of deep solemnity, 
“vet it would be difficult to say how otherwise it should be 
termed. Let us suppose only, that the soul of the man of to-day 
is upon the verge of some stupendous psychal discoveries. Let 
us content ourselves with this supposition. For the rest I have 
some explanation to make. Here is a water-color drawing, which 
I should have shown you before, but which an unaccountable sen- 
timent of horror has hitherto prevented me from showing.” 

We looked at the picture which he presented. I saw nothing 
in it of an extraordinary character; but its effect upon Bedloe was 
prodigious. He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet it was but 
a miniature portrait—a miraculously accurate one, to be sure—of 
his own very remarkable features. At least this was my thought 
as I regarded it. 

“ You will perceive,” said Templeton, “the date of this picture 
—it is here, scarcely visible, in this corner—1780. In this year 
was the portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend—a Mr. 
Oldeb—to whom I became much attached at Calcutta, during the 
administration of Warren Hastings. I was then only twenty years 
old. When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Saratoga, it was the 
miraculous similarity which existed between yourself and the paint- 
ing, which induced me to accost you, to seek your friendship, and 
to bring about those arrangements which resulted in my becoming 
your constant companion. In accomplishing this point, I was 
urged partly, and perhaps principally, by a regretful memory of 
the deceased, but also, in part, by an uneasy, and not altogether 
horrorless curiosity respecting yourself. 

“In your detail of the vision which presented itself to you amid 
the hills, you have described, with the minutest accuracy, the 
Indian city of Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the com- 
bats, the massacre, were the actual events of the insurrection of 
Cheyte Sing, which took place in 1780, when Hastings was put in 


820 A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 


imminent peril of his life. The man escaping by the string of tur- 
bans, was Cheyte Sing himself. The party in the kiosk were sepoys 
and British officers, headed by Hastings. Of this party I was one, 
and did all I could to prevent the rash and fatal sally of the officer 
who fell, in the crowded alleys, by the poisoned arrow of a Ben- 
galee. That officer was my dearest friend. It was Oldeb. You — 
will perceive by these manuscripts,” (here the speaker produced a 
note-book in which several pages appeared to have been freshly 
written) “that at the very period in which you fancied these 
things amid the hills, I was engaged in detailing them upon paper 
here at home.” 

In about a week after this conversation, the following para- 
graphs appeared in a Charlottesville paper: 

“We have the painful duty of announcing the death of Mr. 
Aveustus Bento, a gentleman whose amiable manners many vir- 
tues have long endeared him to the citizens of Charlottesville. 

“Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to neuralgia, 
which has often threatened to terminate fatally ; but this can be 
regarded only as the mediate cause of his decease. The proxi- 
mate cause was one of especial singularity. In an excursion to 
the Ragged Mountains, a few days since, a slight cold and fever 
were contracted, attended with great determination of blood to the 
head. To relieve this, Dr. Templeton resorted to topical bleeding. 
Leeches were applied to the temples. In a fearfully brief period 
the patient died, when it appeared that, in the jar containing the 
leeches, had been introduced, by accident, one of the venomous 
vermicular sangsues which are now and then found in the neighbor- 
ing ponds. This creature fastened itself upon a small artery in the 
right temple. Its close resemblance to the medicinal leech caused 
the mistake to be overlooked until too late. 

“N. B. The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville may always 
be distinguished from the medicinal leech by its blackness, and 
especially by its writhing or vermicular motions, which very nearly 
resemble those of a snake.” | 

I was speaking with the editor of the paper in question, upon 
the topic of this remarkable accident, when it occurred to me to 
ask how it happened that the name of the deceased had been given 
as Bedlo. 


A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 821 


“T presume,” said I, “you have authority for this spelling, but 
IT have always supposed the name to be written with an e at the 
end.” 

- “ Authority ?—no,” he replied. “It is a mere typographical 
error. The name is Bedlo with an e, all the world over, and I 
never knew it to be spelt otherwise in my hfe.” 

“Then,” said I mutteringly, as I turned upon my heel, “ then 
indeed has it come to pass that one truth is stranger than any 
fiction—for Bedlo, without the e, what is it but Oldeb conversed ? 
And this man tells me it is a typographical error.” 


14* 


f 


322 THE SPECTACLES. 


THE SPECTACLES. 


Many years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of 
“love at first sight ;” but those who think, not less than those 
who feel deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern 
discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or 
magneteesthetics, render it probable that the most natural, and, 
consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections, 
are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy—in 
a word, that the brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters 
are those which are riveted by a glance. The confession I am 
about to make, will add another to the already almost innumer- 
able instances of the truth of the position. 

My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am 
still a very young man—not yet twenty-two years of age. My 
name, at present, is a very usual and rather plebeian one—Simp- 
son. Isay “at present;” for it is only lately that I have been so 
called—having legislatively adopted this surname within the last 
year, in order to receive a large inheritance left me by a distant 
male relative, Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was con- 
ditioned upon my taking the name of the testator ;—the family, 
not the Christian name; my Christian name is Napoleon Buona- 
parte—or, more properly, these are my first and middle appel- 
lations. 

I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my 
true patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride—believing 


THE SPECTACLES. 823 


that I could trace a descent from the immortal author of the 
“* Chronicles.” While on the subject of names, by the by, I may 
mention a singular coincidence of sound attending the names of 
some of my immediate predecessors. My father was a Monsieur 
Froissart, of Paris. His wife—my mother, whom he married at 
fifteen—was a Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of Croissart 
the banker; whose wife, again, being only sixteen when married, 
was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Vois- 
sart, very singularly, had married a lady of similar name—a Made- 
moiselle Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when married; 
and her mother, also, Madame Moissart, was only fourteen when 
led to the altar. These early marriages are usual in France. | 
Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and Froissart, 
all in the direct line of descent. My own name, though, as I say, 
became Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much repug- 
nance on my part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about 
accepting the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso at- 
tached. 

As to personal endowments I am by no means deficient. On 
the contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine- 
tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am 
five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is suffi- 
ciently good. My eyes are large and gray; and although, in fact, 
they are weak toa very inconvenient degree, still no defect in this 
regard would be suspected from their appearance. The weakness 
itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I have resorted 
to every remedy—short of wearing glasses. Being youthful and 
good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely retused 
to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so disfigures the 
countenance of a young person, or so impresses every feature with 
an air of demureness, if not altogether of sanctimoniousness and 
of age. An eye-glass, on the other hand, has a savor of down- 
right foppery and affectation. I have hitherto managed as well 
as I could without either. But something too much of these 
merely personal details, which, after all, are of little importance. 
I will content myself with saying, in addition, that my temperament 
is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic—and that all my life I have 
been a devoted admirer of the women. 


824 | THE SPECTACLES. 


One night last winter, I entered a box at the P—— Theatre, 
in company with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera night, 
and the bills presented a very rare attraction, so that the house 
was excessively crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain 
the front seats which had been reserved for us, and into which, 
with some little difficulty, we elbowed our way. 

For two hours, my companion, who was a-musical fanatico, 
gave his undivided attention to the stage; and, in the meantime, 
I amused myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in 
chief part, of the very elite of the city. Having satisfied myself 
upon this point, I was about turning my eyes to the prima donna, 
when they were arrested and riveted by a figure in one of the 
private boxes which had escaped my observation. 

If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense emo- 
tion with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a female, 
the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so far turned 
towards the stage, that, for some minutes, I could not obtain a 
view of it—but the form was divine; no other word can suffi- 
ciently express its magnificent proportion—and even the term 
“divine,” seems ridiculously feeble as I write it. 

The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of fe- 
male gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it. 
impossible to resist; but here was grace personified, incarnate, the 
beau zdeal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure, 
almost all of which the construction of the box permitted to be 
seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly ap- 
proached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its perfect 
fulness and towrnure were delicious. The head, of which only the 
back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek Psyche, and 
was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap of gaze 
dervenne, which put me in mind of the ventum textilem of Apuleius. 
The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box, and thrilled 
every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry. Its upper 
portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves now in 
fashion. This extended but little below the elbow. Beneath it 
was worn an under one of some frail material, close-fitting, and 
terminated by a cuff of rich lace which fell gracefully over the top 
of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers, upon one of which 


THE SPECTACLES, 825 


sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of extraordinary 
value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was well set off by 
a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was ornamented and 
clasped by a magnificent aiyrette of jewels—telling, in words that 
could not be mistaken, at once of the wealth and fastidious taste 
of the wearer. 

I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as 
if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this pe- 
riod, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said or sung 
concerning “love at first sight.” My feelings were totally differ- 
ent from any which I had hitherto experienced, in the presence of 
even the most celebrated specimens of female loveliness. An un- 
accountable, and what I am compelled to consider a magnetic 
sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not only my vision, 
but my whole powers of thought and feeling upon the admirable 
object before me. Isaw—I felt—I knew that I was deeply, mad- 
ly, irrevocably in love—and this even before seeing the face of the 
person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the passion that consumed 
me, that I really believe it would have received little if any abate- 
ment had the features, yet unseen, proved of merely ordinary 
character; so anomalous is the nature of the only true love—of 
the love at first sight—and so little really dependent is it upon 
the external conditions which only seem to create and control it. 

While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, 
a sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her 
head partially towards me, so that I beheld the entire profile of 
the face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations—and yet 
there was something about it which disappointed me without my 
being able to tell exactly what it was. I said “ disappointed,” 
but this is not altogether the word. My sentiments were at once 
quieted and exalted. They partook less of transport and more of 
calm enthusiasm—of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling 
arose, perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the 
face; and yet I at once understood that it could not have arisen 
entirely from this. There was something else—some mystery 
which I could not develope—some expression about the counte- 
nance which slightly disturbed me while it greatly heightened my 
interest. In fact, I was just in that condition of mind which pre- 


826 ‘ ; THE SPECTACLES. 


pares a young and susceptible man for any act of extravagance. 
Had the lady been alone, I should undoubtedly have entered her 
box and accosted her at all hazards; but, fortunately, she was 
attended by two companions—a gentleman, and a strikingly beau- 
tiful woman, to all appearance a few years younger than her- 
self. 

I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might 
obtain, hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the 
present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I would 
have removed my position to one nearer her own, but the crowd- 
ed state of the theatre rendered this impossible; and the stern 
decrees of Fashion had, of late, imperatively prohibited the use 
of the opera-glass, in a case such as this, ever had I been so for- 
tunate as to have one with me—but I had not—and was thus in 
despair. 

At length I bethought me of applying to my companion. 

“Talbot,” I said, “you have an opera-glass. Let me have it.” 

“ An opera-glass !—no !—what do you suppose J would be do- 
ing with an opera-glass ?”’ Here he turned impatiently towards 
the stage. 

- But, Talbot,” I continued, pulling him by the shoulder, “ listen 

to me, will you? Do you see the stage-box !—theré !—no, the 
" next—Did you ever behold as lovely a woman ?” 

“She is very beautiful, no doubt,” he said. 

“Tl wonder who she can be ?” 

“Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don’t you know who 
she is? ‘Not to know her, argues yourself unknown.’ She is 
the celebrated Madame Lalande—the beauty of the day par excel- 
lence, and the talk of the whole town. Immensely wealthy, too— 
a widow—and a great match—has just arrived from Paris.” 

“ Do you know her ?” 

“'Yes—TI have the honor.” 

“Will you introduce me ?” 

“* Assuredly—with the greatest slestures when shall it be ?” 

“ To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B ’g.” 


8. 
“Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can.” 
In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot’s advice; for 
he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or sugges- 


THE SPECTACLES. 827 


tion, and occupied himself exclusively for the rest of the evening 
with what was transacting upon the stage. 

In the mean time I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, 
and at length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of 
her face. It was exquisitely lovely: this, of course, my heart had 
told me before, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the 
pomt—but still the unintelligible something disturbed me. I 
finally concluded that my senses were impressed by a certain air 
of gravity, sadness, or, still more properly, of weariness, which 
took something from the youth and freshness of the countenance, 
only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and majesty, and thus, 
of course, to my enthusiastic and romantic temperament, with an 
interest tenfold. 

While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great 
trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the 
lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my 
gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw 
it, even for an instant. She turned aside her face, and again I 
saw only the chiselled contour of the back portion of the head. 
After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity to see if I was still 
looking, she gradually brought her face again around and again 
encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell instantly, 
and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my aston- | 
ishment at perceiving that she not only did not a second time 
avert her head, but that she actually took from her girdle a double 
eye-glass — elevated it — adjusted 1t—and then regarded me 
through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of several 
minutes. = 

Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more 
thoroughly astounded—astounded on/y—not offended or disgusted 
in the slightest degree; although an action so bold in any other 
woman, would have been likely to offend or disgust. But the 
whole thing was done with so much quietude—so much noncha- 
lance—so much repose—with so evident an air of the highest 
breeding, in short—that nothing of mere effrontery was percepti- 
ble, and my sole sentiments were those of admiration and surprise. 

I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she had 
- seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person, and 


328 THE SPECTACLES. 


was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a second 
thought, she resumed it, and so continued to regard me with fixed 
attention for the space of several minutes—for five minutes, at the 
very least, I am sure. 

This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted 
very general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite movement, 
or buzz, among the audience, which for a moment filled me with 
confusion, but produced no visible effect upon the countenance of 
Madame Lalande. 

Having satisfied her curiosity—if such it was—she dropped the 
glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her 
profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued 
to watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my 
rudeness in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and 
slightly change its position; and soon I became convinced that 
the lady, while pretending to look at the stage was, in fact, atten- 
tively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect this 
conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my 
excitable mind. _ 

Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, 
the fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attend- 
ed her, and, while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of 
both, that the conversation had reference to myself. 

- Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned towards the 
stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the perform- 
ances. At the expiration of this period, however, I was thrown 
into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for the second 
time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully confront me as 
before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the audience, survey 
me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous composure which 
had previously so delighted and confounded my soul. — 

This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect 
fever of excitement—into an absolute delirium of love—served 
rather to embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity 
of my devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the 
majestic loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. 
Watching my opportunity, when I thought the audience were 
fully engaged with the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Mad- 


THE SPECTACLES. 829 


ame Lalande, and, upon the instant, made a slight but unmistake- 
able bow. 

She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly 
and cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action 
had been noticed—then leaned over towards the gentleman who 
sat by her side. 7 

I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed, 
and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision 
of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably 
through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved, 
however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a play- 
bil , without speaking ; but the reader may form some feeble con- 
ception of my astonishment—of my profound amazement—my 
delirious bewilderment of heart and soul—when, instantly after- 
wards, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her 
bright eyes to settle fully and steadily upon my own, and then, 
with a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, 
made two distinct, pointed and unequivocal affirmative inclinations 
of the head. 

It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy—upon my trans- 
port—upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was 
mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I 
loved. This was my first love—so I felt it to be. It was love 
supreme—indescribable. It was “love at first sight ;” and at first 
sight too, it had been appreciated and returned. 

Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant? 
What other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, 
on the part of a lady so beautitul—so wealthy—evidently so 
accomplished—of so high breeding—of so lofty a position in soci- 
ety—in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured was 
Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me—she returned the enthu- 
siasm of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind—as uncompomis- 
ing—as uncalculating—as abandoned—and as utterly unbounded 
as my own! These delicious fancies and reflections, however, 
were now interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The 
audience arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. 
Quitting Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way 
into closer proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in 


830 THE SPECTACLES. 


this, on account of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and 
bent my steps homewards; consoling myself for my disappoint- 
ment in not having been able to touch even the hem of her robe, 
by the reflection that I should be introduced by Talbot, in | due 
form upon the morrow. 

This morrow at last came; that is to say, a day finally dawned 
upon a long and weary night of impatience ; and then the hours 
until “one,” were snail-paced, dreary and innumerable. But even 
Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to 
this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I 
stepped into B ’3 and inquired for Talbot. 

“Out,” said the footman—Talbot’s own. 

“Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces—“ let me 
tell you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible 
and impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?” 

“Nothing, sir: only Mr. Talbot is not in. That’saH. He rode 
over to S , immediately after breakfast, and left word that he 
would not be in town again for a week.” 

I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply, 
but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel, 
livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the 
Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that 
my considerate friend, a fanatzco, had quite forgotten his appoint- 
ment with myself—had forgotten it as soon as it was made. At 
ne time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was 
no help for it; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I 
strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries about 
Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report 
she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had 
been in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, 
who claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still 
comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the liberty 
of introducing me through the formality of a morning call. While 
I stood thus, in despair, conversing with a trio of friends upon the 
all absorbing subject of my heart, it so happened that the subject 
itself passed by. 

“ As I live, there she is!” cried one. 

“Surpassingly beautiful !’ exclaimed a second. 


THE SPECTACLES. 831 


“¢ An angel upon earth !” ejaculated a third. 

I looked ; and, in an open carriage which approached us, pass- 
ing slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, 
accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of 
her box. 

“< Her companion also wears einavesbly well,” said the one of 
my trio who had spoken first. 

‘“‘ Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air; 
but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than 
she did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still ;—don’t 
you think so, Froissart ?—Simpson, I mean.” | 

“ Still!” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared 
with her friend she is as a rushlight to the evening star—a glow- 
worm to Antares.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact 
at making discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we 
separated, while one of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville, 
ef which I caught only the lines— 


Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas— 
A bas Ninon De L’Enclos! 


During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly 
to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was 
consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our 
group, I had observed that she recognised me; and more than 
this, she had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable 
smiles, with no equivocal mark of the recognition. 

As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it, 
until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the 
country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every 
reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the 
theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of mecting 
her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This did 
not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every day, in 
the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and every day 
had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the everlasting “ Not 
come home yet” of his footman. 

Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition 


332 THE SPECTACLES. 


little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was 
a Parisian—had lately arrived from Paris—might she not sud- 
denly return !—return before Talbot came back—and might she 
not be thus lost to me forever? The thought was too terrible to 
bear. Since my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act 
with a manly decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the 
play, I traced the lady to her residence, noted the address, and 
the next morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I 
poured out my whole heart. 

