VOLUME 4.

THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY

What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.

Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the

world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of

Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the

main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there

are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.

For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only

proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is

indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public

sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a

history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred

within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty

thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,

with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination

into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should

ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.

By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am

enabled to say, positively, that the borough of

Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely

the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of

this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that

species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at

times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The

date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its

antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity

whatsoever.

Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I

confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude

of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,

some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which

ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of

Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be

cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege

Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro

Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still

countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the

summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not

choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,

and must refer the reader desirous of information to the

“Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,

also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,

Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;

wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of

Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the

foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,

there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always

existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the

borough can remember not the slightest difference in the

appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion

of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the

village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a

mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,

over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For

this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe

there is anything at all on the other side.

Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved

throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty

little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,

of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards

from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small

garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and

twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely

alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.

Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is

somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly

picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,

red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board

upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there

are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves

and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with

very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast

quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,

is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a

trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of

Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two

objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly

well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever

they find room for the chisel.

The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture

is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs

and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy

feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only

time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real

time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the

middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each

extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the

time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach

with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the

dial-plate of a watch.

The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking

fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot

over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of

the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old

lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a

sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress

is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and

very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,

not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,

and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings

to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a

bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In

her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right

she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there

stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its

tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.

The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden

attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have

three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to

their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes

with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of

mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little

dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and

then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is

occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the

cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,

which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him

look as handsome as the cat.

Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed

chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is

seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly

puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge

double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say

nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is

somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like

them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To

say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch

to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits

with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,

and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon

a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.

This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town

Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,

intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and

have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger

than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my

sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,

and have adopted these three important resolutions:

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

“That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”

and—

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

Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the

steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of

mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the

borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which

the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the

leather-bottomed arm-chairs.

The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of

the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its

faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There

is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty

is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of

Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the

matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a

thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of

antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have

been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was

just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the

borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When

the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its

obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and

responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond

of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.

All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less

respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the

most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of

any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,

and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.

His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his

eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other

old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only

double, but triple.

I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:

alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!

There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that

“no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that

the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It

wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when

there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the

ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted

universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a

leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of

dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the

clock in the steeple.

By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll

object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive

foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great

rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was

really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen

in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark

snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide

mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed

anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What

with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his

face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done

up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed

black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of

white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black

stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black

satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge

_chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times

as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from

which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of

fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the

greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a

sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!

To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an

audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right

into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited

no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day

would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric

handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his

swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous

indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a

fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the

remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his

steps.

The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to

get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a

minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the

midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and

then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged

himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town

Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a

state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at

once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big

_chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes

and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it

so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so

fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that

there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the

devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of

Vondervotteimittiss.

There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this

unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for

the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.

The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and

pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his

watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the

fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business

to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had

any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count

the strokes of the bell as it sounded.

“One!” said the clock.

“Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every

leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said

his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”

said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on

the tails of the cat and pig.

“Two!” continued the big bell; and

“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.

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

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

others.

“Eleven!” said the big one.

“Eleben!” assented the little ones.

“Twelve!” said the bell.

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

voices.

“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up

their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.

“Thirteen!” said he.

“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,

dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from

over their left knees.

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

Dirteen o’clock!!”

Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All

Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of

uproar.

“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been

ongry for dis hour!”

“Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has

been done to rags for this hour!”

“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,

“Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and

they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in

their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the

whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.

Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it

seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing

in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture

took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the

mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and

kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking

and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.

But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up

any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to

their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,

scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and

caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and

running under the petticoats of the people, and creating

altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is

possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters

still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the

steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now

and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the

smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was

lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the

bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising

such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On

his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all

time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the

nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”

Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in

disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and

fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore

the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting

that little fellow from the steeple.

LIONIZING

—— all people went

Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.

—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.

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

author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,

is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of

Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with

both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father

wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I

mastered before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to

understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently

conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a

Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.

Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed

a half dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step

with him into his study.

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

your existence?”

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

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

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

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

nose?”

“A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been

variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I

pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall

have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To

commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that

protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”

“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am

thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am

positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his

hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]

“Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time

you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing

than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me

downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God

bless you!”

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this

accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided

by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it

a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology

forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.

“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.

“Great man!” said Bentley.

“Divine soul!” said Fraser.

“One of us!” said Blackwood.

“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

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

“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these

people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an

artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the

Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of

This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness

of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.

“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.

“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.

“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

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

“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.

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

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

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

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

“I do,” said I, blowing it well.

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

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

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

microscope.

“None,” said I, turning it up.

“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the

beauty of the manœuvre.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Precisely,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Just so,” said I.

“You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he

drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I

engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the

ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the

proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me

to dinner.

We were all lions and _recherchés_.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,

Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,

Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill

Health.”

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

philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;

bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive

intelligence and homoömeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;

heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;

Homousios and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned

Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à

la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange

jellies _en mosaïques_.

There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and

Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.

George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and

Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.

Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his

eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of

Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of

Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of

the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of

opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in

Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking

that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in

the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth

was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of

green horns.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the

eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four

orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches

of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;

of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of

Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty

tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all

about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aëriforms,

fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist

and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about

blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about

cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about

antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of

myself;—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up

my nose, and I spoke of myself.

“Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.

“Superb!” said his guests;—and next morning her Grace of

Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

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

under the chin.

“Upon honor,” said I.

“Nose and all?” she asked.

“As I live,” I replied.

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

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

“Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”

“Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two,

and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to

suffocation.

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

“He is coming!” said somebody farther up.

“He is coming!” said somebody farther still.

“He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little

love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice

upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.

“_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti.

“_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto.

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

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

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

Bluddennuff.

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

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

This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At

Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called

upon my friends.

“_Bête!_” said the first.

“Fool!” said the second.

“Dolt!” said the third.

“Ass!” said the fourth.

“Ninny!” said the fifth.

“Noodle!” said the sixth.

“Be off!” said the seventh.

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

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

“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in

hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.

You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none.

You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant

you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to

the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no

competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”

X-ING A PARAGRAB

As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and

as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows

that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of

the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor.

Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of

which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he

justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his

virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to

convince him that it was ‘anything else.’

I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and

the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when,

abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he

migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some

place of a similar title, out West.

I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up

his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the

impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed

in that particular section of the country. In establishing ‘The

Tea-Pot’ he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel

confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence

in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in

Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John

Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there

quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the

‘Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.’ It was solely,

therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr.

Bullet-head found himself in Alex—— suppose we call it Nopolis,

‘for short’—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to

keep up his character for obst—for firmness, and remain. So

remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,

etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the

‘Gazette,’ and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued

the first number of ‘The Alexan’—that is to say, of ‘The Nopolis

Tea-Pot’—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the

new paper.