I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I 
concealed nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to 
the romantic circumstances of our first meeting—even to the 
glances which had passed between us. I went so far as to say 
that I felt assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and 
my own intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise 
unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she 
might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a formal 
introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever 
penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly circumstances— 
of my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and of my hand. 

In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what 
seemed the lapse of century it came. 

Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really 
received a letter from Madame Lalande—the beautiful, the wealthy, 
the idolised Madame Lalande.—Her eyes—her magnificent eyes— 
had not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman, as she 
was, she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason—the gener- 
ous impulses of her nature—despising the conventional pruderies 
of the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not 
sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter 
unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her 
own exquisite fingers. It ran thus: 


Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle tong 
of his contrée so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am arrive, and not 
yet ave de opportunité for to—l’étudier. 

Vid dis apologie for the maniére, I vill now say dat, hélas !—Monsieur 
Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need Isay de more? Hélas? amI 
not ready speak de too moshe # | Eucenie LaLanpg, 


Pe) 


| 
| 
| 


THE SPECTACLES, , 833 


This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed, 
no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that have 
now escaped my memory. Still Talbot would not return. Alas! 
could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering his 
absence occasioned his friend, would not his sympathising nature 
have flown immediately to my relief? Still, however, he came 
mot. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent busi- 
ness—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be impa- 
tient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to 
drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations 
of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself, 
why, in the name of everything rational, could he not have 
enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote again, entreating 
him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned by that 
footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The scoundrel 
had joined his master in the country : 


Left S——— yesterday, for parts unknown—did not say where—or when 
be back—so thought best to return letter, knowing your handwriting, and as 
how you is always, more or less, in a hurry. 

Yours, sincerely, STUBBS. 


After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal 
deities both master and valet ;—but there was little use in anger, 
and no consolation at all in complaint. 

But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity. 
Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it 
avail me tothe end. Besides, after the correspondence which had 
passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit, 
within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Ma- 
dame Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the 
habit of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twi- 
light, it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro 
in livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, 
amid the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a 
sweet midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and accost- 
ed her. 

The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with 
the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a pre- 


834 THE SPECTACLES. 


sence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and, to 
greet-me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The 
valet at once fell into the rear; and now, with hearts full to 
overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love. 

As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she 
wrote it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this 
sweet tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous 
enthusiasm of my nature, and with all the eloquence I could com- 
mand, besought her consent to an immediate marriage. 

At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of de- 
corum—that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the 
opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudent- 
ly made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired 
her acquaintance—thus that I did not possess it—thus, again, there 
was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge 
of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the ex- 
treme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be impro- 
per—would be indecorous—would he owtré. All this she said with 
a charming air of mdéiveté which enraptured while it grieved and 
convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me, laughingly, 
of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that I real- 
ly even knew not who she was—what were her prospects, her con- 
nections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a sigh, 
to reconsider my proposal, and termed my. love an infatuation— 
a will ’o the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a baseless 
and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of the heart. 
These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet twilight ga- 
thered darkly and more darkly around us—and then, with a gen- 
tle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single sweet in- 
stant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared. 

I replied as best I could—as only a true lover can. I spoke at 
length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion—of her 
exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In 
conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils that 
encompass the course of love—that course of true love that never 
did run smooth, and thus deduced the manifest danger of rendering 
that course unnecessarily long. 

This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her 


ee ee 


THE SPECTACLES. 835 


determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she 
said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This 
was a delicate point—for a woman to urge, especially so; in men- 
tioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her feelings ; 
still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She alluded to the 
topic of age. Was I aware—was I fully aware of the discrepancy 
between us? That the age of the husband should surpass by a 
few years—even by fifteen or twenty—the age of the wife, was 
regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as even proper ; 
but she had always entertained the belief that the years of the 
wife should never exceed in number those of the husband. A 
discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too frequently, alas ! 
to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware that my own age 
did not exceed two and twenty ; and I, on the contrary, perhaps, 
was not aware that the years of my Eugenie extended very con- 
siderably beyond that sum. 

About all this there was a nobility of soul—a dignity of candor 
—which delighted—which enchanted me—which eternally rivet- 
ed my chains. I could scarcely restrain the. excessive transport 
which possessed me. 

“ My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “ what is all this about which 
you are discoursing ? Your years surpass in some measure my 
own. But what then? The customs of the world are so many 
conventional follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what re- 
spect differs a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say; 
granted: indeed you may as well call me, at once, twenty-threa 
Now you yourself, my dearest Eugénie, can have numbered no 
more than—can have numbered no more than—no more than— 
than—than—than—” 

Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame 
Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a 
French woman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of an- 
swer to an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her 
own. In the present instance, Eugénie, who, for a few moments 
past, had seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at 
length let fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately 
picked up and presented to her. 

“ Keep it!” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. 


836 THE SPECTACLES. 


“ Keep it for my sake—for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly 
represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket, you may discover, 
perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is now, to 
be sure, growing rather dark—but you can examine it at your lei- 
sure in the morning. In the mean time, you shall be my escort 
home to-night. My friends are about holding a little musical /e- 
vée. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We French are 
not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I shall have no 
difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of an old acquaint- 
ance.” 

With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The 
mansion was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good 
taste. Of this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to 
judze; for it was just dark as we arrived; and in American man- 
sions of the better sort, lights seldom, during the heat of summer, 
make their appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. 
In about an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded so- 
lar lamp was lit in the principal drawing-room ; and this apart- 
ment, I could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and 
even splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which 
the company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole even- 
ing, in a very agreeable shadow. This is a well conceived custom, 
giving the party at least achoice of light or shade, and one which our 
friends over the water could not do better than immediately adopt. 

The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious 
of my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abil- 
ities of her friends; and the singing I here heard | had never 
heard excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumen- 
tal performers were many and of superior talents. The vocalists 
were chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At 
length, upon a peremptory call for “ Madame Lalande,” she arose 
at once, without affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon 
which she had sate by my side, and, accompanied by one or two 
gentlemen and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano 
in the main drawing-room. I would haveescorted her myself; but 
felt that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, 
I had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus depriv- 
ed of the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing her, sing. 


THE SPECTACLES. 837 


The impression she produced upon the company seemed electri- 
cal—but the effect upon myself was something even more. I 
know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no doubt, 
from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued ; but chiefly 
from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the singer. It 
is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or recitative with 
more impassioned expression than was hers. Her utterance of 
the romance in Otello—the tone with which she gave the words 
“¢ Sul mo sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in my memory yet. 
‘Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice embraced 
three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D to the D 
upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have filled the 
San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision, every difficulty of 
vocal composition—ascending and descending scales, cadences, or 
Jroriturt. In the finale of the Sonnambula, she brought about a 
most remarkable effect at the words— 


Ah! non guinge uman pensiero 
Al contento ond ’io son piena. 


Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase 
of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when by 
a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave, spring- 
ing over an interval of two octaves. 

Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal execu- 
tion, she resumed her seat by my side ; when | expressed to her, in 
terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her performance. 
Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most unfeignedly 
surprised ; for a certain feebleness, or rather a certain tremulous 
indecision of voice in ordinary conversation, had prepared me to 
anticipate that, in singing, she would not acquit herself with any 
remarkable ability. 

Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and to- 
tally unreserved. She made me relate many of the: earlier pas- 
sages of my life, and listened with breathless attention, to every 
word of the narrative. I concealed nothing—TI felt that I had a 
right to conceal nothing from her confiding affection. Encouraged - 


by her candor upon the delicate point of her age, I entered, with 
Vox. IL.—165, 


* 


838 THE SPECTACLES. 


—— 


perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my many minor vices, 
but made full confession of those moral and even of those physi- 
cal infirmities, the disclosure of which, in demanding so much 
higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an evidence of love. 
I touched upon my college indiscretions—upon my extravagances 
upon my carousals—upon my debts—upon my flirtations. I even 
went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic cough with which, at 
one time, I had been, troubled—of a chronic rheumatism—of a 
twinge of hereditary gout—and, in conclusion, of the disagreeable 
and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully concealed, weakness of 
my eyes. 

“Upon this latter point,” said Madame Lalande, laughingly, 
“you have been surely injudicious in coming to confession ; for, 
without the confession, I take it for granted that no one would 
have accused you of thecrime. By the by,” she continued, “have 
you any recollection”’—and here I fancied that a blush, even 
through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible upon 
her cheek—‘“ have you any recollection, mon cher ami, of this lit- 
tle ocular assistant which now depends from my neck #” 

As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double eye- 
glass, which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the opera. 

‘Full well—alas! do I remember it,” I exclaimed, pressing 
passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my in- 
spection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly 
chased and filagreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in 
the deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high value. 

“ Eh bien! mon ami,” she resumed with a certain empresse- 
ment of manner that rather surprised me—“ Hh bien, mon amt, 
you have earnestly besought of me a favor which you have-been 
pleased to denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my 
hand upon the morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties—and, 
I may add, to the pleadings of my own bosom—would I not be 
entitled to demand of you a very—a very little boon in return ?” 

“Name it!” I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn 
upon us the observation of the company, and restrained by their 
presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet. 
“Name it, my beloved, my Eugénie, my own!—name it !—but 

alas, it is already yielded ere named.” 


THE SPECTACLES. 839 


“You shall conquer then, mon amie,” said she, “for the sake 
of the Eugénie whom you love, this little weakness which you 
have last confessed—this weakness more moral than physical— 
and which, let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of 
your real nature—so inconsistent with the candor of your usual 
character—and which, if permitted farther control, will assuredly 
involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable scrape. 
You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which leads you, 
as you yourself acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of 
your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny, 
in refusing to employ the customary means for its relief. You 
will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear specta- 
cles :—ah, hush!—you have already consented to wear them, for 
my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in my 
hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is really 

of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a 
_ trifling modification thus—or thus—it can be adapted to the eyes 
in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an 
eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and habitually, 
that you have already consented to wear it for my sake.” 

This request—must I confess it?—confused me in no little de- 
gree. But the condition with which it was coupled rendered 
hesitation, of course, a matter altogether out of the question. 

“Tt is done!” I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could mus- 
ter at the moment. “It is done—it is most cheerfully agreed. I 
sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear 
eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the earli- 
est dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of calling 
you wife, I will place it upon my—upon my nose—and there 
wear it ever afterwards, in the less romantic, and less fashionable, 
but certainly in the more serviceable form which you desire.” 

Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrange- 
ments for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had 
just arrived in town. I was to see him at once, and procure a 
carriage. The soirée would scarcely break up before two; and 
by this hour the vehicle was to be at the door: when, in the con- 
fusion occasioned by the departure of the company, Madame L. 
could easily enter it unobserved. We were then to call at the 


840 THE SPECTACLES 


house of a clergyman who would be in waiting ; there be married, 
drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East ; leaving the 
fashionable world at home to make whatever comments upon the 
matter it thought best. 

Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in 
search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from step- 
ping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the miniature ; 
and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The counte- 
nance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those large luminous 
eyes !—that proud Grecian nose !—those dark luxuriant curls !— 
“Ah!” said I exultingly to myself, “this is indeed the speaking 
image of my beloved!” I turned the reverse, and discovered the 
words—“ Eugeénie Lalande—aged twenty-seven years and seven 
months.” 

I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him 
with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of 
course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every 
assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our arrangement 
to the letter; and, at two in the morning, just ten minutes after 
the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage with Madame 
Lalande—with Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driving at a great 
rate out of town, in a direction North-east by North, half-North. 

It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to 
be up all night, we should make our first stop at C , a village 
about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early breakfast 
and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At four pre- 
cisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of the principal 
inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered breakfast forth- 
with. In the mean time we were shown into a small parlor, and 
sat down.. 

It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed, 
enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all 
at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment 
since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame 
_ Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness 
by daylight at all. 

“And now, mon ami,” said she, taking my hand, and so inter- 
rupting this train of reflection, “and now, mon cher ami, since we 


THE SPECTACLES, 841 


are indissolubly one—since I have yielded to your passionate en- 
treaties, and performed my portion of our agreement—I presume 
you have not forgotten that you also have a little favor to bestow 
—a little promise which it is your intention to keep. Ah!—let 
me see!‘ Let me remember! Yes; full easily do I call to mind 
the precise words of the dear promise you made to Eugénie last 
night. Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is done !—it is most 
cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To- 
night I wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass, and upon my 
heart ; but with the earliest dawn of that morning which gives 
me the privilege of callmg you wife, I will place it upon my— 
upon my nose—and there wear it ever afterwards, in the less 
romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more service- 
able form which you desire.” These were the exact a my 
beloved husband, were they not ?” 

“They were,” I said; “you have an excellent emoey ; and 
assuredly, my beautiful Eugenie, there is no disposition on my 
part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply. 
See! Behold! They are becoming—rather—are they not?” 
‘And here, having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of 
spectacles, I applied them gingerly in their proper position ; while 
Madame Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat 
bolt upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and in-’ 
deed, in a somewhat undignified position. 

“ Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed almost at the very in- 
stant that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose— 
“‘ My! goodness gracigus me !—why what can be the matter 
with these glasses? and taking them quickly off, I wiped them 
carefully with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again. 

But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which 
occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became elevat- 
ed into astonishment; and this astonishment was profound—was 
extreme—indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in the name of 
everything hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my eyes ?— 
could I {—that was the question. Was that—was that—was that 
rouge? And were those—and were those—were those wrinkles, 
upon the visage of Eugénie Lalande? And oh, Jupiter! and 


842 THE SPECTACLES. 


every one of the gods and goddesses, little and big !—what—what 
—what—what had become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles 
violently to the ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect in 
the middle of the floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms 
set a-kimbo, and grinning and foaming, but, at the same time 
utterly speechless and helpless with terror and with rage. 

Now I have already said that Madame Eugenie Lalande—that 
is to say, Simpson—spoke the English language but very little 
better than she wrote it: and for this reason she very properly | 
never attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage 
will carry a lady to any extreme; and in the present case it: car- 
ried Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting 
to hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether 
understand. : 

“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great appa- 
rent astonishment, for some moments—“ Vell, Monsieur !—and 
vat den ?—vat de matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint 
Vitusse dat you ave? If not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in 
de poke ?” 

“You wretch !” said I, catching my breath—“ you—you—you 
villainous old hag !” 

“ Ag i—ole 1—me not 80 ver ole, after all! me not one single 
day more dan de eighty-doo.” 

“ Eighty-two !” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall— eighty- 
two hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty- 
seven years and seven months !” 

“To be sure !—dat is so !—ver true! but den de portraite has 
been take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde 
usbande, Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take 
for my daughter by my first nanan Monsieur Moissart ?” 

“ Moissart !” said I. . 

“Yes, Moissart ;” said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, 
to speak the truth, was none of the best; “and vat den? Vat 
you know bout de Moissart ?” 

“ Nothing, you old fright !—I know ‘acting about him at all; 
only I had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.” 

“ Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? Tis ver 


THE SPECTACLES. | 848 


goot name; and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot name too. My 
daughter, Madamoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Vois- 
sart; and de name is bote ver respectaable name.” 

“< Moissart ?” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! why what is it you 
mean ?” 

“Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de 
matter of dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink 
proper to mean it. My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle Vois- 
sart, she marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den agin, my daugh- 
ter’s grande daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Mon- 
sieur Froissart ; “and I suppose you say dat dat is not von ver 
respectaable name.’ 

“ Froissart !” said I, beginning to faint, “ = surely you don’t 
say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and stretch- 
ing out her lower limbs at great length ; “ yes, Moissart, and Vois- 
sart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur Froissart, he vas 
von ver big vat you call fool—he vas von ver great big donce like. 
yourself—for he lef la belle France for come to dis stupide Améri- 
que—and ven he get here he vent and ave von ver stupide, von 
ver, ver stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I not yet av ad de plai- 
sir to meet vid him—neither me nor my companion, de Madame 
Stephanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon Bonaparte Frois- 
sart, and I suppose you say dat dat, too is not von ver respectaable 
name.” 

Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of 
working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion in- 
deed : and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she jump- 
ed up from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the 
floor an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her 
feet, she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her 
sleeves, shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance 
by tearing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of 
the most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which 
she dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trampled and 
danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of 
rage. 

Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated. 


844 THE SPECTACLES. 


*“ Moissart and Voissart !” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one 
of her pigeon-wings, and Croissart and Froissart !” as she com- 
pleted another—“ Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and Napo- 
lean Bonaparte Froissart !—why, you ineffable old serpent, that’s 
me—that’s me—d'ye hear {that’s me”—here I screamed at the 
top of my voice—“ that’s meee/ J am Napoleon Bonaparte 
Froissart ! and if I hav’nt married my great, great, grandmother, 
I wish I may be everlastingly confounded !” 

Madame Eugénie Lalande, guwast Simpson—-formerly Moissart— 
was, in sober fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth 
she had been beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the 
majestic height, the sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and 
the Grecian nose of her girlhood. By the aid of these, of pearl- 
powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth, and false tournure,as — 
well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris, she contrived to 
hold a respectable footing among the beauties en peu passées of 
the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed, she might have 
been regarded as little less than the equal of the celebrated Ninon 
De L’Enclos. 

She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second 
time, a widow without children, she bethought herself of my ex- 
istence in America, and, for the purpose of making me her heir, 
paid a visit to the United States, in company with a distant and 
exceedingly lovely relative of her second husband’s—a Madame 
Stephanie Lalande. | 

At the opera, my great, great, grandmother’s attention was 
arrested by my notice ; and, upon surveying me through her eye- 
glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance to herself. 
Thus interested and knowing that the heir she sought was actually 
in the city, she made inquiries of her party respecting me. ~The 
gentleman who attended her knew my person, and told her who I 
was. The information thus obtained induced her to renew her 
scrutiny ; and this scrutiny it was which so emboldened me that I 
behaved in the absurd manner already detailed. She returned my 
bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd accident, I 
had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my weakness of 
vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the age and charms 
of the strange lady, I demanded s0 enthusiastically of Talbot who 


% 


THE SPECTACLES. 846 


she was, he concluded that I meant the younger beauty, as a 
matter of course, and so informed me, with perfect truth, that she 
was “the celebrated widow, Madame Lalande.” _ 

In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother en- 
countered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the conver- 
sation, very naturally, turned upon myself. My deficiencies of 
vision were then explained ; for these were notorious, although I 
was entirely ignorant of their notoriety ; and my good old rela- 
tive discovered much to her chagrin, that she had been deceived 
in supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had been merely 
making a fool of myself, in making open love, in a theatre, to an 
old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this impru- 
dence, she concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept out 
of my way, to avoid giving me the introduction. My street in- 
quiries about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were sup- 
posed to refer to the younger lady, of course; and thus the con- 
versation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly 
after leaving Talbot's hotel, will be easily explained, as ‘also their 
allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no opportunity of seeing 
Madame Lalande closely during daylight and, at her musical 
soirée, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of glasses, effectually 
prevented me from making a discovery of her age. When 
“Madame Lalande” was called upon to sing, the younger lady 
was intended ; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my 
great, great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at the 
same moment, and accompanying her to the piano in the main 
drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had 
been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where 
I was; but my own prudential views rendered this unnecessary. 
The songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my 
impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame 
Stephanie Lalande. The eye-glass was presented by way of adding 
a reproof to the hoax—a sting to the epigram of the deception. 
Its presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon aftec- 
tation with which I was so especially edified. It.is almost super- 
fluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as worn by the 
old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better adapted to 
my years. They suited me, in fact to ar. 

15* 


846 THE SPECTACLES. 


The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was 
a boon companion of Talbot’s, and no priest. He was an excel- 
lent “whip,” however; and having doffed his cassock to put on 
a great coat, he drove the hack which conveyed the “ happy 
couple” out of town. Talbot took a seat at his side. The two 
scoundrels were thus “in at the death,” and through a half open 
window of the back parlor of the inn, amused themselves in grin- 
ning at the dénouement of the drama. I believe I shall be forced 
to call them both out. 

Nevertheless, I'am not the husband of my great, great, grand- 
mother; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite relief ;— 
but I am the husband of Madame Lalande—of Madame Stephanie 
Lalande—with whom my good old relative, besides making me 
her sole heir when she dies—if she ever does—has been at the 
trouble of concocting me a match. In conclusion: I am done for- 
ever with billets dowz, and am never to be met without sPECTACLES. 


THE DUC DE LOMELETTE. 847 


THE DUC DE LOMELETTE. 


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


Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “ Zhe Andro- 
mache?”* Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an orto- 
lan. L’histoire en est bréve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius! 

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melt- 
ing, indolent, to the Chaussée D’ Antin, from its home in far Peru. 
From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L’Ome- 
1ette, 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 sacri- 
ficed his loyalty in outbidding his king,—the notorious ottoman 
of Cadét. 

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! —Toiseau! ah, bon 
Dieu! cet oiseaw modeste que tu as deshabillé de ses plumes, et 
que tu as servi sans papier!” It is superfluous to say more:—_ 
the Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust. * * * * * 


* Montfleury. The author of the Parnasse Réformé makes him speak 
in Hades :—" L’homme done qui voudrait savoir ce dont Je suis mort, quill 
ne demande pas sil fit de fievre ou de podagre ou dautre chose, mais qu'il 
entende que ce fut de ‘ L’ Andromache.’ ” 


848 THE DUC DE LOMELETTE. 


“ Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his de- 
cease. 

“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. 
“T 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 noé 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 Rombért—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 dimen- 
sions.” 

“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with impu- 
nity !—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this 
insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantime aw re- 
voir /’—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic pre- 
sence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman 
in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrug- 
ged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his iden- 
tity, 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—cer- 
tainly none-—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. 
His Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, 
hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, 


THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE. 849 


like the city of Boston, parmi les nues. From its nether extrem- 
ity 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—Mussul- 
man 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 conse- 
quently 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, how- 
ever, 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’Ome- 
lette 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 glon- 
ous, 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 that ottoman !—who could he be ?—he, the peizt- 
maitre—no, the Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, et que 
sourit, with his pale countenance, si amérement ? 

Mais il faut agir,—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints 


350 THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE 


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 - al avait tué ses siz 
hommes. Now, then, il peut s’échapper. He measures two points, 
and, with a grace inimitable, offers his majesty the choice. Hor- 
reur! his majesty does not fence! — 

Mais il joue !—how happy a thought !—but his Grace had al- 
ways an excellent memory. He had dipped in the “ Diable” of 
the Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said “que le Diable n’ose_ pas 
refuser un jeu d’éecarté.” 

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 Pére Le Brun ?—was he not a mem- 
ber of the Club Vingt-un —“ Si je perds,” said he, “je seraz 
deux fois perdu—I shall be doubly damned—voila tout / (Here 
his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si je gayne, je reviendrai & 
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 
shutied. The Duc cut. 

The cards are 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 isout. His Majesty 
counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card. 

“C'est & vous & 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 Dio- 
genes; and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “ gue 
sil nett pas été De L’ Omelette il n’auratt point d objection 
@ étre le Diable.” 


THE OBLONG BOX. 851 


THE OBLONG BOX. 


SomE years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, 8. 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, includ- 
ing a more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several 
ef my acquaintances ; and among other names, I was rejoiced to 
see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I enter- 
tained feelings of warm friendship. He had been with mea 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. | 
~ T 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 exceed- 
ingly 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 vari- 
ety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about this matter of 


852 THE OBLONG BOX. 


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 ser- 
vant” 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 pres- 
ence, 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 


THE OBLONG BOX. 853 


went on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and 
everything 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 cus- 
tomary 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 pro- 
foundly 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 de- 
cidedly 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 bag- 
gage. Aftersome delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong 
pine box, which was everything that seemed to be expected. Im- 
mediately 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 atten- 
tively, 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 accu- 
racy 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 


854 THE OBLONG BOX. 


here was a box which, from its shape, could possibly contain no- 
thing 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 mat- 
ter. 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, disagree- 
able, 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 north- 
ward, immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The pas- 
sengers were, consequently, in high spirits, and disposed to be 
social. I must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who be- 
haved 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 sis- 
ters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded themselves 
in their state-rooms during the greater part of the passage, and 


THE OBLONG BOX. 855 


absolutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold com- 
_ munication 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 
eoquet 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 a¢ than 
with. The gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a 
little while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indif- 
ferent-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 ham—particularly so in his ab- 
sence—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 mean- 
time, 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 en- 
thusiastic 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 


856 THE OBLONG BOX. 


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 backwards and forwards. His 
gloom, however, (which I considered quite natural under the cir- 
cumstances,) seemed entirely unabated. He said httle, 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. At last I ventured a home 
thrust. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations, 
or inuendoes, 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 “ pecu- 
liar shape of that box ;” and, as I spoke the words, I smiled know- 
ingly, winked, and touched him gently with my fore-finger 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. 

Tcalled 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 coin- 
cide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned 

- me to say nothing on this head to any person on board. 


THE OBLONG BOX. 857 


——$_—_—__——_— _ _—_—_ -— - Bones 


Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of 
Wyatt’s, 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 aslight 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 sucha 
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 day break, 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. per- 
manent 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 immedi- 
ately 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 trans- 
lating 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 


858 THE OBLONG BOX. 


when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I eould determine 
when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon 
the lower berth in his room; this latter pot 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 occa- 
sion, 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 ownears. 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 Hat- 
teras, 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 nbbons, 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, 


THE OBLONG BOX. 859 


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 ngging 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 
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 remain- 
ed. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable to do 
anything 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 
long-boat 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 fromswamping as it touched the water. It contain- 
‘ed, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a 
Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself, with a negro valet. 


860 THE OBLONG BOX. 


We had no room, of course, for anything except a few positively 
necessary instruments, some provision, and the clothes upon our 
backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save anything 
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 gunwale is 
almost in the water now.” 

“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“ the box, 
Isay! 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 ¢mplore 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, 
TI say, or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him! 
—he is about to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he 1s 
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 a strength that appeared 
gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed 


THE OBLONG BOX. 861 


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 enter- 
tained 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 ws, 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 hap- 
pened 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, 
Vou, IL—16. 


78 


862 THE OBLONG BOX. 


was well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have aban- 
doned 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 
merehandise. 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 person- 
ate her during the voyage. This the deceased’s lady’s-maid was 
easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room, originally en- 
gaged for this girl, during her mistress’ life, was now merely 
retained. In this state-room the pseudo wite slept, of course, 
every night. In the day-time she performed, to the best of her 
ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had been care- 
fully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers on board. 

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


KING PEST. 363 


KING PEST. 


A TALE CONTAINING AN ALLEGORY. 


The gods do bear and well allow in kings 
The things which they abhor in rascal routes. 
Buckhurst’s Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrez. 


Asourt twelve o’clock, one night in the month of October, and 
during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen be- 
longing to the crew of the “Free and Easy,” a trading schooner 
plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that 
river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the tap- 
room of an ale-house in the parish of St. Andrews, London—which 
ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly Tar.” 

The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched, 
and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of 
such places at the period—was, nevertheless, in the opinion of the 
grotesque groups scattered here and there within it, sufficiently 
well adapted to its purpose. 

Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most in- 
teresting, if not the most conspicuous. 

The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion 
addressed by the characteristic appellation of “‘ Legs,” was at the 
same time much the taller of the two. He might have measured 
six feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed 
to have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous. 
—Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for 
by deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly thin; and 
might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for 
@ pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a jib- 


864 KING PEST. 


boom. But these jests, and others of a similar nature, had evi- 
dently produced, at no time, any effect upon the gachinnatory 
muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose, 
retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white eyes, 
the expression of his countenance, although tinged with a species 
of dogged indifference to matters and things in general, was not 
the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts at imita- 
tion or description. 

The younger seaman was, in all sutward appearance, the con- 
verse of his companion. His stature could not have exceeded four 
feet. A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldly 
figure, while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary 
fists at their extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like 
the fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular color, twin- 
kled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the mass 
of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face; and his 
thick upper-lip rested upon the still thicker one beneath with an 
air of complacent self-satisfaction, much heightened by the owner’s 
habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently regarded his tall 
shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous, half-quizzical; and stared 
up occasionally in his face as the red setting sun stares up at the 
crags of Ben Nevis. 

Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of 
the worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the 
neighborhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds even 
the most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with 
empty pockets our friends had ventured upon the present hos- 
telrie. 

“At the precise period, dian when this history properly com- 
mences, Legs, and his fellow, Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with both 
elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of the 
floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing, 
from behind a huge flagon of unpaid-for “ humming-stuff,” the 
portentous words, “ No Chalk,” which to their indignation and 
astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very 
mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the 
gift of decyphering written characters—a gift among the common- 
alty of that day considered little less cabalistical than the art of 


KING PEST. 365 


inditing—could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge of 
either disciple of the sea; but there was, to say the truth, a cer- 
tain twist in the formation of the letters—an indescribable lee- 
lurch about the whole—which foreboded, in the opinion of both 
seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at 
once, in the allegorical words of Legs himself, to “ pump ship, 
clew up all sail, and scud before the wind.” 

Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and 
looped up the points of their short doublets, they finally made a 
bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the fire- 
place, mistaking it for the “door, yet their escape was at length 
happily effected—and half after twelve o’clock found our bec 
ripe for mischief, and running for life down a dark alley in the 
direction of St. Andrew’s Stair, hotly pursued by the landlady 
of the “Jolly Tar.” 

At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many 
years before and after, all England, but more especially the metro- 
polis, resounded with the fearful cry of “Plague!” The city was 
in a great measure depopulated—and in those horrible regions, in 
the vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and 
filthy lanes and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to 
have had his nativity, Awe, Terror, and Superstition were alone 
to be found stalking abroad. 

- By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban, 
and all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon 
their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch, 
nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets, nor 
the prospect of that loathsome death which, with almost absolute 
certainty, overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could deter 
from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and untenanted 
dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly rapine, of 
every article, such as iron, brass, or lead-work, which could in any 
manner be turned to a profitable account. 

Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening 
of the barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had proved but 
slender protection to those rich stores of wines and liquors which, 
in consideration of the risk and trouble of removal, many of the 
numerous dealers having shops in the neighborhood had consent- 


866 KING PEST. 


ed to trust, during the period of exile, to so insufficient a se- 
curity. 

But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who attri- 
buted these doings to the agency of human hands. Pest-spirits, 
plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular imps of mis- 
chief; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told, that the whole 
mass of forbidden buildings was, at length, enveloped in terror as in 
a shroud, and the plunderer himself was often scared away by the 
‘horrors his own depredations had created ; leaving the entire vast 
circuit of prohibited district to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death. 

It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and 
which indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that, 
in scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpau- 
lin found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out 
of the question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were 
close upon their heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber 
up the roughly fashioned plank-work was a trifle; and, maddened 
with the twofold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped 
unhesitatingly down within the enclosure, and holding on their 
drunken course with shouts and yellings, were soon bewildered j in 
its noisome and intricate recesses. 

Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, 
their reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the horrors of 
their situation. The air was cold and misty. The paving-stones, 
loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall, rank 
grass, which sprang up around the feet and ankles. Fallen houses 
choked up the streets. The most fetid and poisonous smells every- 
where prevailed ;—and by the aid of that ghastly light which, 
even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapory and pesti- 
lential atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths and 
alleys, or rotting in the windowless habitations, the carcass of 
many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by the hand of the plague in 
the very perpetration of his robbery. 

But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or impedi- 
ments such as these, to stay the course of men who, naturally 
brave, and at that time especially, brimful of courage and of 
“ humming-stuff !” would have reeled, as straight as their condi- 
tion might have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of 


KING PEST. 367 


Death. Onward—still onward stalked the grim Legs, making the 
desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific 
war-whoop of the Indian: and onward, still onward rolled the 
dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the doublet of his more active 
companion, and far surpassing the latter’s most strenuous exer- 
tions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings tn basso, om the 
profundity of his stentorian lungs. 

They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pesti- 
lence. Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and 
more horrible—the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge 
stones and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above 
them, gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast 
height of the surrounding houses; and while actual exertion be- 
came necessary to force a passage through frequent heaps of rub- 
bish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a skeleton 
or rested upon a more fleshy corpse. 

Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a 
tall and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill 
from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within, in 
a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish shrieks. 
Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at such a time, 
and in such a place, might have curdled the very blood in hearts 
less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple rushed headlong against 
the door, burst it open, and staggered into the midst of things with 
a volley of curses. 7 

The room within which they found themselves proved to be the 
shop of an undertaker; but an open trap-door, in a corner of the 
floor near the entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine- 
cellars, whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles pro- 
claimed to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the 
middle of the room stood a table—in the centre of which again 
arose a huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various 
wines and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of 
every shape and quality, were scattered profusely upon the board. 
Around it, upon coffin-tressels, was seated a company of six. This 
company I will endeavor to delineate one by one. 

Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his com- 
panions, sat a personage who appeared to be the president of the 


868 KING PEST. 


table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was confounded 
to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself. His face 
was as yellow as saffron—but no feature excepting one alone, was 
sufficiently marked to merit a particular description. This one 
consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously lofty, as to 
have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh superadded upon 
the natural head. His mouth was puckered and dimpled into an 
expression of ghastly affability, and his eyes, as indeed the eyes of 
all at table, were glazed over with the fumes of intoxication. This 
gentleman was clothed from head to foot in a richly-embroidered 
black silk-velvet, pall, wrapped negligently around his form after 
the fashion of a Spanish cloak. His head was stuck full of sable 
hearse-plumes, which he nodded to and fro with a jaunty and 
knowing air; and, in his right hand, he held a huge human 
thigh- bone, with which he appeared to have been just knocking 
down some member of the company for a song. 

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no 
whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as 
the person just described, she had no right to complain of his un- 
natural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a dropsy ; 
and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon of 
October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by her 
side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly 
round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of 
peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before men- 
tioned in the case of the president—that is to say, only one feature 
of her face was sufticiently distinzuished to need a separate charac- 
terization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately observed that 
the same remark mizht have applied to each individual person of 
the party; every one of whom seemed to possess a monopoly of 
some particular portion of physiognomy. With the lady in ques- 
tion this portion proved to be the mouth. Commencing at the 
right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to the left—the short pen- 
dants which she wore in either auricle continually bobbing into 
the aperture. She made, however, every exertion to keep her 
mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress consisting of a newly 
starched and ironed shroud coming up close under her chin, with 
a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin. 


KING PEST. 869 


At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she ap- 
peared to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling 
of her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the slight 
hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion, gave 
evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of extreme 
haut ton, however, pervaded her whole appearance ; she wore in a 
graceful and degagé manner, a large and beautiful winding-sheet 
of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets over her neck ; 
a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose, extremely 
long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down far below her 
under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in which she now 
and then moved it to one side or the other with her tongue, gave 
to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression. 

-Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was 
seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks 
reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders 
of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged 
leg deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled 
to some consideration. He evidently prided himself much upon 
every inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial de- 
light in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to 
say the truth, must have cost him no little money, and was made 
to fit him exceedingly well—being fashioned from one of the curi- 
ously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those glorious 
escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are customarily 
hung up, in some conspicuous place, upon the dwellings of de- 
parted aristocracy. | 

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a gen- 
tleman in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook, 
in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called “the 
horrors.” His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly 
tied up by a bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in 
a similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself 
too freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution rendered 
necessary,-in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and 
wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears, 
nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine, 


towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were 
16* 


870 KING PEST. 


occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing 
of a cork. | 

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly stiff- 
looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis, must, to 
speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his unaccommodating 
habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely, in a new and 
handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece pressed upon 
the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the fashion of a 
hood, giving to the entire face an air of indescribable interest. Arm- 
holes had been cut in the sides, for the sake not more of elegance 
than of convenience; but the dress, nevertheless, prevented its 
proprietor from sitting as erect as his associates; and as he lay 
reclining against his tressel, at an angle of forty-five degrees, a 
pair of huge goggle eyes rolled up their awful whites towards the 
ceiling in absolute amazement at their own enormity. 

Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was 
used as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skele- 
ton, by means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to 
a ring in the ceiling. The other limb confined by no such fetter, 
stuck off from the body at nght angles, causing the whole loose 
and rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of 
every occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apart- 
ment. In the cranium of this hideous thing lay a quantity of 
ignited charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire 
scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of 
an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against 
the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street. 

At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more 
extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct 
themselves with that degree of decorum which might have been 
expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened 
to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and 
spread open his eyes to their fullest extent: while Hugh Tarpau- 
lin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a level with the 
table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst into a 
long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and immoderate 
laughter. 

Without, however, taking offence at behavior so excessively 


- 


KING PEST. 871 


rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the intruders 
—nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of sable 
plumes—and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a seat 
which some others of the company had placed in the meantime 
for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest 
_ resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while the gallant 
Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head 
of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in the 
winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and pour- 
ing out askull of red wine, quaffed it to their better acquaintance. 
But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the coffin seemed 
exceedingly nettled ; and serious consequences might have ensued, 
had not the president, rapping upon the table with his truncheon, 
diverted the attention of all present to the following speech : 

“It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion” 

“ Avast there !” interrupted Legs, looking very serious, “ avast 
there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and what 
business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and swilling 
the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by iny honest ship- 
mate, Will Wimble the undertaker !” 

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original com- 
pany half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid suc- 
cession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the 
attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to 
recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great 
dignity, recommenced : 

“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the 
part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know 
then that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with 
undivided empire under the title of ‘ King Pest the First.’ 

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely supose to be 
the shop of Will Wimble the undertaker—a man whom we know 
not, and whose plebeian appellation has never before this night 
thwarted our royal ears—this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Cham- 
ber of our Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to 
other sacred and lofy purposes. 

“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene 
Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all 


872 KING PEST. 


of our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under 
the respective titles of ‘ His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’— 
‘His Grace the Duke Pest-Ilential’—‘ His Grace the Duke Tem- 
' Pest’—and ‘ Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’ 

“As regards,” continued he, “ your demand of the business 
upon which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for 
replying that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and 
regal interest, and is in no manner important to any other than 
ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests 
and strangers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will further- 
more explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep re- 
search and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and tho- 
roughly determine the indefinable spirit—the incomprehensible 
qualities and nature—of those inestimable treasures of the palate, 
the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis: by so 
doing to advance not more our own designs than the true wel- 
fare of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all, whose 
dominions are unlimited, and whose name is ‘ Death.’ ” 

“Whose name is Davy Jones !” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping 
the lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pousing out a second 
for himself. 

“ Profane varlet !” said the president, now turning his attention 
to the worthy Hugh, “ profane and execrable wretch !—we have 
said, that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy 
person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended to 
make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We never- 
theless, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils, believe 
it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a gallon of 
Black Strap—having imbibed which ‘to the prosperity of our king- 
dom—at a single draught—and upon your bended knees—ye 
shall be ferthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or remain 
and be admitted to the privileges of our table, according to your 
respective and individual pleasures.” 

“Tt would be a matter of utter unpossibility,” replied eee 
whom the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had 
evidently inspired with some feelings of respect, and who arose 
and steadied himself by the table as he spoke—“ it would, please 
your majesty, be a matter of utter unpossibility to stow away in 


7 


KING PEST. 878 


my hold even one-fourth part of that same liquor which your 
majesty has just mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed 
on board in the forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention 
the various ales and liqueurs shipped this evening at various sea- 
ports, I have, at present, a full cargo of ‘humming stuff’ taken in 
and duly paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly Tar.’ You will, there- 
fore, please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the 
deed—for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow 
another drop—least of all a drop of that villanous bilge-water that 
answers to the hail of ‘ Black Strap.’ ” 

“ Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at 
the length of his companion’s speech than at the nature of his 
refusal—‘ Belay that, you lubber !—and I say, Legs, none of your 
palaver! My hull is still light, aithough I confess you yourself 
seem to be a little top-heavy ; and as for the matter of vour share 
of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would find stowage- 
room for it myself, but” 

“This proceeding,” interposed the president, “1s by no means 
in accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in 
its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The condi- 
tions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and that 
without a moment’s hesitation—in failure of which fulfilment we 
decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and duly 
drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer !” 

“ A sentence !—a sentence !—a righteous and just sentence !— 
a glorious decree !—a most worthy and upright, and holy con- 
demnation !” shouted the Pest family altogether. The king ele- 
vated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles ; the gouty little old 
man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding sheet 
waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton drawers 
pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a dying fish ; 
and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his eyes. 

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin, without heeding the 
general excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! 
—ugh! ugh! ugh !—I was saying,” said he, “I was saying when 
Mr. King Pest poked in his marlin-spike, that as for the matter of 
two or three gallons more or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to 
a tight sea-boat like myself not overatowed—but when it comes to 


874 KING PEST. 


drinking the health of the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going 
down upon my marrow bones to his ill-favored majesty there, 
whom I know, as well as I know myself to be a sinner, to be no- 
body in the whole world, but Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player !— 
why ! its quite another guess sort of a thing, and utterly and alto- 
gether past my comprehension.” 

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At 
the name of Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from 
their seats. ; 

“ Treason !” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First. ’ 

“Treason !” said the little man with the gout. 

“ Treason !” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. 

“ Treason !” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up. 

“ Treason !? growled he of the coffin. 

“ Treason |” treason !” shrieked her majesty of this mouth; and, 
seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate Tarpau- 
lin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull of 
liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall without 
ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale. Bob- 
bing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl of 
toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool of 
foam which, in the already effervescent hquor, his strugg gles easily 
succeeded in creating. : 

Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discom- 
fiture of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open 
trap, the valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an 
oath, and strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing 
down the skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about 
him with so much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses 
of light died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking 
out the brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing 
then with all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October 
ale and Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. 
Out burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so over- 
whelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the 
loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their 
backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into 
hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs, pitchers, 


KING PEST. 875 


and carboys mingled promiscuously in the melée, and wicker flagons 
encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The man with the 
horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff gentleman 
floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs, seizing by the 
waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with her into the 
street, and made a bee-line for the “Free and Easy,” followed 
under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who, having 
sneezed three or four times, panted and puiled after him with the 
Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. 


876 THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 


THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 


PP? PPP PP LLLP, 


“You hard-hearted, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, 
musty, fusty, old savage !” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my 
grand uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my first at him in imagina- 
tion. 

Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy did 
exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the 
courage to say—Letween what I did and what I had half a mind 
to do. 

The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sit- 
ting with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in 
his paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty 


Remplis ton verre vide | 
Vide ton verre plein! 


“My dear uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and approach- 
ing him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so very 
kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in so 
many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to 
suggest this nels ‘pemt to you once more to make sure of your 
full acquiescence.” 

“Hem !” said he, “ good boy ! go ¢ on !” 

“T am sure, my dearest uncle, [you confounded old rascal !] 
that you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union 
with Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! 
ha!—how very pleasant you are at times.” 


xz THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 877 


“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes !” 

- “To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, 
uncle, all that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would 
oblige us with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, 
uncle—in short, when will it be most convenient for yourself, that 
the wedding shall—shall—come off, you know 2” 

“Come off, you scoundrel !—what do you mean by that }— 
Better wait till it goes on.” . 

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!— 
hu! hu! hu !—oh, that’s good !—oh, that’s capital—euch a wit ! 
But all we want just now, you know, uncle, is that you would 
indicate the time precisely.” 

“ Ah !—precisely ?” 

“ Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to your- 
self.” 

“ Would’nt it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random— 
some time within a year or so, for example {must I say pre- 
cisely ?” 

“ If you please, uncle—precisely.” 

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’t re a fine fellow, aren’t you ? 
—since you will have the exact time, I’ll—why I'll oblige you 
for once.” 

‘* Dear uncle !” 

“ Hush, sir!’ [drowning my voice|—“T’ll oblige you for once. 
You shall have my consent—and the plum, we mus’nt forget the 
plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—is’nt it? _ 
Well, then, you shall be married precisely—precisely, now mind ! 
—when three Sundays come together in a week! Do you hear 
me, sir! What are you gaping at? Isay, you shall have Kate 
and her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but 
not till then—you young scapegrace—not ¢z/ then, if I die for it. 
You know me—Z’m a man of my word—now be off!” Here he 
swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in 
despair. 

A very “fine old. English gentleman,” was my grand-uncle 
Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points. 
He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate, semicircular somebody, 
with ‘a red. nose, a thick skull, a long purse, and a strong sense of 


878 THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK 


his own consequence. With the best heart in the world, he con- 
trived, through a predominant whim of contradiction, to earn 
for himself, among those who only knew him superticially, the 
character of a curmudgeon. Like many excellent people, he 
seemed possessed with a spirit of tantalization, which might easily, 
at a casual glance, have been mistaken for malevolence. To every 
request, a positive “No!” was his immediate answer; but in the 
end—in the long, long end—there were exceedingly few requests 
which he refused. Against all attacks upon his purse he made 
the most sturdy defence ; but the amount extorted from him, at 
last was, generally, in direct ratio with the length of the siege 
and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one gave 
more liberally or with a worse grace. 

For the fine arts, and especially for the belles lettres, he enter- 
tained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired by 
Casimir Perier, whose pert little query “A quot un poete est il 
bon 2” he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll pronun- 
ciation, as the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own inkling 
for the Muses had excited his entire displeasure. He assured me 
one day, when I asked him for a new copy of Horace, that the 
translation of “ Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty poet for 
nothing fit”—a remark which I took in high dudgeon. His re- 
pugnance to “the humanities” had, also, much increased of late, 
by an accidental bias in favor of what he supposed to be natural 
science. Somebody had accosted him in the street, mistaking him 
for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer 
upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent; and just at 
the epoch of this story—for story it is getting to be after all—my 
grand uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific only upon 
points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the 
hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and 
legs, and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He 
thought, with Horsley, that “the people have nothing to do with 
the laws but to obey them.” 

I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in 
dying, had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the 
old villain loved me as his own child—nearly if not quite as well 
as he loved Kate—but it was a dog’s existence that he led me, 


THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 879 


after all. From my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with 
very regular floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me, 
hourly, with the House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, 
- not a day passed in which he did not promise to cut me off with 
a shilling. I was a sad dog, it is truae—but then it was a part of 
my nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm 
friend, and I knew it. She was a good girl, and told me very 
sweetly that I might have her (plum and all) whenever I could 
badger my grand uncle Rumgudgeon, into the necessary consent. 
Poor girl !—she was barely fifteen, and without this consent, her 
little amount in the funds was not come-at-able until five immea- 
surable summers had “ dragged their slow length along.” What 
then, todo? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for . I had now 
passed my fifth olympiad) five years in prospect are very much the 
same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman 
with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs 
Ude and Carene would say) which suited his perverse fancy to.a 
T. It would have stirred the indignation of Job himself, to see 
how much like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched 
little mice. 2 In his heart he wished for nothing more ardently 
than our union. He had made up his mind to this allalong. In 
fact, he would have given ten thousand pounds from his own 
pocket (Kate’s plum was her own) if he could have invented any- 
thing like an excuse for complying with our very natural wishes. 
But then we had been so imprudent as to broach the subject our- 
selves. Not to oppose it under such circumstances, I sincerely 
believe was not in his power. 

I have said already that he had his or points ; bil in speak- 
ing of these, I must not be understood as referring to his obsti- 
nacy : which was one of his strong points—“ assurement ce n’etait 
pas sa forble”’ When I mention his weakness I have allusion to 
a bizarre old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was 
great in dreams, portents, et 7d genus omne of rigmarole. He was 
excessively punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and, after 
his own fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This 
was, in fact, one of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made 
no scruple of setting at naught, but the letter was a bond inviola- 
ble. Now it was this latter peculiarity in his disposition, of which 


880 THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 


Kate’s ingenuity enabled us one fine day, not long after our inter- 
view in the dining-room, to take a very unexpected advantage ; 
and, haying thus, in the fashion of all modern bards and orators, 
exhausted in prolegomena, all the time at my command, and nearly 
all the room at my disposal, I will sum up in a few words what 
constitutes the whole pith of the story. 

It happened then—so the Fates ordered it—that among the 
naval acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who 
had just set foot upon the shores of England, after a year’s 
absence, each, in foreign travel. In company with these gentle- 
men, my cousin and L, preconcertedly, paid uncle Rumgudgeon a 
visit on the afternoon of Sunday, October the tenth,—just three 
weeks after the memorable decision which had so cruelly defeated 
our hopes. For about half an hour the conversation ran upon 
ordinary topics ; but at last, we contrived, oe suai to give 
it the following turn : 

Capt. Pratt. “ Well, I pate been absent just one year. Just 
one year to-day, as I live—let me see! yes |—this is October the 
tenth. You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year, 
to bid you good-bye. And by the way, it does seer something 
like a coincidence, does it not—that our friend, Captain Smither- 
ton, here, has been absent exactly a year also—a year to-day ?” 

Smitherton. “Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will 
remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on 
this very day, last year, to pay my parting respects.” 

Uncle. “ Yes, yes, yes—I remember it very well—very queer 
indeed! Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coin- 
cidence, indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would de- 
nominate an extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub— 

Kate, [Interrupting.]| “To be sure, papa, it 7s something 
strange; but then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn’t 
go altogether the same route, and that makes a difference ‘you 
know.” 

Uncle. “I don’t know any such thing, you baad How 
should 1? I think it only makes the matter more remarkable. 
Docter Dubble L. Dee”— 

Kate. .“ Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, 
and Captain Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.” | 


THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 881 


Uncle. “ Precisely !—the one went east and the other went 
west, you jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. 
By the by, Doctor Dubble L. Dee”— 

M: yself, [Aurriedly.] ‘Captain Pratt, you must come and spend 
the evening with us to-morrow—you and Smitherton—you can 
tell us all about your voyage, and we'll have a game of whist, 
and’’— 

Pratt. “ Whist, my dear fellow—you forget. To-morrow will 
be Sunday. Some other evening” — 

Kate. “Qh; no, fie!—Robert’s not gutte so bad as that. To- 
day’s Sunday.” 

Uncle. “To be sure—to be sure !” 

Pratt. “I beg both your pardons—but I can’t be so much 
mistaken. I know to-morrow’s Sunday, because”— 

Smitherton, (much surprised.) “ What are you all thinking 
about? Was’nt yesterday Sunday, I should like to know ?” 

All. “Yesterday, indeed! you are out !” 

Uncle, “To-day’s Sunday, I say-—don’t J know ?” 

Pratt. “Oh no !—to-morrow’s Sunday.” 

Smitherton. “ You are all mad—every one of you. I am as 
positive that yesterday was Sunday, as I am that I sit upon this 
chair.” 

Kate, (jumping up eagerly.) “TI see it—I see it all. Papa, 
this is a judgment upon you, about—about you know what. Let 
me alone, and I'll explain it all in a minute. It’s a very simple 
thing, indeed. Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sun- 
day: so it was; he is mght. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I, say 
that to-day is Sunday: so it is; we are right. Captain Pratt 
maintains thai, to-morrow will be Sunday : so it will; he is right, 
too. The fact is, we are all right, and thus three Sundays have 
come together in a week.” — | 

Smitherton, (after a pause.) ‘“ By the by, Pratt, Kate has us 
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the mat- 
ter stands thus: the earth you know is twenty-four thousand 
miles in circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon 
its own axis—revolves—spins round—these twenty-four thousand 
miles of extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four 
hours. Do you understand, Mr. Rumgudgeon ?” 


882 THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK. 


Uncle. “To be sure—to be sure—Doctor Dub”— 

Smitherton, (drowning his voice.) “ Well, sir; that is at the 
rate of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail 
from this position a thousand miles east. Of course, I anticipate 
the rising of the sun here at London, by just one hour. I see the 
sun rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same 
direction, yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by 
two hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, 
and so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this 
spot, when, having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I antici- 
pate the rising of the London sun by no less than twenty-four 
hours ; that is to say, I am a day tn advance of your time. Un- 
derstand, eh ?” 

Uncle. “ But Dubble L. Dee”— 

Smitherton, (speaking very loud.) Captain Pratt, on the con- 
trary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, 
was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles 
west, was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind the time at Lon- 
don. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus, with you, to- 
day is Sunday—and thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will be Sunday. 
And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively clear that we 
are all right ; for there can be no philosophical reason assigned 
why the idea of one of us should have preference over that of the 
other.” . | 

Uncle. “My eyes !—well, Kate—vwell, Bobby !—this 7s a 
judgment upon me, as you say. But 1 am a man of my word— 
mark that! you shall have her, boy (plum and all,) when you 
please. Done up, by Jove! Three Sundays all in a row! I'll 
go, and take Dubble L. Dee’s opinion upon that.” 


THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 888 
aa 


THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 


What o'clock is it !—Old Saying. 


EverrBopy knows, in a general way, that the finest place in 
the world is—or, alas, was—the Dutch borough of Vondervottei- 
mittiss. 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 im- 
partiality, 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 Vondervottei- 
mittiss 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 defi- 
' niteness which mathematicians are, at times, forced to put up with 
in certain algebraic formule. The date, I may thus say, in regard 
to the remoteness of its antiquity, cannot be less than any assign- 
able quantity whateoever. : 


884 THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 


Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I con- 
fess 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 :—“ Vondervotteimittiss— Vonder, lege Don- 
der— Votteimittiss, quasi und Bleitziz—Blertziz obsol: pro Blit- 
zen.” This derivation, 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. Ido not choose, how- 
ever, to commit myself on a theme of such importance, and must 
refer the reader desirous of information, to the “ Oratiuncule de 
Rebus Preter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See, also, Blunderbuz- 
zard “ De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio, Gothic edit. 
Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher ;—wherein 
consult, also, marginal notes in th@autograph of etudundpalt 
with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell. , 

Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelopes the date of 
the foundation of Vondervotteimittiss, 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 pos- 
sibility is considered an insult. The site of the village is in a per- 
fectly 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 cab- 
bages. The buildings themselves are so precisely alike, that one 
can in no manner be distinguished from the other. Owing to 


THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 385 


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 pat- 
tern; for, time out of mind, the carvers of Vondervottcimittiss 
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 mantel-pieces 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 fire-places 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 


Vor. IL—17. 