The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say

severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as

for the editor of ‘The Gazette,’ he was torn all to pieces in

particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery

that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon

John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I

cannot pretend to give all the ‘Tea-Pot’s’ paragraphs verbatim,

but one of them runs thus:

‘Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way

is a genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world

coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’

A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a

bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups

of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets.

Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the

dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:

‘We quote from “The Tea-Pot” of yesterday the subjoined

paragraph: “Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh,

goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” Why, the fellow is all O! That

accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is

neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We

really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t

an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he

came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as

much there as he does here? “O! it is pitiful.”’

The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous

insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the

eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much

incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have

imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to

desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write

a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see

that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was

mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of

Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he,

Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole

paragraph—aye! a whole article—in which that contemptible vowel

should not once—not even once—make its appearance. But no;—that

would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He,

Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the

caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a

thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as

O-wy as O-wy could be.

Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great

Touch-and-go, in the next ‘Tea-Pot,’ came out merely with this

simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy

affair:

‘The editor of the “Tea-Pot” has the honor of advising the editor

of the “Gazette” that he (the “Tea-Pot”) will take an opportunity

in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the “Gazette”)

that he (the “Tea-Pot”) both can and will be _his own master_, as

regards style;—he (the “Tea-Pot”) intending to show him (the

“Gazette”) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with

which the criticism of him (the “Gazette”) inspires the

independent bosom of him (the “Tea-Pot”) by composing for the

especial gratification (?) of him (the “Gazette”) a leading

article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—the emblem

of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of

him (the “Gazette”) shall most certainly not be avoided by his

(the “Gazette’s”) most obedient, humble servant, the “Tea-Pot.”

“So much for Buckingham!”’

In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather

than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf

ear to all entreaties for ‘copy,’ and simply requesting his

foreman to ‘go to the d——l,’ when he (the foreman) assured him

(the ‘Tea-Pot’!) that it was high time to ‘go to press’: turning

a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up

until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the

composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—

‘So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another

time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know

you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your

odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl—go!

You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John don’t do so! You’ve _got_ to go,

you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you

here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re no

homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a

poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or

frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you

fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t frown so—don’t! Don’t

hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord, John, how

you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of

an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!’

Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great

Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly,

composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS.

to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,

retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.

Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs

to his ‘case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a

commencement at ‘setting’ the MS. ‘up.’

In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was ‘So,’—he

made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph

with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw

himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but

who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without

the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his

astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles,

that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the

bottom of an empty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o

hole; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he

found _that_, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar

predicament. Awe-stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the

foreman.

‘Sir!’ said he, gasping for breath, ‘I can’t never set up nothing

without no o’s.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ growled the foreman, who was in a

very ill humor at being kept so late.

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

little un!’

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

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but one of them ere “G’zette”

devils is bin prowling ’bout here all night, and I spect he’s

gone and cabbaged ‘em every one.’

‘Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt of it,’ replied the foreman,

getting purple with rage ‘but I tell you what you do, Bob, that’s

a good boy—you go over the first chance you get and hook every

one of their i’s and (d——n them!) their izzards.’

‘Jist so,’ replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—‘I’ll be into

‘em, I’ll let ‘em know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that

ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know—else there’ll be the

d—l to pay, and—’

‘And not a bit of pitch hot,’ interrupted the foreman, with a

deep sigh, and an emphasis on the ‘bit.’ ‘Is it a long paragraph,

Bob?’

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

‘Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to

press,’ said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work;

‘just stick in some other letter for o; nobody’s going to read

the fellow’s trash anyhow.’

‘Wery well,’ replied Bob, ‘here goes it!’ and off he hurried to

his case, muttering as he went: ‘Considdeble vell, them ere

expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to

gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their gizzards! Vell!

this here’s the chap as is just able for to do it.’ The fact is

that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he

was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way.

The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in

printing-offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but

the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it

almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the

letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather

the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in

the old times—long enough to render the substitution in question

an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have

considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case

of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed.

‘I shell have to x this ere paragrab,’ said he to himself, as he

read it over in astonishment, ‘but it’s jest about the awfulest

o-wy paragrab I ever did see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and

to press it went x-ed.

Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by

reading in ‘The Tea-Pot,’ the following extraordinary leader:

‘Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther

time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw

yxu’re xut? Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur

xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx!

Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, yxu

knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here,

yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t gx yxu’re nx

hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a

pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr

frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu

fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t

hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw

yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse

xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a

bxwl!’

The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article,

is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by

the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in

the hieroglyphics; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head’s

residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that

gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could

tell how; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.

Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at

length subsided; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a

medley of opinion about this unhappy affair.

One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.

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

of fancy.

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

A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee’s design to X-press, in

a general way, his X-asperation.

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

That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to

all; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was

some talk about lynching the other one.

The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was,

simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town

mathematician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a

problem. X, everybody knew, was an unknown quantity; but in this

case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of

X.

The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having

‘X-ed the paragrab’), did not meet with so much attention as I

think it deserved, although it was very openly and very

fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt

about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr.

Bullet-head ‘never could be persuaded fur to drink like other

folks, but vas continually a-svigging o’ that ere blessed XXX

ale, and as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage,

and made him X (cross) in the X-treme.’

METZENGERSTEIN

Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.

—_Martin Luther_

Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why

then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to

say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the

interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the

doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that

is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I

assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says

of all our unhappiness—“_vient de ne pouvoir être seuls_.” {*1}

But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which

were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very

essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The

soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and

intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps

sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que

la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux._”

The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at

variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so

illustrious, mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. The

origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an

ancient prophecy—“A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as

the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall

triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”

To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But

more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to

consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were

contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs

of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom

friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might

look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the

palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal

magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable

feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What

wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,

should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two

families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of

hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied

anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful

house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter

animosity by the weaker and less influential.

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at

the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,

remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal

antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of

horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,

nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the

dangers of the chase.

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet

of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the

Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that

time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long

period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in

a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old

principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.

From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of

his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,

entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were

seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were

without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the

“Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was

never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit

of fifty miles.

Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so

well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was

afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,

for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded

Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most

enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant

treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals

quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no

punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove

any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula.

On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle

Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous

opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to

the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and

enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young

nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast

and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of

Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which

swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and

majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,

rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly

seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the

wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal

supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the

dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular

war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled

the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,

again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days

gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the

strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the

gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or

perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of

audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an

enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the

tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his

rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood

motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited

rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became

aware of the direction which his glance had, without his

consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the

contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming

anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It

was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent

feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed

the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it

appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the

fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming

suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his

attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming

stables upon the windows of the apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned

mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,

the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its

position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in

compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now

extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The

eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human

expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and

the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full

view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.

Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door.

As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the

chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the

quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as

he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact

position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless

and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into

the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered

three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril

of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a

gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

“Whose horse? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a

querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware

that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very

counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

“He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,

“at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,

all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of

the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the

old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.

But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is

strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow

escape from the flames.

“The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his

forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of

course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at

the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,

and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,

as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as

you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable

character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,

“perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even

the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”

“You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,

is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the

case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence

of a noble of your family.”

“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of

the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and

a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account

of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,

in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,

into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but

from the low tone of voice in which these latter were

communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of

the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a

variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,

and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his

countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber

should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own

possession.

“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter

Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after

the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had

adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,

down the long avenue which extended from the château to the

stables of Metzengerstein.

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

say you?”

“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will

be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How

died he?”

“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his

hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”

“I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and

deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

“Indeed;” repeated the vassal.

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

château.

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward

demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von

Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every

expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of

many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still

less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the

neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the

limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was

utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,

and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually

bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long

time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our

festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a

hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”

“Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic

answers.

These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious

nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in

time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count

Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron

might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he

disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not

wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to

be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and

merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to

become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.

The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the

conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for

the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his

atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period

immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,

who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.

Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)

did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary

ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were

current among the multitude.

Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired

charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from

every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like

propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,

a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead

hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the

young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that

colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded

with his own spirit.

There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late

events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania

of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space

passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and

was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest

expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no

particular _name_ for the animal, although all the rest in his

collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His

stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with

regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the

owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the

enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed,

that although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he

fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in

arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no

one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had,

during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,

actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of

peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and

high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting

unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to

the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the

sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which

intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and

phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal

caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from

the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when

the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the

rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking

eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to

doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on

the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his

horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little

page, whose deformities were in everybody’s way, and whose

opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas

are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his

master never vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and

almost imperceptible shudder, and that, upon his return from

every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of

triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy

slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting

in hot haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An

occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his

return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his

domestics, when, after some hours’ absence, the stupendous and

magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were

discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under

the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a

progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building

were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly

around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful

object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved

how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings

of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought

about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the

main entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an

unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an

impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,

uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive

struggle of his frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but

no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated

lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of

terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded

sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the

shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge

the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering

staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid

the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm

sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building

like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere,

shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke

settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal

figure of—_a horse_.

THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER

During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme

southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles

of a certain _Maison de Santé_ or private mad-house, about which

I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had

never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too

good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a

gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days

before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look

through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in

the first place, and, in the second, a very usual horror at the

sight of a lunatic. He begged me, however, not to let any mere

courtesy towards himself interfere with the gratification of my

curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I

might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the

next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be

some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and

mentioned my fears on this point. He replied that, in fact,

unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur

Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty

might be found to exist, as the regulations of these private

mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws. For

himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the

acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride

up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the

subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.

I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a

grass-grown by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself

in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this

dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the _Maison de

Santé_ came in view. It was a fantastic château, much

dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and

neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,

checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,

grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.

As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and

the visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward,

this man came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him

cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur

Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the

old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity,

dignity, and authority which was very impressive.

My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect

the establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance

that he would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw

him no more.

When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and

exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of

refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical

instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,

singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful

woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me

with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner

subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in

her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not

unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited

in my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and

admiration.

I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard

was managed upon what is vulgarly termed the “system of

soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—that even confinement

was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,

were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were

permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the ordinary

apparel of persons in right mind.

Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said

before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane;

and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her

eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my

remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought

would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She

replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and

even her original observations were marked with the soundest good

sense, but a long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had

taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity, and I

continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with

which I commenced it.

Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit,

wine, and other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon

afterward leaving the room. As she departed I turned my eyes in

an inquiring manner toward my host.

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

accomplished woman.”

“I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of

course you will know how to excuse me. The excellent

administration of your affairs here is well understood in Paris,

and I thought it just possible, you know—”

“Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you

for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find

so much of forethought in young men; and, more than once, some

unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence of

thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former

system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the

privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused

to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to

inspect the house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system

of exclusion; and none obtained access to the premises upon whose

discretion I could not rely.”

“While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating

his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing

system’ of which I have heard so much is no longer in force?”

“It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded

to renounce it forever.”

“Indeed! you astonish me!”

“We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary

to return to the old usages. The danger of the soothing system

was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages have been much

overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a

fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational

humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid

us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for

yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing

practice—with its details.”

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

hand.”

“I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which

the patients were _menagés_—humored. We contradicted no fancies

which entered the brains of the mad. On the contrary, we not only

indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent

cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so

touches the feeble reason of the madman as the argumentum ad

absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied themselves

chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to

accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it

to be a fact—and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week

than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this manner

a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”

“But was this species of acquiescence all?”

“By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind,

such as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards,

certain classes of books, and so forth. We affected to treat each

individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the

word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each

lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose

confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to

gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense

with an expensive body of keepers.”

“And you had no punishments of any kind?”

“None.”

“And you never confined your patients?”

“Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing

to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to

a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect the rest, and

there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with

the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to

the public hospitals.”

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

“Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its

dangers. It is now, happily, exploded throughout all the _Maisons

de Santé_ of France.”

“I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I

made sure that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for

mania existed in any portion of the country.”

“You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time

will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is

going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others.

Believe nothing you hear, and only one-half that you see. Now

about our _Maisons de Santé_, it is clear that some ignoramus has

misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently

recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take

you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my

opinion, and in that of every one who has witnessed its

operation, is incomparably the most effectual as yet devised.”

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

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

some measure.”

In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or

two, during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of

the place.

“I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To

a sensitive mind there is always more or less of the shocking in

such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil your appetite for

dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal a la Menehoult,

with cauliflowers in _velouté_ sauce—after that a glass of Clos

de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied.”

At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a

large _salle à manger_, where a very numerous company were

assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They were, apparently,

people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their

habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking

somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the _vielle

cour_. I noticed that at least two-thirds of these guests were

ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what

a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many

females, for example, whose age could not have been less than

seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,

bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms

shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very few of the dresses

were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the

wearers. In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to

whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but

my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,

with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much

too large for her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive

expression. When I had first seen her, she was attired, most

becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in

short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,

caused me to recur to my original idea of the “soothing system,”

and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive

me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable

feelings during the repast, at finding myself dining with

lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris, that

the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people,

with a vast number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon

conversing with several members of the company, my apprehensions

were immediately and fully dispelled.