886 THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 


cabbage. In her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; 
in her right she wields a ladle for the sauer-kraut 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 at- 
tending 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 woollen stockings, heavy 
shoes. with big silver buckles, and 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 Azs tail, in order to 
make him look as handsome as the cat. 

Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed areed 
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 greatersmoke. 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, intelli- 
gent 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 Voudervotteimittiss. Since my sojourn 
in the borough, they have had several special meetings, and have 
adopted these three important resolutions :-— 


THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 387 


“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 steeples—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 Vonder- 
votteimittiss 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, 


388 THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 


that “no good can come from over the hills ;” and it really seem- 
ed 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 to 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 everybody had soon a good look at him. He was 
really the most finnicky 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 dis- 
playing, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What with mus- 
tachios 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 hand- 
kerchief,) 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 fantastical steps, he took snuff 
incessantly with an air of the greatest possible sclf-satisfaction. 
God bless me !—here was a sight for the honest burghers of Von- 
dervotteimittiss ! 

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 odd 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 in- 


” 


THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 889 


— 


dignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a fan- 
dango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the re- 
motest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his steps. 

The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, how- 
ever, 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 aswing 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 bel- 
fry 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 manceuvres, 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! a Seven! Eight! N ine | Ten!” 
said the bell. 


390 THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 


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

“Eleven !”” said the big one. . 

“Eleben !” assented the little fellows. 

“Twelve!” said the bell. 

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

“Und dvelf it iss!” 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 nght 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,—“T’ve been 
ongry for dis hour !” 

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

“ Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentle- 
men, “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 everything 
in the shape of a time-piece. The clocks carved upon the furni- 
ture 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 


.THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY. 891 


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’'F lannagan and Paddy 
O’Raferty.” 

Affairs being thus miserably sae I left the ae in disgust, 
and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and tine 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. 


892 LIONIZING. 


LIONIZING. 


——— al] people went 
Upon their ton toes in wild wonderment. 
Bishop Hall's Satires. 


I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but J am neither the 
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I be- 
lieve, 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 mea 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 conspic- 
uous, 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 


LIONIZING. 893 


—_——— sh. 
I pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we 
shall have time enough to get through with them all before mid- 
night. ‘To commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholi- 
nus, 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_posi- 
tively—upon my soul.”” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his 
hand upon his heart.] ‘Come here!” [Here he took me by 
the arm.] ‘ Your education may now be considered as finished 
—it is high time you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot 
do a better thing than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—’”’ 
[Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door]—‘so get 
out of my house, and God bless you !” 

As I felt within me the divine affatus, I considered this accident 
rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by the 
paternal advice. I determined to follow nry 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.s—But I paid 

these people no attention whatever—I just meres 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. 


17* 


894 LIONIZING. 


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. 

“JT 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 manceuvre. 

‘‘ 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. —T hat 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, Iambli- 
cus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syria- 
nus. : _ 

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgét, 


LIONIZING. 395 


Oe 


Price, Priestly, Condorcét, De Stael, and the “ Ambitious Student 
in I]] Health.” | 

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

There was Austheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and 
atoms ; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord ; prim- 
itive intelligence and homéomeria. 

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

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He men- 
tioned Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté sauce ; 
veal @ la St. Menehoult; marinade @ Ja St. Florentin; and 
orange Jellies en mosdiques. | | 

There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and 
Markbrinnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Rich- 
bourg and St. George ; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc ; 
upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grave, upon Sauterne, upon 
Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vou- 
geot, 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, Bu- 
bastis 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 some- 
body in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that 
the earth was supported by a —— cow with an incalculable 
number of green horns. - 

There was Delphinus Polyglot. He told us what had become 
of the eighty-three lost tragedies of AEschylus; of the fifty-four 
orations of Iszeus ; 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 


396 LIONIZING. 


hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty tragedies of 
Homer Juniors 

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informea 
us all about internal fires and tertiary formations ; about deri- 
forms, 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 pud- 
ding-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 ee I 
turned up my nose, and [ 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, tap- 
ping 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. 

“‘ Fe 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. 


LIONIZING. 897 


“ 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. 

“‘ Béte !” 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 com- 
peting with a lion who has no proboscis at all.” 


898 THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


~~ 


THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir étre seul. 
La ae 


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

Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I 
sat at the large bow window of the D Coffee-House in Lon- 
don. For some months I had been ill in health, but was now 
convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one 
of those happy moods which are so precisely the converse of en- 
nui—moods of the keenest appetency, when the film from the 
mental vision departs—the aydvs os pw exnev—and the intellect, 
electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does 
the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy 
rhetoric of Gorgias.’ Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I de- 
rived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sourves of 
pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With 
a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been 
amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in 


: THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 899 


poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous 
company in the room, and now in peering through the smoky 
panes into the street. 

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

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing 
turn. I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them 
in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to de- 
tails, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varie- 
ties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of counte- 
"mance. - 

By far the greater number of those who went by had a satis- 
fied business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of 
making their way through the press. Their brows were knit, 
and their eyes rolled quickly ; when pushed against by fellow- 
wayfarers they evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted 
their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a numerous class, 
were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked 
and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account 
of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded 
in their progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re- 
doubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and 
overdone smile upon the lips, the course of the persons impeding 
them. If: jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and ap- 
peared overwhelmed with confusion.—There was nothing very 
distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have noted. 
Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly term- 
ed the decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, 
attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and the com- 
mon-places of society—men cf leisure and men actively engaged 


400 THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


in affairs of their own—conducting business upon their own re- 
sponsibility. They did not greatly excite my attention. 

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

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

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

The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more 
easily recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from 
that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, 
fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of 
the scrupulously inornate clergyman, than which nothing could 
be less liable to suspicion. Still all were distinguished by a cer- 
tain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, 
and pallor and compression of lip, There were two other traits, 


.THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 401 


moreover, by which I could always detect them ;—a guarded 
lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary exten- 
sion of the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers. 
—Very often, in company with these sharpers, I observed an 
order of men somewhat different in habits, but still birds of a 
kindred feather. ‘They may be defined as the gentlemen who 
live by their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two 
battalions—that of the dandies and that of the military men. Of 
the first grade the leading features are long locks and smiles ; of 
the second frogged coats and frowns. 

Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found 
darker and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, 
with hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every other 
feature wore only an expression of abject humility ; sturdy pro- 
fessional street beggars scowling upon mendicants of a better 
stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the night for 
charity ; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had 
placed a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the 
mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if in search 
of some chance consolation, some lost hope ; modest young girls 
returning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and 
shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the glances of 
ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided; wo- 
men of the town of all kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal 
beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of 
the statue in Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the 
interior filled with filth—the loathsome and utterly lost leper in 
rags—the wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, ma- 
king a last effort at youth—the mere child of immature form, yet, 
from long association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her 
trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal 
of her elders in vice ; drunkards innumerable and indescribable— 
some in shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised 
visage and lack-lustre eyes—some in whole although filthy 
garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, 
and hearty-looking rubicund faces—others clothed in materials 
which had once ‘been good, and which even now were scrupu- 
lously well brushed—men who walked with a more than natu. 


402 THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


rally firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearful- 
ly pale, whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched 
with quivering fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every 
object which came within their reach; beside these, pie-men, 
porters, coal-heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibiters 
and ballad mongers, those who vended with those who sang ; 
ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and 
all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discord- 
antly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye. 

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

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

With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing 
the mob, when suddenly there came into view a countenance 
(that of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of 
age, )—a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my 
whole attention, on account of the absolute idiosyncracy of its 
expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that expression 
I had never seen before. I wel: remember that my first thought, 
upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, would have 
greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend. 
As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, 
to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose con- 
fusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast men- 
tal power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, 


THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 403 


of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of ex- 
cessive terror, of intense—of supreme despair. I felt singularly 
aroused, startled, fascinated. ‘ How wild a history,” I said to 
myself, ‘is written within that bosom!’ Then came a craving 
desire to keep the man in view—to know more of him. Hurri- 
edly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, J 
made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in 
the direction which I had seen him take; for he had already dis- 
appeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within 
sight of him, approached, and followed him closely, yet cautious- 
ly, so as not to attract his attention. 

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

It was now fully night-fall, and & thick humid fog hung over 
the city, soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change 
of weather had an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which 
was at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a 
world of umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, and the hum in- 
creased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did not much 
regard the rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system ren- 
dering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying 
a handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour 
the old man held his way with difficulty along the great thor- 
oughfare ; and | here walked close at his elbow through fear of 
losing sight of him. Never once turning his head to look back, 
he did not observe me. By and bye he passed into a cross 
street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite 
so much thronged as the main one. he had quitted. Here a 
change in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly 
and with less object than before—more hesitatingly. He crossed 


404 THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


and re-crossed the way repeatedly without apparent aim ; and the 
press was still so thick, that, at every such movement, I was obliged 
to follow him closely. The street was a narrow and long one, 
and his course lay within it for nearly an hour, during which the 
passengers had gradually diminished to about that number which 
is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the park—so vast a 
difference is there between a London populace and that of the 
most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into 
a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with lite. The old 
manner of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, 
while his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every 
direction, upon those who hemmed him in. He urged his way 
steadily and perseveringly. I was surprised, however, to find, 
upon his having made the circuit of the square, that he turned 
and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him 
repeat the same walk several times—once nearly detecting me as 
he came round with a sudden movement. 

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

During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in 
this place, it required much caution on my part to keep him within 
reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair 
~ of caoutchouc over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. 
At no moment did he see that I watched him. He entered shop 
after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word, ‘and looked at all ob- 


jects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly amazed at, 


his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not part until 
I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him. 


i 


{ 


THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 405 


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

As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his 
old uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he 
followed closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but 
from this number one by one dropped off, until three only remain- 
ed together, in a narrow and gloomy lane little frequented. The 
stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought; then, 
with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which 
brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different 
from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome 
" quarter of London, where everything wore the worst impress of 
the most deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime, 
By the dim light of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, 
wooden tenements were seen tottering to their fall, in directions 
so many and capricious, that scarce the semblance of a passage 
was discernible between them. ‘The paving-stones lay at ran- 


406 THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 


dom, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. 
Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole at- 
mosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the 
sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large 
bands of the most abandoned of a London populace were seen 
reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old man again flickered up, 
as a lamp which is near its death-hour. Once more he strode 
onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a 
blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the 
huge suburban temples of Intemperance—one of the palaces of © 
the fiend, Gin. 

It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched ine- 
briates still pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a 
half shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed 
at once his original bearing, and stalked backward and forward, 
without apparent object, among the throng. He had not been 
thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors gave to- 
ken that the host was closing them for the night. It was some- 
thing even more intense than despair that I then observed upon 
the countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so 
pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a 
mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty 
London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the 
wildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I 
now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we pro- 
ceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most thronged 
mart of the populous town, the street of the D Hotel, it pre- 
sented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely infe- 
rior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, 
amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pur- 
suit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and 
during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. 
And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wea- 
ried unto death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, 
gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but re- 
sumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained ab- 
sorbed in contemplation. “ This old man,” I said at length, “is 
the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. 


THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 407 


He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I 
shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of 
the world is a grosser book than the * Hortulus Anime,’* and 
perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘er lasst 
sich nicht lesen, ” : 


* The “ Hortulus Anime cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis” of 
Griinninger. 


se 


408 NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


A TALE WITH A MORAL. 


“Cox tal que las costumbres de un autor,” says Don Thomas De 
Las To. 38, in the preface to his “ Amatory Poems” “ sean puras 
y castas, importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus 
obras”—meaning, in plain English, that, provided the morals of an 
author are pure, personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals 
of his books. We presume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory 
for the assertion. It would be a clever thing, too, in the way of 
poetical justice, to keep him there until his “ Amatory Poems” get 
out of print, or are laid definitely upon the shelf through lack of 
readers. Every fiction should have a moral; and, what is more 
to the purpose, the critics have discovered that every fiction has. 
Philip Melancthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon the | 
“ Batrachomyomachia” and proved that the poet’s object was to 
excite a distaste for sedition. Pierre La Seine, going a step 
farther, shows that the intention was to recommend to young men 
temperance in eating and drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo 
has satisfied himself that, by Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate 
John Calvin; by Antinéus, Martin Luther; by the Lotophagi, 
Protestants in general; and, by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our 
more modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows demon- 
strate a hidden meaning in “The Antediluvians,” a parable in 
“ Powhatan,” new views in “Cock Robin,” and transcendentalism 
in “Hop O’ My Thumb.” In short, it has been shown that no man 
can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus to 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 409 


authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for example, 
need have no care of his moral. It is there—that is to say, it is 
-somewhere—and the moral and the critics can take care of them- 
selves. When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman 
intended, and all that he did not intend, will be brought to light, 
in the “ Dial,” or the “ Down-Easter,” together with all that he 
ought to have intended, and the rest that he clearly meant to 
intend :—so that it will all come very straight in the end. 

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

Defuncti injuriad ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, 
and De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction—even if 
the dead in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not 
my design, therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dam- 
mit. He was asad dog, it is true, and a dog’s death it was that 
he died; but he himself was not to blame for his vices. They 
grew out of a personal defect in his mother. She did her best in 
the way of flogging him while an infant—for duties to her well-reg- 
ulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like tough steaks, 
or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the better for beat- 
ing—but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, 
and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. 
The world revolves from right to left. It will not. do to whip a 
baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction 
drives an evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an 


opposite one knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was often pres- 
Vor. IL—18, 


410 "NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


ent at Toby’s chastisements, and, even by the way in which he 
kicked, I could perceive that he was getting worse and worse 
every day. At last I saw, through the tears 'in my eyes, that 
there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he had 
been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might have 
mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced 
beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand 
it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplift- 
ing my voice, made prophecy of his ruin. . 

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

Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin 
which I had predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. 
The fashion had “ grown with his growth and strengthened with 
his strength,” so that, when he came to be a man, he could scarcely 
utter a sentence without interlurding it with a proposition to gam- 
ble. Not that he actually Jazd wagers—no. I will do my friend 
the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With 
him the thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His expres- 
sions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. 
They were simple if not altogether innocent expletives—imagina- 
tive phrases wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said 
“Tl bet you so and so,” nobody ever thought of taking him up; 
but still I could not help thinking it my duty to put him down. 
The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a 
vulgar one—this I begged him to believe. It was discounte- 
nanced by society—here I said nothing but the truth. It was 
forbidden by act of Congress—here I had not the slightest inten- 
tion of telling a lie. I remonstrated—but to no purpose. I dem- 
onstrated—in vain. I entreated—he smiled. I implored—he 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 411 


laughed. I preached—he sneered. I threatened—he swore. I 
kicked him—he called for the police. I pulled his nose—he blew 
it, and offered to bet the Devil his head that I would not venture 
to try that experiment again. 

Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency 
of Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detesta- 
bly poor; and this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive 
expressions about betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will 
not be bound to say that I ever heard him make use of such a 
figure of speech as “I'll bet you a dollar.” -It was usually “I'll bet 
you what you please,” or 1’ll bet you what you dare,” or “I'll bet 
you a trifle,” or else, more significantly still, “J’07 bet the Devil my 
head.” : 

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


412 NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


is to say, “ awaken him to a sense of his situation.” I addressed 
myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself to 
remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt 
at expostulation. 

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

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

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

But Khoda shefa midéhed—Heaven gives relief—as the Mus- 
selmen say when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance 
of my duty that J had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a 


4 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 413 


man. It now seemed to me, however, that I had done all that 
could be required of me, in the case of this miserable individual, 
and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my counsel, but to 
leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I forebore 
to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his 
society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his 
less reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found 
myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with 
tears in my eyes:—so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his 
evil talk. 

One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our 
route led us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and 
we resolved to cross it. It was roofed over, by way of profection 
from the weather, and the arch-way, having but few windows, was 


thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the 


contrast between the external glare, and the interior gloom, struck 
heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy 
Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped. 
He seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively 
lively—so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy 
suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the 
transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the 
diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the point; 
and unhappily there were none of my friends of the “ Dial” pres- 
ent. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain species of 
austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, 
and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing 
would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under and over 
everything that came in his way; now shouting out, and now 
lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet preserving 
the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could not 
make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, 
having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termi- 
nation of the foot way, when our progress was impeded by a turn- 
stile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, 
pushing it around as usual. But this turn would not serve the 
turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said 
he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the air. Now this, conscien- 


414 NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


—— eS i, Se Se 


tiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon- 
winger over all kinds of style, was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as 
I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be 
done by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, 
that he was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For 
this, I had reason to be sorry afterwards ;—for he straightway 
offered to bet the Devil his head that he could. 

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

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

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

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

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

I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profun- 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 415 


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

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

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

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

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

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

The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more 


416 NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 


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


One—two—three—and away | 


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

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied 
only an instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my 
poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring 
grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful flour- 
ishes with his legs as he went up. I saw him high in the air, 
pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the stile; and 
of course I thought it an unusually singular thing that he did not 
continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of a 
moment, and, before I had a chance to make any profound reflec- 
tions, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same 
side of the stile from which he had started. At the same instant 


NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 417 


I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having 

caught and wrapped up in his apron something that fell heavily 
into it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At 
all this I was much astonished ; but I had no leisure to think, for 
Mr. Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings 
had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my assistance. I 
hurried up to him and found that he had received what might be 
termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of 
his head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere ;— 
so I determined to take him home, and send for the homceopa- 
thists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open 
an adjacent window of the bridge; when the sad truth flashed 
upon me at once. About five feet just above the top of the turn- 
stile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a 
brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with its breadth hori- 
zontally, and forming one of a series that served to strengthen the 
structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it 
appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come 
precisely in contact. 

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


18* 


418 THOU ART THE MAN. 


“THOU ART THE MAN? 


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

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

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search, was 
the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, 


THOU ART THE MAN. | 419 


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

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

I have already said, that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most 
respectable, and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in 
Rattleborough, while “Old Charley Goodfellow” was upon as 
intimate terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The 
two old gentlemen were next-door neighbors, and, although Mr. 
Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited “Old Charley,” and never 
was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent 
the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just 
observed ; for “Old Charley” never let a day pass without step- 
ing in three or four times to see how his neighbor came on, and 
very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost always 
to dinner; and then the amount of wine that was made way with 
by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing 
to ascertain. Old Charley’s favorite beverage was Chateau Mar- 
gauz, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy’s heart good to see 


420 THOU ART THE MAN. 


the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, 
one day, when the wine was im and the wit, as a natural conse- 
quence, somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him 
upon the back—“ I tell you what it is, Old Charley, you are, by 
all odds, the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born 
days; and, since you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, [ll 
be darned if I don’t have to make thee a present of a big box of 
the Chateau Margaux. Od rot me,’—(Mr. Shuttleworthy had a 
sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond “Od rot 
me,” or “By gosh,” or “By the jolly golly,”)—‘“ Od rot me,” 
says he, “if I don’t send an order to town this very afternoon for 
a double box of the best that can be got, and I'll make ye a pres- 
ent of it, I will!—ye needn’t say a word now—I will, I tell ye, 
and there’s an end of it; so look out for it—it will come to 
hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it 
the least!” I mention this little bit of liberality on the part of 
Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very intimate 
an understanding existed between the two friends. 

Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be 
fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, 
I never saw any one 80 profoundly affected as “Old Charley Good- 
fellow.” When he first heard that the horse had come home 
without his master, and without his master’s saddle-bags, and all 
bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and through 
“the poor animal’s chest without quite killing him—when he heard 
all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had been his own 
dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if he 
had had a fit of the ague. 

At first, he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to 
do anything at all, or to decide upon any plan of action; so that 
for a long time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy’s 
other friends from making a stir about the matter, thinking it best 
to wait awhile—say for a week or two, or a month or two—to 
see if something wouldn’t turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn't 
come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for sending his 
horse on before. I dare say you have often observed this dispo- 
sition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who are laboring 
under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to 


THOU ART THE MAN. 421 


be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of anything like 
- action, and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in 
bed and “nurse their grief,” as the old ladies express it—that is 
to say, ruminate over their trouble. 

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


422 THOU ART THE MAN. 


however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than 
forgotten. 

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

As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pio- 
neer than “ Old Charley,” whom everybody knew to have the eye 
of a lynx; but, although he led them into all manner of out-of- 
the-way holes and corners, by routes that nobody had ever sus- 
pected of existing in the neighborhood, and although the search 
was incessantly kept up, day and night for nearly a week, still no 
trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say no 
trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally ; for 
trace, to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman 
had been tracked, by his horse’s shoes, (which were peculiar,) to 
aspot about three miles to the east of the borough, on the main 
road leading to the city. Here the track made off into-a by-path 
through a piece of woodland—the path coming out again into the 
main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular dis- 
tance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party came 
at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles 
to the right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the 
track was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle 


THOU ART THE MAN. 428 


of some nature had here taken place, and it seemed as if some 
large and heavy body, much larger and heavier than a man, had 
been drawn from the by-path to the pool. This latter was care- 
fully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and the party were 
upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result, 
when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of 
draining the water off altogether. This project was received with 
cheers, and many high compliments to “Old Charley” upon his 
sagacity and consideration. As many of the burghers had brought 
spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called 
upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effect- 
ed; and no sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle 
of the mud that remained was discovered a black silk velvet waist- 
coat, which nearly every one present immediately recognised as 
the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn 
and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the 
party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn 
by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s depar- 
ture for the city ; while there were others, again, ready to testify 
upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in 
question at any period during the remainder of that memorable 
day ; nor could any one be found to say that he had seen it upon 
Mr. P.’s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr. Shuttle- 
worthy’s disappearance. 

Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, 
and it was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspi- 
cions which were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly 
pale, and when asked what he had to say for himself, was utterly 
incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous 
mode of living had left him deserted him at once to a man, and 
were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed enemies 
for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the magna- 
nimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant 
lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent 
defence of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once 
to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman— 
“the heir of the worthy Mr. Goodfellow,”—for the insult which 


494 THOU ART THE MAN. 


he (the young gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, 
thought proper to put upon him (Mr. Goodfellow.) “ He forgave 
him for it,” he said, “ from the very bottom of his heart ; and for 
himself (Mr. Goodfellow,) so far from pushing the suspicious cir- 
cumstances to extremity, which, he was sorry to say, really had 
arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make 
every exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence 
in his possession to—to—to—soften down, as much as he could 
conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly 
perplexing piece of business.” 

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

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

One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator 
was his allusion to the suspected as “the heir of the worthy old 
gentleman Mr. Goodfellow.” The people had really never thought 
of this before. They had only remembered certain threats of dis- 
inheritance uttered a year or two previously by the uncle, (who 
had no living relative except the nephew;) and they had, there- 
fore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter that was 
settled—so single-minded a race of beings were the Rattleburghers ; 
but the remark of “ Old Charley” brought them at once to a con- 
sideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility 
of the threats having been nothing- more than a threat. And 
straightway, hereupon, arose the natural question of cui bono ?—a 


THOU ART THE MAN. 425 


— 


question that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the 
terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I be misun- 
derstood, permit. me to digress for one moment merely to observe 
that the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I have 
employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived. “ Cui 
bono,” in all the crack novels and elsewhere,—in those of Mrs. Gore, 
for example, (the author of “Cecil,”) a lady who quotes all tongues 
from the Chaldzan to Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, 
“as needed,” upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford,—in ail the 
crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of 
Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little Latin words cut bono 
are rendered “to what purpose,” or, (as if guo bono,) “to what 
good.” Their true meaning, nevertheless, is “ for whose advan- 
tage.” Cuz, to whom; bono, is it fora benefit. It is a purely 
legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have 
now under consideration, where the probability of the doer of a 
deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to this 
individual or to that from the deed’s accomplishment. Now, in 
the present instance, the question cuz bono very pointedly impli- 
cated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after 
making a will in his favor, with disinheritance. But the threat 
had not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not 
been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive 
for murder on the part of the suspected would have been the or- 
dinary one of revenge; and even this would have been counter- 
acted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of the uncle. 
But the will being unaltered, while the threat to alter remained 
suspended over the nephew’s head, there appears at once the very 
strongest possible inducement for the atrocity : and so concluded, 
very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle. 
Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and 
the crowd, after some farther search, proceeded homewards, having 
him in custody. On the route, however, another circumstance 
occurred tending to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Good- 
fellow, whose zeal led him to be always a little in advance of the 
party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces, stoop, and 
then apparently to pick up some small object from the grass. 


426 THOU ART THE MAN. 


Having quickly examined it, he was observed, too, to make a sort 
of half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this ac- 
tion was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the 
object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen 
persons at once recognised as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. 
Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle. The blade 
of this knife was open and bloody. 

No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and imme- 
diately upon reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magis- 
trate tor examination. 

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

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


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THOU ART THE MAN. | 427 


and of cutting him off with a shilling. | He (the witness) now 
solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the 
witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every sub- 
stantial particular. Much to the astonishment of every one pre- 
sent, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that 2¢ was. 

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

At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the mur- 
dered man had just expired in the stable from the effects of the 
wound he had received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow 
that a .post mortem examination of the beast should be immedi- 
ately made, with the view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This 
was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a ques- 
tion the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable 
nearching | in the cavity of the chest, was enabled to detect and to 
pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial, 
was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather’s 
rifle, while it was far too large for that of any other person in the 
borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, 
however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw or seam at 
right angles to the usual suture ; and upon examination, this seam 
corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or elevation in a 
pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself to be his 
own property. Upon the finding of this bullet, the examining 
magistrate refused to listen to any farther testimony, and imme- 
diately committed the prisoner for trial—declining resolutely to 


428 - THOU ART THE MAN. 


take any bail in the case, although against this severity Mr. Good- 
fellow very warmly remonstrated, and offered to become surety in 
whatever amount might be required. This generosity on the part 
of “ Old Charley” was only in accordance with the whole tenor 
~ of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire period of 
his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance, the 
worthy man was so entirely carried away by the excessive warmth 
of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten, when he 
offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Good- 
fellow) did not possess a single dollar’s worth of property upon the 
face of the earth. 

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

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

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


THOU ART THE MAN. 429 


“Charles Goodfellow, Esquire— 


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

“ We remain, sir, . 
“ Your most ob’nt ser'ts, 
Hoaes, Frocs, Boas & Co. 


“City of , June 21st, 18—. 
“P.S—The box will reach you, by wagon, on the day after your 


receipt of this leiter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy. 
H. F. B. & Co.” 


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

The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and 
highly respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, 
half the borough was there—I myself among the number—but, 
much to the vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not 
arrive until a late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied 
by “Old Charley” had been done very ample justice by the 


*(ssory #) 59]}10q ‘ZOp 9—T “ON—Y “JEW 3BYO 
0D 9 °d ‘aH Wolly 
"ysnosogatnuyY “bsq ‘Mojjajypoory sayRYyH 


430 THOU ART THE MAN. 


guests. It came at length, however,—a monstrously big box of 
it there was, too,—and as the whole party were in excessively 
good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted 
upon the table and its contents disemboweled forthwith. 

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

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

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


THOU ART THE MAN. 431 


his chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon 
the table, and in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and 
vehemently a detailed contession of the hideous crime for which 
Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die. 

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

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

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

The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, 
although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow’s excess 
of frankness had disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the 
‘first. I was present when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and 
the fiendish expression which then arose upon his countenance, 
although momentary, assured me that his threat of vengeance 
would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared to view 
the maneuvring of “Old Charley” in a very different light from 
that_in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattlebor- 
ough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, 
either directly, or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which 
clearly opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the 
affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. 
J had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers had, that there 
was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and another , 
where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after having 
made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by 


482 THOU ART THE MAN. 


the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief con- 
firmed the idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood upon 
examination proved to be capital claret, and no more. When I 
came to think of these things, and also of the late increase of 
liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I enter- 
tained a suspicion which was none the less strong because I kept 
it altogether to myself. 

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

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

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

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


THE SPHINX. : 488 


THE SPHINX. 


Durine the dread reign of the Cholera in New-York, I had 
accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him 
in the retirement of his cottage ornée on the banks of the Hudson. 
We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amuse- 
ment; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, 
fishing, bathing, music and books, we should have passed the time 
pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached 
us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed 
which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. 
Then, as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss 
of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every 
messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent 
with death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession 
of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of anything 

else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although 
_ greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. 
His richly philosophieal intellect was not at any time affected by 
unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, 
but of its shadows he had no apprehension. 

His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal 
gloom jnto which I had fallen, were frustrated in great measure, 
by certain volumes which I had found in his library. These were 
of a character to force into germination whatever seeds of heredi- 
tary superstition lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading 


these books without his knowledge, and thus he was often at a 
Vou. Il —19. , 


434 THE SPHINX. 


loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been made 
upon my fancy. 

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

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

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

Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the 
diameter of the large trees near which it passed—the few giants 


of the forest which had escaped the fury of the land-slide—I 


THE SPHINX. 435 


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

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


436 THE SPHINX. 


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

I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision 
either as an omen of my death, or, worse, as the forerunner of 
an attack of mania. 1 threw myself passionately back in my 
chair, and for some moments buried my face in my hands. When 
I uncovered my eyes, the apparition was no longer visible. 

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

He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and 
brought forth one of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. 


THE SPHINX. 487 


_ Requesting me then to exchange seats with him, that he might 
the better distinguish the fine print of the volume, he took my 
arm-chair at the window, and, opening the book, resumed his dis- 
- course very much in the same tone as before. 

“But for your exceeding minuteness,” he said, “in describing 
the monster, I might never have had it in my power to demon- 
strate to you what it was. In the first place, let me read to youa 
school-boy account of the genus Sphinz, of the family Crepuscu- 
laria, of the order Lepidoptera, of the class of Jsecta—or insects. 
The account runs thus : 

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

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

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


488 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


PPA PPP POLO 


THE symposium of the preceding evening had been a little too 
much for my nerves. I had a wretched head-ache, and was des- 
perately drowsy. Instead of going out, therefore, to spend the 
evening, as I had proposed, it occurred to me that I could not 
do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and go imme- 
diately to bed. 

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

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

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


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 439 


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


“Yours, ever, 
“ PONNONNER.” 


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

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

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

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

Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly 
seven feet long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a 


440 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


half deep. It was oblong—not coffin shaped. The material was 
at first supposed to be the wood of the sycamore (platanus,) but, 
upon cutting into it, we found it to be pasteboard, or, more prop- 
erly, papier maché, composed of papyrus. It was thickly orna- 
mented with paintings, representing funeral scenes, and other 
mournful subjects—interspersed among which, in every variety of 
position, were certain series of hieroglyphical characters, intended, 
no doubt, for the name of the departed. By good luck, Mr. Glid- 
don formed one of our party; and he had no difficulty in trans- 
lating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and represented 
the word, Allamistakeo. 

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

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

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

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


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 441 


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

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

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

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

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

It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying 
bare some portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less 
stony rigidity than other parts of the frame, but which, as we had 
anticipated, of course, gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility 
when brought in contact with the wire. This, the first trial, in- 
deed, seemed decisive, and, with a hearty laugh at our own ab- 


surdity, we were bidding each other good night, when my eyes, 
19* 


442 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there imme- 
diately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had suf- 
ficed to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be 
glass, and which were originally noticeable fur a certain wild stare, 
were now so far covered by the lids, that only a small portion of 
the tunica albuginea remained visible. 

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

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

After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as 
a matter of course, upon farther experiment forthwith. Our ope- ° 
rations were now directed against the great toe of the right foot. 
We made an incision over the outside of the exterior os sesamoi- 
deum pollicis pedis, and thus got at the root of the abductor mus- 
cle. Re-adjusting the battery, we now applied the fluid to the 
bisected nerves—when, with a movement of excecding life-like- 
ness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to bring it 
nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the 
limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Pon- 
nonner, which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like 
an arrow from a catapult, through a window into the street below. 

We rushed out en masse to bring in the mangled remains of 
the victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, 
coming up in an unaccountable hurry, brimfull of the most ardent 
philosophy, and more than ever impressed with the necessity of 
prosecuting our experiments with rigor and with zeal. 

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


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 448 


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

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

_ It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this 
speech under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, 
or fell into violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One 
of these three things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and 
all of these lines of conduct might have been very plausibly pur- 
sued. And, upon my word, I am at a loss to know how or why 
it was that we pursued neither the one or the other. But, per- 
haps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the age, which 
proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now usually 
admitted as the solution of everything in the way of paradox and 
impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s 
exceedingly natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words 
of the terrible. However this may be, the facts are clear, and no 
member of our party betrayed any very particular trepidation, or 
seemed to consider that anything had gone very especially wrong. 


444 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


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

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

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

Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his night 
thumb out of the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indem- 
nification, inserted his left thumb in the right corner of the aper- 
ture above-mentioned. 

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

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

I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subse- 
quent conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried 
on in primitive Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned 
myself and other untravelled members of the company)—through 
the medium, I say, of Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as 
interpreters. These gentlemen spoke the mother-tongue of the 
mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I could not help 
observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of images 
entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger,) 
the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment 
of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular mean- 
ing. Mr. Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the 
Egyptian comprehend the term “ politics,” until he sketched upon 
the wall, with a bit of charcoal, a little carbuncle nosed gentleman, 
out at elbows, standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn 


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 445 


back, his right arm thrown forward, with his fist shut, the eyes 
rolled up toward Heaven, and the mouth open at an angle of 
ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr. Buckingham failed to 
convey the absolutely modern idea, “whig,” until, (at Doctor 
-Ponnonner’s suggestion,) he grew very pale in the face, and con- 
sented to take off hisown. — 

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

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

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

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


446 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


his arm, and led him to a comfortable chair by the fire, while the 
doctor rang the bell upon the spot and ordered a supply of cigars 
and wine. 

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

“T should have thought,” observed Mr. a ee “ that it 
is high time you were dead.” 

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

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

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

“In what?” said the Count. 

“Tn asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B. 

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

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

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


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 447 


“Why, not altogether.” 

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

“The bloood of the Scarabceus !” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner. 

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

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

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

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

“‘ Beyond doubt.” 

“T thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, ry. meen “that the Scara- 
boeus was one of the Egyptian gods.” 

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

“Gods !” repeated the traveller. 

“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this 
style,” said the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the 
face of the earth has ever acknowledged more than one god. The 
Scarabceus, the Ibis, etc., were with us, (as similar creatures 


448 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


have been with others) the symbols, or media, through which we 
offered worship to the Creator too august to be more directly ap- 
proached.” 

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

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

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

“ Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “ what you mean 
by ‘ purposely so embalmed ? ” 
- “With great pleasure,” answered the Mummy, after surveying 
me leisurely through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had 
ventured to address him a direct question. | 

“With great pleasure,” he said. “The usual duration of man’s 
life, in my time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, 
unless by most extraordinary accident, before the age of six hun- 
dred; few lived longer than a decade of centuries; but eight 
- were considered the natural term. After the discovery of the 
embalming principle, as I have already described it to you, it oc- 
curred to our philosophers that a laudable curiosity might be 
gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of science much ad- 
vanced, by living this natural term in instalments. In the case 
of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this 
kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having at- 
tained the age of five hundred, would write a book with great 
labor and then get himself carefully embalmed; leaving instruc- 
tions to his executors pro. tem., that they should cause him to be 
revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say five or six hun- 
dred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this time, he 
would invariably find his great work converted into a species of 
hap-hazard note-book—that is to say, into a kind of literary arena 
for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole 
herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which 
passed under the name of annotations, or emendations, were found 


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 449 


so completely to have enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the 
text, that the author had to go about with a lantern to discover 
his own book. When discovered, it was never worth the trouble 
of the search. After re-writing it throughout, it was regarded as 
the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work, immedi- 
ately, in correcting from his own private knowledge and experi- 
ence, the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he 
had originally lived.. Now this process of re-scription and perso- 
nal rectification, pursued by various individual sages, from time to 
time, had the effect of preventing our history from degenerating 
into absolute fable.” . 