The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable

and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about

it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a

carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were

without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely

fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of

our ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in

itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three

sides of the parallelogram, the door being at the other. There

were no less than ten windows in all.

The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and

more than loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely

barbaric. There were meats enough to have feasted the Anakim.

Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an

expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little

taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to

quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a

multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were

deposited upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was

possible to find a place. There were several active servants in

attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of the

apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes,

trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at

intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises,

which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford much

entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.

Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of

the bizarre about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up

of all kinds of persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts

of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be

quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly

at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent appetite,

did justice to the good cheer set before me.

The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The

ladies, as usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly

all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of

good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to

speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;

and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a

favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were

told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients.

“We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat

at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the

way, is it not especially singular how often this particular

crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely

an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot.

Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to

polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”

“And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long

ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a

donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite

true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep

him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but

thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon

his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his

heels—so—so—”

“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here

interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please

keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it

necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style?

Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon

my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate

imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”

“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus

addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending.

Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of

taking wine with you.”

Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much

ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.

“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing

myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.

Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”

At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in

depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,

containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,

informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured

me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set

upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English

fashion of dressing a hare.

“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not

particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not

find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,

however, and try some of the rabbit.”

There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what

appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious

morceau, which I can recommend.

“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and

give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”

“This what?” said I.

“This rabbit _au-chat_.”

“Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself

to some of the ham.”

There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the

tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their

rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their

_cat-au-rabbit_ either.

“And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of

the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had

been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a

patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained

himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in

his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the

middle of his leg.”

“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but

not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,

with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who

took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with

a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”

Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb

in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the

popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the

tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which

lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of

champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to

Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the

conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.

“And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself

for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree.

I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed

myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural

airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only

observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak

thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B

flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking

a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled

up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,

why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you

would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”

“I have no doubt of it,” I said.

“And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,

who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed

because he could not take himself between his own finger and

thumb.”

“And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular

genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin.

He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the

cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means

sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been

very capital eating indeed!”

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

Maillard.

“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho!

ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,

_mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not

understand him to the letter.”

“And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was

Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He

grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two

heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the

other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the

top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the

mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he

would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a

man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,

and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap

upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”

Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his

shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he

ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his

chair.

“And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was

Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in

fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether

irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a

tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin.

He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this

manner—so—”

Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,

performed an exactly similar office for himself.

“But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your

Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;

for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum?

The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,

as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common

sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her

acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some

accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,

she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious

effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious!

Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo

dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here

interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct

yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table

forthwith—take your choice.”

The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame

Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just

given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed

at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable

in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was

my beautiful girl of the little parlor.

“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was

really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie

Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young

lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and

wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of

inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.

You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and

then so—so—and then—”

“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at

once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,

very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons

were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle

Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean

Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly

accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some

portion of the main body of the _château_.

My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but

the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of

reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all

grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their

seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for

a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly

nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time

with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of

the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,

and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to

inquire the cause of the disturbance.

“A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to

these things, and care really very little about them. The

lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one

starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at

night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_

yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;

when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”

“And how many have you in charge?”

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

“Principally females, I presume?”

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

you.”

“Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics

were of the gentler sex.”

“It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were

about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less

than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very

much, as you see.”

“Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the

gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.

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

company at once.

“Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great

rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for

nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to

the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an

excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,

until the end of the entertainment.

“And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending

over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just

spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,

is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”

“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what

can you mean?”

“Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for

granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,

eh?”

“_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old

friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has

her little eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old

women—all _very_ old women—are more or less eccentric!”

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

ladies and gentlemen—”

“Are my friends and keepers,” interupted Monsieur Maillard,

drawing himself up with _hauteur_,—“my very good friends and

assistants.”

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

“Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women;

they are the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of

their own, you know; their bright eyes have a marvellous

effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd,

eh?—they are a little queer, eh?—don’t you think so?”

“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very

prudish, to be sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we

please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing, you know—”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”

“And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you

know—a little strong—you understand, eh?”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I

understand you to say that the system you have adopted, in place

of the celebrated soothing system, was one of very rigorous

severity?”

“By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the

treatment—the medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to

the patients than otherwise.”

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

“Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor

Tarr, of whom you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are

modifications in my plan which I am happy to acknowledge as

belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I

mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”

“I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never

even heard the names of either gentleman before.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair

abruptly, and uplifting his hands. “I surely do not hear you

aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had never heard

either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor

Fether?”

“I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the

truth should be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I

feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted with the works of

these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their

writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.

Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have

really—made me ashamed of myself!”

And this was the fact.

“Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my

hand,—“join me now in a glass of Sauterne.”

We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They

chatted—they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand

absurdities—the fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the

trombones bellowed like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the

whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the wines

gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in

petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some

bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our

conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an

ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice

of a fish from the bottom of Niagara Falls.

“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned

something before dinner about the danger incurred in the old

system of soothing. How is that?”

“Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger

indeed. There is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and,

in my opinion as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Professor

Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large

unattended. A lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a

time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His

cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in

view, he conceals his design with a marvellous wisdom; and the

dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the

metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of

mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high

time to put him in a straitjacket.”

“But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your

own experience—during your control of this house—have you had

practical reason to think liberty hazardous in the case of a

lunatic?”

“Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no

very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this

very house. The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was then in

operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved

remarkably well—especially so—any one of sense might have known

that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,

that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough,

one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and

foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if

they were the lunatics, by the lunatics themselves, who had

usurped the offices of the keepers.”

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

life!”

“Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a

lunatic—who, by some means, had taken it into his head that he

had invented a better system of government than any ever heard of

before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his

invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the

patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the

reigning powers.”

“And he really succeeded?”

“No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange

places. Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but

the keepers were shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am

sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”

“But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This

condition of things could not have long existed. The country

people in the neighborhood—visitors coming to see the

establishment—would have given the alarm.”

“There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He

admitted no visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a

very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom he had no reason to

be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of

variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had

gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his

business.”

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

“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I

can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly

season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby

clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The

cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these

madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived

well, I can tell you.”

“And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment

which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”

“Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have

already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment

was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was

a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in

fact it was delicious—it was—”

Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of

yells, of the same character as those which had previously

disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from

persons rapidly approaching.

“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most

undoubtedly broken loose.”

“I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now

becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,

before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the

windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some

persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room.

The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and

the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence.

A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,

to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board.

I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the

orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly

too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their

feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,

broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they

performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy

superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.

Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and

glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been

restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly

settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a

very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same

moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to

spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms

outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all

the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that

happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible

popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it

proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that

delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man

croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every

note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the

continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old

friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor

lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,

was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out

incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”

And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no

resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was

offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten

windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in.