“‘T beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, lay- 
ing his hand gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your 
pardon, sir, but may I presume to interrupt you for one mo- 
ment ?” 

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

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

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

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

“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo. 

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

“The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly 
novel. During my time I never knew any one to entertain so 
singular a fancy as that the universe (or this world if you will 


450 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


have it so,) ever had a beginning at all. I remember once, and 
once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by a man of many 
speculations, concerning the origin of the human race; and by 
this individual, the very word Adam, (or Red Earth) which you 
make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a 
generical sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination 
from rank soil (just as a thousand of the lower genera of crea- 
tures are germinated)—the spontaneous germination, I say, of 
five vast hordes of men, simultaneously upspringing in five dis- 
tinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries 


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 451 


in regard to his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the 
company, who had never as yet opened his mouth, whispered in 
my ear, that for information on this head, I had better consult 
Ptolemy, (whoever Ptolemy is,) as well as one Plutarch de facie 
lune. . 

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

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

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

The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, 
just at that moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the 
principal buildings of the city of Aznac, whose foundations were 
laid in the night of Time, but the ruins of which were still stand- 
ing, at the epoch of his entombment, in a vast plain of sand to 
the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however, (talking of 
porticoes) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a kind of suburb 
called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four columns, 
thirty-seven feet each in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart. 
The approach of this portico, from the Nile, was through an ave- 
nue two miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues and obelisks, 
twenty, sixty, and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself (as 
well as he could remember) was, in one direction, two miles long, 


452 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


and might have been altogether, about seven in circuit. Its walls 
were richly painted all over, within and without, with hiero- 
glyphics. He would not pretend to assert that even fifty or sixty 
of the Doctor’s Capitols might have been built within these walls, 
but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred of them 
might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace 
at Carnac was an insignificant little building after all. He, (the 
Count) however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the in- 
genuity, magnificence, and superiority of the Fountain at the Bow- 
ling Green, as described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was 
forced to allow, had ever been seen in Egypt or elsewhere. 

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

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

I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces. 

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

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

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

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

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


SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 458 


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

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

I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant. | 

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

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

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

‘We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, _ 
as good luck weuld have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, re- 
turned to our rescue, and inquired if the people of Egypt would 
seriously pretend to rival the moderns in ne all important partic- 
ular of dress. 

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

Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approach- 
ing the Mummy with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, 
upon its honor as a gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehend- 


454 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 


ed, at any period, the manufacture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges, 
or Brandreth’s pills. 

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

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


HOP-FROG. 455 


HOP-FROG. 


PPA LPP PAPAL 


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

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

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

Our king, as a matter of course, retained his “fool.” The fact 
is, he required something in the way of folly—if only to coun- 


456 HOP-FROG. 


terbalance the heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were his 
ministers—not to mention himself. 

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

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

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

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


HOP-FROG. 45'7 


—_—_——— 


Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a 
close intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed, they 
soon became sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made 
a great deal of sport, was by no means popular, had it not in his 
power to render Trippetta many services; but she, on account of 
her grace and exquisite beauty (although a dwarf,) was univer- 
sally admired and petted: so she possessed much influence; and 
never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit of Hop- 
Frog. | 
On some grand state occasion—I forget what—the king deter- 
mined to have a masquerade; and whenever a masquerade, or 
anything of that kind, occurred at our court, then the talents both 
of Hop-Frog and Trippetta were sure to be called in play. Hop- 
Frog, in especial, was so inventive in the way of getting up pa- 
geants, suggesting novel characters, and arranging costume, for 
masked balls, that nothing could be done, it seems, without his 
assistance. 

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

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

Vou, I.—~20. 


"458 HOP-FROG. 


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


Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to— 


these advances from the king; but the effort was too much. It 
happened to be the poor dwarf’s birthday, and the command to 
drink to his “absent friends” forced the tears to his eyes. Many 
large, bitter drops fell into the goblet as he took it, humbly, from 
the hand of the tyrant. 

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

Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the 
effect of wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than 
instantaneous. He placed the goblet nervously on the table, and 
looked round upon the company with a half-insane stare. They 
all seemed highly amused at the success of the king’s “joke.” 
“And now to business,” said the prime minister, a very fat 
man. 7 

“Yes,” said the king; “come, Hop-Frog, lend us your assist- 
ance. Characters, my fine fellow; we stand in need of characters 
—all of us—ha! ha! ha!” and as this was seriously meant for a 
joke, his laugh was chorused by the seven. 

“ Hop-Frog also laughed, although feebly and somewhat va- 
cantly. 

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

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

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


HOP-FROG. 459 


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

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

The tyrant regarded her, for some moments, in evident wonder 
at her audacity. He seemed quite at a loss what to do or say— 
‘how most becomingly to express his indignation. At last, with- 
out uttering a syllable, he pushed her violently from him, and 
threw the contents of the brimming goblet in her face. 

The poor girl got up as best she could, and, not daring even to 

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

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

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

“I—I? How could it have been me ?” 

“The sound appeared to come from without,” observed one 6 of 
the courtiers. “I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting 
his bill upon his cage-wires.” 

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

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

“T cannot tell what was the association of idea,” observed he, 
very tranquilly, and as if he had never tasted wine in his life, “but 


460 HOP-FROG. 


just after your majesty had struck the girl and thrown the wine 
in her face—just after your majesty had done this, and while the 
parrot was making that odd noise outside the window, there came 
into my mind a capital diversion—one of my own country frolics 
—often enacted among us, at our masquerades: but here it will 
be new altogether. Unfortunately, however, it requires a company 
of eight persons, and—” 

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

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

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

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

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


“7 will equip you as ourang-outangs,” proceeded the dwarf : 


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

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

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

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

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


HOP-FROG. _ 461 


hideous, their truthfulness to nature was thus thought to be 
secured. 

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

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

The arrangements of the room had been left to Trippetta’s 
superintendance ; but, in some particulars, it seems, she had been 
guided by the calmer judgment of her friend the dwarf. At his 
suggestion it was that, on this occasion, the chandelier was remo- 
‘ved. Its waxen drippings (which, in weather so warm, it was 
quite impossible to prevent,) would have been seriously detrimen- 
tal to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account of the crowd- 
ed state of the saloon, could not ali be expected to keep from out 
its centre—that is to say, from under the chandelier. Additional 
sconces were set in various parts of the hall, out of the way; and 


462 HOP-FROG. 


a flambeau, emitting sweet odor, was placed in the right hand of 
each of the Caryaides that stood against the wall—some fifty or 
sixty altogether, 

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

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

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

Soon after this, the king and his seven friends, having reeled 
about the hall in all directions, found themselves, at length, in 
its centre, and, of course, in immediate contact with the chain. 
While they were thus situated, the dwarf, who had followed 
closely at their heels, inciting them to keep up the commotion, 
took hold of their own chain at the intersection of the two por- 
tions which crossed the circle diametrically and at right angles. 
Here, with the rapidity of thought, he inserted the hook from 
which the chandelier had been wont to depend; and, in an instant, 


HOP-FROG. 463 


by some unseen agency, the chandelier-chain was drawn so far 
upward as to take the hook out of reach, and, as an inevitable 
consequence, to drag the ourang-outangs together in close con- 
nection, and face to face. 

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

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

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

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

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


464 HOP-FROG. 


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

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

“T now see distinctly,” he said, “ what manner of people these 
maskers are. They are a great king and his seven privy-council- 
lors—a king who does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl, and 
his seven councillors who abet him in the outrage. As for my- 
self, [am simply Hop-Frog, the jester—and this 1s my last jest.” 

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

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


FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 465 


FOUR BEASTS IN ONE; 
THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD. 


Chacun a ses vertus. 
Crébillon’s Xerzes. 


Antiocuus EpiPHANEs is very generally looked upon as the 
Gog of the prophet Ezekiel. This honor is, however, more pro- 
perly attributable to Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. And, indeed, 
the character of the Syrian monarch does by no means stand in 
need of any adventitious embellishment. His accession to the 
throne, or rather his usurpation of the sovereignty, a hundred 
and seventy-one years before the coming of Christ; his attempt 
to plunder the temple of Diana at Ephesus; his implacable hos- 
tility to the Jews; his pollution of the Holy of Holies; and his 
miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign of eleven years, 
are circumstances of a prominent kind, and therefore more gene- 
rally noticed by the historians of his time, than the impious, dast- 
ardly, cruel, silly and whimsical achievements which make up the 
sum total of his private life and reputation. | 

ae * * * 1k * * * * 

Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the year of the 
world three thousand eight hundred and thirty, and let us, for a 
few minutes, imagine ourselves at that most grotesque habitation 
of man, the remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were, 
in Syria and other countries, sixteen cities of that appellation, 
besides the one to which I more particularly allude. But ours is 
that which went by the name of Antiochia Epidaphne, from its 
vicinity to the little village of Daphne, where stood a temple to 
that divinity. It was built (although about this matter there is 

20* 


466 FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 


some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, the first king of the country 
after Alexander the Great, in memory of his father Antiochus, 
and became immediately the residence of the Syrian monarchy. 
In the flourishing times of the Roman Empire, it was the ordi- 
nary station of the prefect of the eastern provinces; and many 
of the emperors of the queen city, (among whom may be men- 
tioned especially, Verus and Valens,) spent here the greater part 
of their time. But I perceive we have arrived at the city itself. 
Let us ascend this battlement, and throw our eyes upon the town 

and neighboring country. | 

“ ‘What broad and rapid river is that which forces its way, with 
innumerable falls, through the mountainous wilderness, and finally 
through the wilderness of buildings?” 

That is the Orontes, and it is the only water in sight, with the 
exception of the Mediterranean, which stretches like a broad mir- 
ror, about twelve miles off to the southward. Every one has seen 
the Mediterranean; but let me tell you, there are few who have 
had a peep at Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, like you and 
me, have had, at the same time, the advantages of a modern edu- 
cation. Therefore cease to regard that sea, and give your whole 
attention to the mass of houses that lie beneath us. You will 
remember that it is now the year of the world three thousand | 
eight hundred and thirty. Were-it later—for example, were it 
the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five, we should 
be deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the nineteenth 
century Antioch is—that is to say, Antioch well be—in a lament- 
able state of decay. It will have been, by that time, totally de-- 
stroyed, at three different periods, by three successive earthquakes. 
Indeed, to say the truth, what little of its former self may then 
remain, will be found in so desolate and ruinous a state that the 
patriarch shall have removed his residence to Damascus. This is 
well. Isee you profit by my advice, and are making the most 
of your time in inspecting the premises—in 


satisfying your eyes 
With the memorials and the things of fame 
That most renown this city. 


I beg pardon; I had forgotten that Shakspeare will not flourish 


FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 467 


for seventeen hundred and fifty years to come. But does not the 
appearance of Epidaphne justify me in calling it grotesque ? 

“It is well fortified ; and in this respect is as much indebted to 

nature as to art.” 
Very true. a 
“There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.” 

There are. 

“ And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent, may 
bear comparison with the most lauded of antiquity.” 

All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an infinity of mud 
huts, and abominable hovels. We cannot help perceiving abun- 
dance of filth in every kennel, and, were it not for the overpower- 
ing fumes of idolatrous incense, I have no doubt we should find 
a most intolerable stench. Did you ever behold streets so insuffer- 
ably narrow, or houses so miraculously tall? What a gloom their 
shadows cast upon the ground! It is well the swinging lamps 
in those endless colonnades are kept burning throughout the day ; 
‘we should otherwise have the darkness of Egypt in the time of 
her desolation. 

“It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning of yon- 
der singular building? See! it towers above all others, and lies 
to the eastward of what I take to be the royal palace !” 

That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored in Syria 
under the title of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter a very notorious Ro- 
man Emperor will institute this worship in Rome, and thence de- 
rive a cognomen, Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like to 
take a peep at the divinity of the temple. You need not look up 
at the heavens; his Sunship is not there—at least not the Sunship 
adored by the Syrians. That deity will be found in the interior 
of yonder building. He is worshipped under the figure of a large 
stone pillar terminating at the summit in a cone or pyramid, 
whereby is denoted Fire. : 

“ Hark !—behold !—who “can those ridiculous beings be, half 
naked, with their faces painted, shouting and gesticulating to the 
rabble ?” | 

Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong 
to the race of philosophers. The greatest portion, however—those 
especially who belabor the populace with clubs—are the principal 


468 FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 


courtiers of the palace, executing, as in duty bound, some lauda- 
ble comicality of the king’s. 

“But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming 
with wild beasts! How terrible a spectacle !—how dangerous a 
peculiarity !” 

Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous. 
Each animal, if you will take the pains to observe, is following, 
very quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be sure, are 
led with a rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the lesser 
or timid species. The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are entirely 
without restraint. They have been trained without difficulty to 
their present profession, and attend upon their respective owners 
in the capacity of valets-de-chambre. It is true, there are occa- 
sions when Nature asserts her violated dominion ;—but then the 
devouring of a man-at-arms, or the throttling of a consecrated 
bull, is a circumstance of too little moment to be more than hint- 
ed at in Epidaphne. 

“But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a 
loud noise even for Antioch! It argues some commotion of un- 
usual interest.” 

Yes—undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel specta- 
cle—some gladiatorial exhibition at the Hippodrome—or perhaps 
the massacre of the Scythian prisoners—or the conflagration of 
his new palace—or the tearing down of a handsome temple—or, 
indeed, a bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar increases. Shouts 
of laughter ascend the skies. The air becomes dissonant with 
wind instruments, and horrible with the clamor of a million throats. 
Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is going on! 
This way—be careful! Here we are in the principal street, which 
is called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming 
this way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They 
are pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly 
from the palace—therefore the king fs most probably among the 
rioters. Yes—I hear the shouts of the herald. proclaiming his 
approach in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall 
have a glimpse of his person as he passes by the temple of Ashi- 
mah. Let us ensconce ourselves in the vestibule of the sanctuary ; 
he will be here anon. In the meantime let us’ survey this image. 


FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 469 


What is it? Oh, it is the god Ashimah in proper person. You 
perceive, however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a goat, nora 
satyr; neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the Arca- 
dians. Yet all these appearances have been given—I beg par- 
don—wilf be given—by the learned of future ages, to the Ashimah 
of the Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. 
What is it? 

“Bless me! it is an ape !” 

True—a baboon ; but by no means the less a deity. His name 
is a derivation of the Greek Simza—what great fools are antiqua- 
rians! But see !—see !—yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. 
Where is he going? What is he bawling about? What does 
he say? Oh! he says the king is coming in triumph; that he is 
dressed in state; that he has just finished putting to death, with 
his own hand, a thousand chained Israelitish prisoners! For this 
exploit the ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies! Hark! here 
comes a troop of a similar description. They have made a Latin 
hymn upon the valor of the king, and are singing it as they go: 


Mille, mille, mille, 

Mille, mille, mille, 

Decollavimus, unus Mmo ! 

Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus 
Mille, mille, mille! 
Vivat qui mille mille occidit | 
Tantum vini habet nemo 

Quantum sanguinis effudit |* 


Which may be thus paraphrased : 


A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 
We, with one warrior, have slain ! 
F A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 
Sing a thousand over again ! 
Soho !|—let us sing 
Long life to our king, 
Who knocked over a thousand so fine ! 


* Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced, was sung by 
the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic war, having slain 
With his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of the enemy. 


¢ 


470 FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 


Soho !—let us roar, 
He has given us more 
Red gallons of gore 
Than all Syria can furnish of wine! 


“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets ?” 

Yes—the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with 
admiration, and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence ! 
He comes !—he is coming !—there he is! 

“ Who ?—where ?—the king ?—I do not behold him ;—cannot 
say that I perceive him.” 

Then you must be blind. 

“Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of 
idiots and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves be- 
fore a gigantic cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of 
the animal’s hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of 
the rabble over—and another—and another—and another. In- 
deed, I cannot help admiring the animal for the excellent use he 
is making of his feet.” 

Rabble, indeed !—why these are the noble and free citizens of 
Epidaphne! Beast, did you say ?—take care that you are not 
overheard. Do you not pergeive that the animal has the visage 
ofa man?! Why, my dear sir, that cameleopard is no other than 
Antiochus Epiphanes—Antiochus the Illustrious, King of Syria, 
and the most potent of all the autocrats of the East! It is true, 
that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus Epimanes—Antiochus the 
madman—but that is because all people have not the capacity to 
appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at present en- 
sconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play the 
part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better sustaining 
his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of gigantic stature, 
and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming nor over large. We 
may, however, presume he would not have adopted it but for 
some occasion of especial state. Such, you will allow, is the mas- 
sacre of a thousand Jews. With how superior a dignity the mon- 
arch perambulates on all fours! His tail, you perceive, is held 
aloft by his two principal concubines, Elline and Argelais ; and his 
whole appearance would be infinitely prepossessing, were it not 
for the protruberance of his eyes, which will certainly start out of 


FOUR BEASTS IN ONE. 471 


his head, and the queer color of his face, which has become non- 
descript from the quantity of wine he has swallowed. Let us fol- 
low him to the hippodrome, whither he is proceeding, and listen 
to the song of triumph which he is commencing: 


Who is king but Epiphanes ? 
Say—do you know ! 

Who is king but Epiphanes ? 
Bravo !—bravo | 

There is none but Epiphanes,” 
No—there is none : 

So tear down the temples, 
And put out the sun! 


Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him 
‘Prince of Poets,” as well as “Glory of the East,” “Delight of the 
Universe,” and “most remarkable of Cameleopards.” They have 
encored his effusion, and—do you hear?—he is singing it over 
again. When he arrives at the hippodrome, he will be crowned 
with the poetic wreath, in anticipation of his victory at the 
approaching Olympics. 

“But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind 
us ””? 

Behind us, did you say ?—oh! ah!—I perceive. My friend, it 
is well that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety 
as soon as possible. Here !—let us conceal ourselves in the arch 
of this aqueduct, and I will inform you presenily of the origin of 
the commotion. It has turned out as I have been anticipating. 
The singular appearance of the cameleopard with the head of a 
man, has, it seems, given offence to the notions of propriety enter- 
tained in general, by the wild animals domesticated in the city. 
A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual upon such occa- 
sions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling the mob. 
Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the gen- 
eral voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating up the 
cameleopard. “The Prince of Poets,” therefore, is upon his hinder 
legs, running for his life. His courtiers have have left him in the 
lurch, and his concubines have followed so excellent an exam- 
ple. “Delight of the Universe,” thou art in a sad predicament! 
“Glory of the East,” thou art in danger of mastication! There- 


472 ‘FOUR BEASTS IN ONE 


fore never regard so piteously thy tail; it will undoubtedly be 
draggled in the mud, and for this there is no help. Look not 
behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation; but take 
courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the hippodrome! 
Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus the 
Illustrious !—also “ Prince of Poets,” “Glory of the East,” “ De-’ 
light of the Universe,” and “ most Remarkable of Cameleopards!” 
Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! Whata 
capacity for leg-bail thou art developing! Run, Prince !—Bravo, 
Epiphanes !— Well done, Cameleopard !—Glorious Antiochus ! 
He runs!—he leaps !—he flies! Like an arrow from a catapult 
he approaches the hippodrome! He leaps !—he shrieks !—he is 
there! This is well; for hadst thou, “Glory of the East,” been 
half a second longer in reaching the gates of the Amphitheatre, 
there is not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not have had a 
nibble at thy carcass. Let us be off—let us take our departure !— 
for we shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure the 
vast uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the 
king’s escape | Listen! it has already commenced. See !—the 
whole town is topsy-turvy. 

“Surely this is the most populous city of the East! Whata 
wilderness of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what 
a multiplicity of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes ! 
what a Babel of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a 
tinkling of instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!” 

Come let us be off! 

“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; 
what is the meaning of it I beseech you!” 

“That ?—oh nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epi- 
daphne being, as they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor, 
wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, been 
eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more 
than their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the poetic 
crown) with the wreath of victory in the foot-race—a wreath which 
it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next Olym- 
piad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance. 


~ 


THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 4718 


WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN 


WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING. 


e 


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


474 WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN 


acquaintance ?. You percave the little spalpeen is summat down 
in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a sling; and it’s for that 
same thing, by yur lave, that I’m going to give you the good 
rason. 

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

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

And jist wid that in cum’d the little willian himself, and thin he 
made me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken 
the liberty of doing me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin 


WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING. 476 


he went on to palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I com- 
prehind what he wud be afther the tilling me at all at all, excipt- 
ing and saving that he said “ pully wou, woolly wou,” and tould 
me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad luck to him, that he was mad for - 
the love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy Mrs. 
Tracle had a puncheon for him. 

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

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

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

“The tip o’ the morning to ye,” says I, “ Mrs. Tracle,” and thin 
I made sich an iligant obayeance that it wud ha ae althegither 
bewildered the brain o’ ye. 

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

And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes 
the swatest curtchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits 
like an angel; and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen 
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the 


476 WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN 


right side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two eyes o’ me wud 
ha cum’d out of my head on the spot, I was so dispirate mad ! 
Howiver, “ Bait who!” says I, after a while. “Is it there ye are, 
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns ?” and so down I plumped on the lift 
side of her leddyship, to be aven wid the willain. Botheration ! it 
wud ha done your heart good to percave the illigant double wink 
that I gived her jist thin right in the face wid both eyes. 

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

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

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

Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist to say, “lit Sir Pathrick 
alone for the likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint aisy to work, 
and you'd have died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I 
slipped my right arm betwane the back o’ the sofy, and the back 
of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found a swate little 
flipper all a waiting to say, “the tip o’ the mornin to ye, Sir Path- 
rick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” And wasn’t it mesilf, sure, that jist 
giv’d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the world, all in the way 
of a commincement, and not to be too rough wid her leddyship ? 
and och, botheration, wasn’t it the gentaalest and dilikittest of all 
the little squazes that I got in return? “Blood and thunder, Sir 


WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING. 417 


Pathrick, mavoureen,” thinks I to myself, “ fait it’s jist the moth- 
er’s son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that’s the handsomest 
and the fortunittest young bogthrotter that ever cum’d out of 
Connaught!” And wid that I giv’d the flipper a big squaze, and 
a big squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship giv’d to me 
back. But it would ha split the seven sides of you wid the laffin 
to behould, jist then all at once, the consated behavior of Moun- 
‘seer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o’ sich a jabbering, and a smirk» 
ing, and a parly-wouing as he begin’d: wid her leddyship, niver 
was known before upon arth ; and divil may burn me if it wasn’t 
me own very two peepers that cotch’d him tipping her the wink 
out of one eye. Och hon? if it wasn’t mesilf thin that was mad 
as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould who it was ! 

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

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

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


478 THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 


“Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody- 
noun |”—and jist thin what d’ye think it was that her leddyship 
did? Troth she jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and 
made off through the door, while I turned my head round afther 
her, in a complete bewilderment and botheration, and followed her 
wid me two peepers. You percave I had a reason of my own for 
knowing that she could’nt git down the stares althegither and en- 
tirely ; for I knew very well that I had hould of her hand, for divil 
the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I, 

“Tsn’t it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye’ve 
been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now, that’s a 
darlint, and [ll give ye yur flipper.” But aff she wint down the 
stairs like a shot, and then I turned round to the little Frinch 
furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny little paw that I 
had hould of in my own—why thin—thin it was’nt—that’s all. 

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

“'Wouly-wou,” says he, “ pully-wou,” says he—Cot tam !” 

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


BON BON. 478 


BON-BON. 


PPP 


Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac, 
Je suis plus savant que Balzac— 
Plus sage que Pibrac; 

Mon bras seul faisant lattaque 
De la nation Cossaque, 

La mettroit au sac; 

De Charon Je passerois le lac 
En dormant dans son bac; 

J irois au fier Eac, 

Sans que mon cour fit tic ni tac, 
Presenter du tabac. 


French Vaudeville. 


Tuat Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon quali- 
fications, no man who, during the reign of , frequented the 
little Café in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, 
feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in 
an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I pre- 
sume, still more especially undeniable. His patés & la fois were 
beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice ‘to his 
essays sur la Nature—his thoughts sur ?Ame—his observations 
sur VEsprit? If his omelettes—if his fricandeauz were inestima- 
ble, what letéérateur of that day would not have given twice as 
much for an Idée de Bon-Bon” as for all the trash of all the 
“ Tdées” of all the rest of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked 
libraries which no other man had ransacked—had read more than 
any other would have entertained a notion of reading—had under- 
stood more than any other would have conceived the possibility 
of understanding; and although,-while he flourished, there were 


480 BON-BON. 


not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert “that his dicta 
evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the 
Lyceum”—although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means 
very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were 
difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their 
self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them ab- 
struse. It is to Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to 
Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. 
The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an 
Aristotelian—nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those 
precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a 
fricasée, or, facile gradu, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous 
attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical dis- 
cussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally 
Italic. He reasoned & priori—He reasoned also @ posteriori. 
His ideas were innate—or otherwise. He believed in George of 
Trebizond—He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphati- 
cally a—Bon-Bonist. 

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of restaura- 
teur. I would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine 
that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted 
- @ proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. 
It was impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took 
the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held 
intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am 
not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who 
hold that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events 
were right, he thought, who employed the same word for the mind 
and the diaphragm.* By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge 
of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice 
of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and 
what great man has not a thousand ?—if Pierre Bon-Bon, | say, 
had his failings, they were failings of very little importance—faults 
indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather 
in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should 
not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable 


* Dosves. 


BON-BON. 481 


prominency—the extreme alto relievo—in which it jutted out from 
the plane of his general disposition—He could never let slip an 
opportunity of making a bargain. 

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

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

The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely 
worthy our serious examination. For example, there are few men 
of extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclina- 
tion for the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, 
or rather a valid proof, of such profundity, it 1s a nice thing to say. 
Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted 
to minute investigation;—nor do L Yet in the indulgence of a 
propensity so truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the 
restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination 
which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time, his 
essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne 
had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the 
Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catul- 
lus was to Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping 
St. Peray, but unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and 


upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had it been if 
Voi. I1—21 


482 BON-BON. 


- the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the ped- 
. dling propensity to which I have formerly alluded—but this was 
by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth, that trait of mind 
in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a char- 
acter of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply 
tinctured with the dzablerce of his favorite German studies. 

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

I mght here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of 
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external meta- 
physician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, 
combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical- 
shaped white flannel cap and tassels—that his pea-green jerkin 
was not after the fashion of those worn by the common class of 
restaurateurs at that day—that the sleeves were something fuller 
than the reigning costume permitted—that the cuffs were turned 


BON-BON, 488 


up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of the same 
quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful 
manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa—that his slippers 
were of a bright purple, curiously filagreed, and might have been 
manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, 
and the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery—that his 
breeches were of the yellow satin-like material called aimable— 
that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, 
and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices, floated cava- 
lierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the morning—and that his 
tout ensemble gave rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, 
the Improvisatrice of Florence, “that it was difficult to say whe- 
ther Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise, or the rather 
a very Paradise of perfection.”—I might, I say, expatiate upon all 
these points if I pleased ;—but I forbear:—merely personal details 
may be left to historical novelists ;—they are beneath the moral 
dignity of matter-of-fact. 

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

Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the 
building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of 
antique construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded 
by the Cafe. Ina corner of the apartment stood the bed of the 
metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy 
a la Greque, gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In 
the corner diagonally opposite, appeared, in direct family com- 
munion, the properties of the kitchen andthe bzbliotheque. A 
dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an 
oven-full of the latest ethics—there a kettle of duodecimo melanges. 
Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the grid- 
iron—a toasting fork might be discovered by the side of Euse- 


484 BON-BON. 


bius—Plato reclined at his ease in the frying pan—and contem- 
porary manuscripts were filed away upon the spit. 

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

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

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

It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew 
up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circum- 
stances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to 
disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting des eu/s 
a la Princesse, he had unfortunately perpetrated an omelete a la 
fieine ; the discovery of a principle in ethics had been frustrated 
by the overturning of a stew; and last, not least, he had been 
thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times 
took such especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. 
But in the chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, 
there did not fail to be mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety 
which the fury of a boisterous night is so well calculated to pro- 
duce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large black 
water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily 
in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye 


BON-BON. 485 


towards those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable 
shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more than partially 
succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose exact 
purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew close to 
his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and.soon 
became absorbed in the task of re-touching a voluminous manu- 
script, intended for publication on the morrow. 

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

‘Fhe devil !” ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturn- 
ing the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment. 

“Very true,” calmly replied the voice. 

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

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

“My Exposition !—there now!—how do you know 1—how 
game you to understand that I was writing an Exposition—good 
God !” 

“ Hush !” replied the figure, in a shrill under tone; and, arising 
quickly from the bed, he made a single step towards our hero, 
while an iron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively 
hack from his approach. 

The philosopher’s amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny 
of the stranger’s dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, 
exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were ren- 
dered minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth 
which fitted tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much 
in the style of a century ago. These garments had evidently been 
intended for a much shorter person than their present owner. His 
ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his shoes, 
however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme 
poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was 


486 BON-BON. 


bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder-part, 
from which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of 
green spectacles, with side glasses, protected his eyes from the 
influence of the light, and at the same time prevented our hero 
from ascertaining either their color or their conformation. About 
the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt; but a white 
cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around 
the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side by side, 
gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an eccle- 
siastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and 
demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that 
nature. Over his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modetfn 
clerk, an instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. Ina 
breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black 
volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether acciden- 
tally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to.discover 
the words “ Rituel Catholique” in white letters upon the back. 
His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine—even cadaver- 
ously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the 
ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn 
down into an expression of the most submissive humility. There 
was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards our hero— 
a deep sigh—and altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could 
not have failed to be unequivocally prepossessing. Every shadow 
of anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, 
having completed a satisfactory survey of his visiter’s person, he 
shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat. 
There would however be a radical error in attributing this in- 
stantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one 
of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had 
an influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been 
able to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely 
to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. 
It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things 
should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character 
of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To 
say no more, the conformation of his visiter’s feet was sufficiently 
remarkable—he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately 


BON-BON. 487 


tall hat—there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder part 
of his breeches—and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable 
fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found 
himself thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom 
he had at all times entertained the most unqualified respect. He 
was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any 
intimation of his suspicions in regard to the true state of affairs. 
It was not his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honor 
he thus unexpectedly enjoyed ; but, by leading his guest into con- 
versation, to elicit some important ethical ideas, which might, in 
obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the 
human race, and at the same time immortalize himself—ideas 
which, I should have added, his visiter’s great age, and well-known 
proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled 
him to afford. 

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

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

Not so the philosopher: he was too.much a man of the world 
either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous 
trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little aston- 
ishment to see the white letters which formed the words “ Rituel 
Catholique” on the book in his guest’s pocket, momently chang- 


488 BON-BON. 


ing both their color and their import, and in a few seconds, in 
place of the oriyinal title, the words “ Régitre des Condamnés” 
blaze forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance, when 
Bon-Bon replied to his visiter’s remark, imparted to his manner 
an air of embarrassment which probably might not otherwise 
have been observed. 

“Why, sir,” said the philosopher, “why, sir, to speak sincere- 
ly—I believe you are—upon my word—the d——dest—that is 
to say, I think—I imagine—I have some faint—some very faint 
idea—of the remarkable honor z 

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

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

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

“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say ?—oh !—ah !— 
I perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in circulation, 
have given you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes !— 
true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place— 
that, you would say, is the head !—right—the head of a worm. 
To you likewise these optics are indispensable—yet I will con- 
vince you that my vision is more penetrating than your own. 


BON-BON. 489 


There is a cat I.see in the corner—a pretty cat—look at her— 
observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts— 
the thoughts, I say—the ideas—the reflections—which are being 
engendered in her pericranium?. There it is, now—you do not! 
She is thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profun- 
dity of her mind. She has just concluded that Iam the most dis- 
tinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial 
of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but 
to one of my profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely 
an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a toasting- 
iron or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optical affairs are in- 
dispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them well ;—my vision 
is the soul.” 

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

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

“ Cannot say that I 

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

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

“There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly de- 
clining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied—“ there was 


Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. 
21* ; 


490 BON-BON. 


You knew Plato, Bon-Bon ?—ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. 
He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me 
he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write down that 0 voug 
estiv avAcs. He said that he would do so, and went home, while 
I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me 
for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening 
back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher’s chair as he was 
inditing the ‘auAog.’ Giving the lamma a fillip with my finger, 
I turned it upside down. So the sentence now reads ‘o vouo' seriv 
auyos,’ and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his meta- 
physics.” ; 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* Tls ecrivaient sur la Philosophie, (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c’etait 
la Philosophie Grecque.— Condorcet. 


BON-BON. 491 


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

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

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

“No, sir!” 

“ Indubitably-——” 

“No, sir!” 

“ Indisputably-——” 

“No, sir!” 

“ Evidently ” 

“No, sir!” 

“ Incontrovertibly-——” 

“No, sir!” 

“ Hiccup! 

“No, sir!” 

“ And beyond all question, a ” 

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

“ Then—hiccup !—pray, sir—what—what is it ?” 

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

He continued : 

“There was the soul.of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes— 
racy: Plato—exquisite—not your Plato, but Plato the comic 
poet: your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus— 
faugh! Then let me see! there were Noevius, and Andronicus, 
and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Ca- 
tullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus,—dear Quinty ! as I called 


” 


492 BON-BON. 


him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted 
him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor these 
Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides 
will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite——Let us taste your 
Sauterne.” 

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

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

“ Hiccup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his Majesty proceeded : 

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

“ Shelled ! !” 

“ T mean, taken out of the carcass.” 

“What do you think of a—hiccup !—physician ?” . 

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

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

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


BON-BON, | 498 


“ How so?” 

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

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

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

The host swallowed aneeed _ bumper, by way of denoting 
thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visiter con- 
tinued : 

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

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

“The body, the body—well, what of the body ?—oh! ah! I per- 

ceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transac- 
tion. I. have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, 
and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were 
Cain and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and 
Pisistratus, and—and a thousand others, who never knew what it 
was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, 
these men adorned society. Why is n’t there A——, now, whom 
you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of all his facul- 
ties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who 
reasons more wittily? Who——but, stay! I have his ayreement 
in my pocket-book.” 
_ Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from 
it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a 
glimpse of the letters Machi—Maza—Robesp—with the words 
Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip 
of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words : 


494 . BON-BON. 


“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is 
unnecessary to specify, and in farther consideration of one thou- 
sand louis d’or, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby 
make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and 
appurtenance in the shadow called my soul.” (Signed) A..... - 
(Here his Majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself jus- 
tified in indicating more unequivocally.) 

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

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

“Only think of a—hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, dam- 
me!—hiccup!—humph! If Z would have been such a—hic- 
cup!—nincompoop. fy soul, Mr.—humph!” 

“ Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon ?” 

“ Yes, sir—hiccup!—my soul is”— 

What, sir?” 

“ No shadow, damme!” 

“Did you mean to say” — 

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

“ Did not intend to assert”-— 

: mi soul is—-hiccup! —peculiarly qualified for — “hiccup! 
—a— 

What, sir?” 

“Stew.” 

“ Ha!” 

“ Souffiée.” 

Eh ?” 

“ Fricassée.” 

“ Indeed !” 

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


* Quere—Arouet? 


BON-BON. 495 


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

“ Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty. 

“ Hic-cup !—-e-h ?” said the philosopher. 

“ Have no funds on hand.” 

What?” 

“ Besides, very unhandsome in me”— 

6 Sir iu 

“To take advantage of »— 

“ Hic-cup !” 

“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.” 

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


THE END. 


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