But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with

which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down

among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and

howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be

chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of

Good Hope.

I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa

and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during

which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in

the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this

tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account

of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been

merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,

some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the

establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient.

This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced

me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,

were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut

up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more

than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had

generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which

constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.

The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping

through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.

The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been

resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with

Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital

one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and

gave no trouble at all—not the least.”

I have only to add that, although I have searched every library

in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,

I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at

procuring an edition.

THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.

LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.”

By Himself

I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that

Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that

I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as

well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels.

But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary

sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I

cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my

earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so

constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to

admit the naturalness of the interest which it has everywhere

excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has

inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who

achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such

landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore,

in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling

“Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,”) to

give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first

steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the

pinnacle of human renown.

Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My

father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of

his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city

of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people

of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which

inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my

own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the

rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august

mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first

moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that

ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the

“Gad-Fly,” in the intervals of the important process just

mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices,

an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob,” (so

called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which

effusion the editor of the “Fly” was remunerated with a regal

liberality by the firm of Thomas Bob & company, merchant-barbers.

The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into

me, I say, the divine _afflatus_. I resolved at once to become a

great man, and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very

evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.

“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It

is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I

would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon

me and aid me to be great!”

“My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened

Thingum after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,”

he said, raising me from my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my boy,

you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You

have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains.

This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a

lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a

politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge wisely;—the trade

of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as

most of the editors are, by the by,—why you will kill two birds

with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I

will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming

dictionary; and a copy of the ‘Gad-Fly.’ I suppose you would

scarcely demand any more.”

“I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with

enthusiasm. “Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by

making you the father of a genius.”

Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately

upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical

labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate

elevation to the editorial chair.

In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The

Oil-of-Bob” rather a draw-back than otherwise. Their splendor

more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their

excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with

my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At

length there came into my head one of those exquisitely original

ideas which now and then _will_ permeate the brain of a man of

genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into

execution. From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very

remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and

altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them

to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a

translation of one Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable

neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a

parcel of brats. From another which contained a good many old

plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same

manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about

“angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and “goblins damned,” and

more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the

composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a

Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle

exactly—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’

wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I

recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or

two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and although a blind man

has no business to write about light, still the verses were

sufficiently good in their way.

Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of

them “Oppodeldoc,” (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up

nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the

four principal Magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and

prompt pay. The result of this well conceived plan, however, (the

success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life,)

served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled,

and gave the _coup-de-grace_ (as they say in France,) to my

nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals.)

The fact is, that each and every one of the Magazines in

question, gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the

“Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The “Hum-Drum” gave him a

dressing after this fashion:

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has sent us a long _tirade_

concerning a bedlamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great

many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed

without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not

to say _flat_. ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is entirely devoid

of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not

only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc,’

(whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his

twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert

nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,

however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the

balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”

All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon

“Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in

small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of

bitterness is there not involved!

But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the

“Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:

“We have received a most singular and insolent communication from

a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus

desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so

named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)

we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about

‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a

Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for

this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’

No sir—no! We pay for nothing of _that_ sort. Apply to the

‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These

_periodicals_ will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may

send them—and as undoubtedly _promise_ to pay for it.”

This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this

instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the

“Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled

“_periodicals_”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them

to the heart.

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

“Some _individual_, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’

(to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often

applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty _verses_ commencing

after this fashion:

Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring

Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is respectfully informed that

there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the

daily habit of composing better _lines_. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’

will not _scan_. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to _count_. But why he

should have conceived the idea that _we_, (of all others, _we!_)

would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly

beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good

enough for the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’—things that are in the practice of publishing

‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’

(whoever he is,) has even the assurance to demand _pay_ for this

drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) know—is he aware that

we could not be paid to insert it?”

As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and

smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered

at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me

left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience _compassion_ for

the poor fellow. But the “Goosetherumfoodle” showed, if possible,

less mercy than the “Lollipop.” It was the “Goosetherumfoodle”

that said:

“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly

enough to fancy that _we_ will print and _pay for_ a medley of

incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to

us, and which commences with the following most _intelligible_

line:

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

“We say, ‘most _intelligible_.’ ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)

will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘_hail_’ can be

‘_holy light_’ We always regarded it as _frozen rain_. Will he

inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same

time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is,) and an

‘offspring?’—which latter term, (if we understand any thing about

English,) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small

babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant

upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has

the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only

‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) _pay for them!_

“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish

this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his

effusion, _verbatim et literatim_, as he has written it. We could

inflict no punishment so severe, and we _would_ inflict it, but

for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.

“Let ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) send any future _composition_

of like character to the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ _They_ will ‘insert’ it. _They_ ‘insert’ every month

just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with

impunity.”

This made an end of me; and as for the “Hum-Drum,” the

“Rowdy-Dow,” and the “Lollipop,” I never could comprehend how

they survived it. The putting _them_ in the smallest possible

_minion_, (that was the rub—thereby insinuating their

lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood looking down upon them in

gigantic capitals!—oh it was _too_ bitter!—it was wormwood—it was

gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared

no pains to have the “Goosetherumfoodle” prosecuted. It might

have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to

Animals.” As for “Oppodeldoc,” (whoever he was), I had by this

time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him

no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got

not a kick more than he deserved.

The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in

the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the

second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the

two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least,

be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore,

and determined to prosecute the “entirely original,” (as they say

on the covers of the magazines,) at whatever cost of study and

pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant

stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” and

resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in

rivalry of what had already been done.

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

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

Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes

to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had

recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature

thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

_“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’

Is all sorts of a job._

“(Signed) Snob.”

To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I

“have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the

mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its

merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is

impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I

was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the

only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My

father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there

were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I

dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he

did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due

deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages

of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with

resignation.

In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of

seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with

the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between

brackets:

_We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable

stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their

sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them

without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on

the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the

“Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._

P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which

envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal

interview?

All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,

rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it

observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of

mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of

the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman

at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly

blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in

him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and

inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon

the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat

the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies

of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no

means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with

much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few

trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my

esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the _tapis_,

and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or

to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that

unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of

the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon

disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the

personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated

the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very

little better than he should be. He had written infamous things.

He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had

composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a

farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he

had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon

himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”

Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the

pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my

unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that

I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a

rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon

himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal

interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be

the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.)

Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion

of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to

suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught

to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the

“Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon

being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted

contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief

poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”

As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his

eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing

his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated

elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he

remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his

forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had

nearly made an end of what I had to say.

Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much

overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but

keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the

duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so

alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the

bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have

altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a

table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in

the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to

imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his

features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.

“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending

myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—_very?_”

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

“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more!

Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very

just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_

contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom

to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the

_recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he

emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are

_paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse.

In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to

disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no

doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of

the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving

our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange

our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I

really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this

explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the

tears stood in his eyes.

Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause

of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to

apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect

coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of

the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat

speech, I took leave.

One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found

myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by

reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,

it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number

of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly

satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,

of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of

the critiques.

The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the

deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,

spoke as follows:

“‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine

surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In

the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and

excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit

of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced

rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’

and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,

but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this

celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,

is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation

of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth

during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it

disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is

reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a

half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as

editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob

and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the

Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from

a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is

to say, my _nom de guerre_—in priority of station to that of the

great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be

deserved.

My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the

“Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and

independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and

subservience to the givers of dinners:

“The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its

contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the

splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its

literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all

other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine

can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we

can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and

its subscription list has increased one-third during the last

fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,

for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.

Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late

‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

“Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,

(besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,

and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most

valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by

Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from

the title of this incomparable _bijou_, that it bears any

similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain

contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears

polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited

universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the

evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it

in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr.

Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum,

(after whom he is named,) and otherwise connected with the most

illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq.,

is an opulent merchant in Smug. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more

especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so

proverbially pure as the “Toad.” The word “balderdash,” as

applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly

pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “_bijou_,” however,

used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some

degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They

were not sufficiently _prononcés_, (as we have it in France).

I had hardly finished reading the “Toad,” when a friend placed in

my hands a copy of the “Mole,” a daily, enjoying high reputation

for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and

for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The

“Mole” spoke of the “Lollipop” as follows:

“We have just received the ‘Lollipop’ for October, and must say

that never before have we perused any single number of any

periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak

advisedly. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow’ and the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’ must look well to their laurels. These

prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,

but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this

celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous

expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a

circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased

one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,

monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it

upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than

sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the

‘Dish-Clout.’

“The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the

eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,

after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we

prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who

writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict

will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,

is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of

this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the

distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem

is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as

some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has

already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the

same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the

compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”

The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the

“Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which

occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might

have been better written “_odious and_ contemptible _wretch,

villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,

I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,

of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently

_thought_ of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”

the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the

“Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent

of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which

spoke thus:

“The ‘Lollipop!!’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the

public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to

rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the

‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make

any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may

excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us

the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its

evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure

it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its

subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the

last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for

contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the

fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than

eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary

Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill

Katy-Didn’t.’

“The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,

those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there

are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,

Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,

Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The

world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of

genius.

“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting

universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,

if possible, even more applause than it has received. The

‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and

art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,

although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?)

similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable

penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the

capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints

about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not

to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,

we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a

scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_

I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the

concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the

yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance

with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of

the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness

of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for

the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the

“Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any

one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real

design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the

“Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more

pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words

“penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were

epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be

worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst

stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is

meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who

could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that

of glorifying with feeble abuse?

What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no

business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble

manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed

themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be

coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely

“a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I

made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the

“Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out.

Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I

could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor

of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at

length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.

I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory

to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and

demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him

my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and

cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he

really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided

as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He

declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me

from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the

“Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more

especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and

scholar.”

Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really

appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested

to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,

advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for

the “Lollipop.”

I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how

it was expected that I should play him.

Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)

but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of

astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas

Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that

the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing

tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise

using-up the herd of poor-devil authors.

I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly

resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab

desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in

the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a

specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of

the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the

“Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less

onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_

altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and

well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of

“Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New

Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s

Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”

These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,

throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that

might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard

phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with

longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through

without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When

called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap

with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be

reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more

care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds

in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a

shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;

where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was

captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple

expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the

world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I

was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of

the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as

a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the

Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were

up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some

measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of

accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis

Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether

stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any

extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,

whether on their heads, or on their heels.

What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication

of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to

determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept

himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously

from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of

him since.

This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies

appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took

me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas

Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford

me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.

“My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect

your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When

I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will

make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my

counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”

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

Latin)—who?—where?”

“Your father,” said he.

“Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”

“You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and

that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must

cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”

continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he

_won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane

him, or something of that kind.”

“What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in

the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by

tweaking his nose?”

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

answered:

“I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer

sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far

as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,

upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the

operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with

your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to

prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades.

After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any

more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice

in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time

the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an

assault.”

I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me

personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.

Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result

was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little

independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was,

for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort; but at length, by

carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters

went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to

be brought about. I say “thing”—be it observed—for they tell me

the Latin for it is _rem_. By the way, talking of Latin, can any

one tell me the meaning of _quocunque_—or what is the meaning of

_modo?_

My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth

of the “Snapping-Turtle”:—that was all. The thing was _done_, and

I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements

afterwards, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the plan.

They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink,

and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus

completed a Magazine article, I gave it, for appellation,

“Fol-Lol, _by the Author of_ ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it

to the “Goosetherumfoodle.” That journal, however, having

pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly Notices to

Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by

Thingum Bob, Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ _and_

Editor of the ‘Snapping-Turtle.’” With this amendment, I

re-enclosed it to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and, while I awaited a

reply, published daily, in the “Turtle,” six columns of what may

be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the

literary merits of the “Goosetherumfoodle,” as well as of the

personal character of the editor of the “Goosetherumfoodle.” At

the end of a week the “Goosetherumfoodle” discovered that it had,

by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article, headed

‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle’ and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with

a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of

Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’”

The “Goosetherumfoodle” deeply “regretted this very natural

accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the _genuine_

“Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the very next number of the Magazine.

The fact is, I _thought_—I _really_ thought—I thought at the

time—I thought _then_—and have no reason for thinking otherwise

_now_—that the “Goosetherumfoodle” _did_ make a mistake. With the

best intentions in the world, I never knew any thing that made as

many singular mistakes as the “Goosetherumfoodle.” From that day

I took a liking to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and the result was I

soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not

fail to expatiate upon them, in the “Turtle,” whenever a fitting

opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar

coincidence—as one of those positively _remarkable_ coincidences

which set a man to serious thinking—that just such a total

revolution of opinion—just such entire _bouleversement_, (as we

say in French,)—just such thorough _topsiturviness_, (if I may be

permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as

happened, _pro_ and _con_, between myself on the one part, and

the “Goosetherumfoodle” on the other, did actually again happen,

in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar

circumstances, in the case of myself and the “Rowdy-Dow,” and in

the case of myself and the “Hum-Drum.”

Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length

consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus

may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant

and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now

enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, “I have made

history”—“_J’ai fait l’histoire_.”

I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now

record, my actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are

familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to detail

how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the “Lollipop”—how I merged

this journal in the “Hum-Drum”—how again I made purchase of the

“Rowdy-Dow,” thus combining the three periodicals—how, lastly, I

effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all

the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine, known

everywhere as the

“Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,

and

goosetherumfoodle.”

Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the

uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common

newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the

immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr.

Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am

meek and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it?—this

indescribable something which men will persist in terming

“genius?” I agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but _diligence_

after all.

Look at _me!_—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods,

did I _not_ write? I knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered

to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight

oil. You should have seen me—you _should_. I leaned to the right.

I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon

end. I sat _tete baissée_, (as they have it in the Kickapoo,)

bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all,

I—_wrote_. Through joy and through sorrow, I—_wrote_. Through

hunger and through thirst, I—_wrote_. Through good report and

through ill report, I—_wrote_. Through sunshine and through

moonshine, I—_wrote. What_ I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The

_style!_—that was the thing. I caught it from

Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—— and I am giving you a specimen of it now.

HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE

“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”

—_Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler._

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

Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies

ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a

vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the

soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”

which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my

new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and

the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of

orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should

look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.

Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.

Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we

expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about

“blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the

first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!

I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,

and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always

calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as

Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that

consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia

and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me

Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.

As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very

Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding

secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,

Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,

Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the

title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an

empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)

We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the

fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,

Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.

Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.

spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale

Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny

is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me

the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.

R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,

Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,

Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,

To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a

decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have

it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I

can’t see what he means.

Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous

exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met

with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the

members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers

read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than

buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no

investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no

investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to

that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no

fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no

reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call

spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as

cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I

know better.]

When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a

better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how

well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.

E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in

Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the

finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the

pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our

model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice

accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter

to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only

goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political

articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.

Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of

tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for

orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a

third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely

cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but

“Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”

“Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and

“Slang-Whang.”

But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous

articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.

Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and

what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of

writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is

only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the

society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of

composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as

the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to

him the wishes of the society, he received me with great

civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation

of the whole process.

“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic

appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green

agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,

“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer

of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with

a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he

continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and

solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!

Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume

upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius

ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may

take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is

never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to

which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”

He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the

conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,

too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He

seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.

“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you

to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,

yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let

me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record

of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was

out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,

and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born

and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an

Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep

philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good

spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of

flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.

They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It

was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands

and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have

believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of

it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about

a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and

well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The

Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and

indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And

then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss

Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.

It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the

clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a

funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out

his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are

the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,

be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to

you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss

Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”

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

“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.

But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing

what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the

sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I

consider the best for all purposes.

“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape

as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was

a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if

you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed

up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will

have to be contented with simply imagining some similar

misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual

fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an

experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’

you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the

purpose.”

Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would

go and hang myself forthwith.

“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat

hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s

pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions

will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in

your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over

by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.

But to proceed.

“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the

tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,

the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.

But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately

come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:

Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.

And never a paragraph.

“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.

Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be

all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very

similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This

is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too

great a hurry to think.

“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big

words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic

schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about

objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named

Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let

slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the

trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say

that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the

‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe

Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite

and—and—and frank.

“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall

mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone

heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into

the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody

else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.

A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.

Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,

and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote

what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of

Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a

syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.

Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say

‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may

say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’

You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to

insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real

meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to

say ‘bread and butter!’”

I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I

lived. He kissed me and continued:

“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,

in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is

consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,

pertinent, and pretty.

“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and

tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole

business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It

is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been

leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is

necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least

afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in

the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down

some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at

random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in

the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little

scraps of either learning or _bel-esprit-ism_, which are the very

thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well

note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two

divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,

and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may

require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.

“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three

Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You

may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You

see it is not generally known, and looks _recherché_. You must be

careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.

“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged

without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,

to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look

quite as fresh as ever.

“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some

persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to

others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!

Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some

thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so

well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!

“‘_The Epidendrum Flos Aeris_, of Java, bears a very beautiful

flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives

suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance

for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for

the Piquant Expressions.

“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘_The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li_.’

Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will

evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and

literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either

get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There

is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,

Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.

Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own

ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!

“‘_Aussi tendre que Zaire_’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to

the frequent repetition of the phrase, _la tendre Zaire_, in the

French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not

only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and

wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating

(write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)

was not altogether _aussi tendre que Zaire_. Write!

‘Van muerte tan escondida,

Que no te sienta venir,

Porque el plazer del morir,

No mestorne a dar la vida.’

“That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!

but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I

shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back

again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are

struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!

‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,

Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘

“That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great

hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been

fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The

application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss

Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour

and a half after you have been choked to death by that

chicken-bone. Please to write!

‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn

Durch sie—durch sie!’’

“That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for

thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the

cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or

lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a

well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with

capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with

orange-jellies _en mosaïques_. Write! (You can get them that way

at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!

“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be

too _recherché_ or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so

common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio

elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your

proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some

poor fellow whom you address while choking with that

chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what

you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,

and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you

can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere

anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great

brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be

down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase

which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and

inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do

nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?

“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for

example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai

palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in

Hudibras—

‘For he that flies may fight again,

Which he can never do that’s slain.’

In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your

Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.

Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi

ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow

than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing

like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case

your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out

the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the

good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand

your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take

the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”

These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the

topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.

I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and

determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made

a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as

he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better

to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a

sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the

gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,

and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting

words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall

always remember them with gratitude.

“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his

eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of

your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible

that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get

yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or

hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a

couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I

assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your

money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than

five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the

sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out

those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another

moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my

departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more

abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise

allowed.

It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into

some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this

view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about

Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate

to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast

character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I

was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog

Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,

however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my

arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which

the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is

the substance and result.

A PREDICAMENT

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

It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the

goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets

were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children

were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they

bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they

caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be

possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus

it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and

anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative

contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,

and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,

the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,

harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,

the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and

heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what

may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly

enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously

ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold

an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but

I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat,

what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs

danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed

aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the

recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in

relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the

commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable

Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but

faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She

had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribbon tied

fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches

in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and

her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured

innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite

with all.

And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee?

I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to

be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of

age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be

called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like

pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had

endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual

with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet.

He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a

stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat

which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and

illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well

cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up

out of the dirt with both hands.

There were three persons in our party, and two of them have

already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person

was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky

Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of

which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a

sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green

agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored

auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the

poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus

it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,

and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.

Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a

respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the

populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On

a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic

cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered

into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon

my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the

giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.

The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny

prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my

guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing

monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and

uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the

ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury to my

orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and

emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river

Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.

I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they

went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I

could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose

supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early

affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the

continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps

designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime,

an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and

also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without

notice. It appeared to me—indeed I was quite confident of the

fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some moments,

carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say

that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called

Pompey’s attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me.

There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat

had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the

intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted

intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was

somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said

the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very

powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.

The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three

or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit.

We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One

little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great

staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or

misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of

the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I

thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many

false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I

resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm

of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one

remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was

followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone

remained behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and

encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and

unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold

upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?

The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey

stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He

stumbled and fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell

forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in

the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon

the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my

revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by

the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black,

and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every

manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry

and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me

piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that sigh! It

sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached

that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of

regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled

among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that

it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris

of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live

when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord

from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.

Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an

aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there

were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber

proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a

height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the

energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to

this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other

cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to

it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod from the

machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay

there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and

determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.

“You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.

You will stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one

of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the

other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your

shoulders.”

He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I

could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The

prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely

paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey

that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon

his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings—ossi

tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful

friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the

enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread itself out

before my eyes.

Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not

describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of

Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I

will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable

adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in

regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the

city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the

delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the

aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the

dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the

street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the

French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of

an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock

from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of

these hands, the longest of which could not have been less than

ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in

breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges

appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some

others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below,

and soon became absorbed in contemplation.

From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of

Pompey, who declared that he could stand it no longer, and

requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was

unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He

replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon

the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain

words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus

e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his

words little better than an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he

appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.

It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I

was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was

startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle

pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I

felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my

feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit

directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the

room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning

my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,

that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock

had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my

neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back

at once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my

head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so

fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a

rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment

is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with

all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might

as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down

it came, closer and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but

he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him “an ignorant

old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said

“bow-wow-wow,” and that I had told her “on no account to stir

from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to expect from my

associates.

Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now

discovered the literal import of that classical phrase) had not

stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career. Down and still

down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch

in my flesh, and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At

one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr.

Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood

receiving his invaluable instructions. And then again the sweet

recollection of better and earlier times came over me, and I

thought of that happy period when the world was not all a desert,

and Pompey not altogether cruel.

The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my

sensations now bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most

trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal

click-clak, click-clak, click-clak of the clock was the most

melodious of music in my ears, and occasionally even put me in

mind of the graceful sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod. Then

there were the great figures upon the dial-plate—how intelligent

how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to

dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who

performed the most to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady

of breeding. None of your swaggerers, and nothing at all

indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette to

admiration—whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavor to

hand her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her

exertions—and it was not until then that I fully perceived my

lamentable situation. Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried

itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a sense of

exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the

moment, could not help repeating those exquisite verses of the

poet Miguel De Cervantes:

Vanny Buren, tan escondida

Query no te senty venny

Pork and pleasure, delly morry

Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!

But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient

to startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure

of the machine, were absolutely starting from their sockets.

While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them,

one actually tumbled out of my head, and, rolling down the steep

side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along

the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so

much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which

it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just

under my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been

ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a winking and

blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my

eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its

manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was also

exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always

exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I

was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I would or

not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just

under my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping

out of the other eye. In falling it took the same direction

(possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of the

gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.

The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there

was only a little bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were

those of entire happiness, for I felt that in a few minutes, at

farthest, I should be relieved from my disagreeable situation.

And in this expectation I was not at all deceived. At twenty-five

minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge

minute-hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible

revolution to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not

sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much

embarrassment at length make a final separation from my body. It

first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodge, for a few

seconds, in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge,

into the middle of the street.

I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most

singular—nay, of the most mysterious, the most perplexing and

incomprehensible character. My senses were here and there at one

and the same moment. With my head I imagined, at one time, that

I, the head, was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia—at another I

felt convinced that myself, the body, was the proper identity. To

clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for my

snuff-box, but, upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch

of its grateful contents in the ordinary manner, I became

immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency, and threw the box at

once down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction,

and smiled me an acknowledgement in return. Shortly afterward it

made me a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without

ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it was astonished

at my wishing to remain alive under such circumstances. In the

concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto—

Il pover hommy che non sera corty

And have a combat tenty erry morty;

thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the combat, not

perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest the battle with

inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my

getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that

Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet

been able to find out. The fellow opened his mouth from ear to

ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were endeavoring to crack

nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he

made one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after

the scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes—

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

and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the

shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my

eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are these the

picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured by

the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold—is that the departed

spirit, the shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I

perceive sitting with a grace so melancholy, in the corner?

Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of

Schiller—

“Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun

Duk she! duk she!”

Alas! and are not her words too true?

“And if I died, at least I died

For thee—for thee.”

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

Dogless, niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy

Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas—nothing! I have done.

MYSTIFICATION

Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none

o’ them.

—NED KNOWLES.

The Baron Ritzner von Jung was a noble Hungarian family, every

member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any

certain records extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of

some description—the majority for that species of _grotesquerie_

in conception of which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a

vivid, although by no means the most vivid exemplifications. My

acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau

Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made

public, threw me during the summer months of the year 18—. Here

it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and here, with

somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental

conformation. In later days this insight grew more clear, as the

intimacy which had at first permitted it became more close; and

when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all

that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung.

I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within

the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I

remember still more distinctly, that while he was pronounced by

all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the

world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion.

That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed

impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But,

letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe

that, from the first moment of his setting foot within the limits

of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners,

persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community which

surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet

at the same time the most indefinite and altogether

unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his residence at the

university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by

all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as

“that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the

Baron Ritzner von Jung.”

Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He

was then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was

impossible to form a guess respecting his age by any data

personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was

twenty-one years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome

man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his face was somewhat

angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his nose

a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the

mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently

protruded, and rested the one upon the other, after such a

fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most

complex, combination of human features, conveying so entirely,

and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity and

repose.

It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said,

that the Baron was one of those human anomalies now and then to

be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the

business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind

gave him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance

afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects into

effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during that

renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which

overshadowed his character. I truly think that no person at the

university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him to

be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at

the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of

Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology.

This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and

unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and

buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at least

plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The

beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that

consummate ability (resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge

of human nature, and a most wonderful self-possession,) by means

of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he

was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and

partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for

their prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and

dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming

mortification, which upon each such failure of his praise worthy

endeavors, would suffuse every lineament of his countenance, left

not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms

of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was

no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the

sense of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his

own person to the absurdities to which he had given rise. In no

instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual

mystific escape the natural consequence of his manoevres—an

attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and person.

Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend

appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even

his own household have for a moment associated other ideas than

those of the rigid and august with the memory of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung.

During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that

the demon of the _dolce far niente_ lay like an incubus upon the

university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating and

drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were

converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of

them all more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron.

Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and long, and never

unfruitful of events.

Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly

daybreak, and an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The

company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron

and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high

connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an

exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra

German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions

some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four

desperate and fatal rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and

impulse; and thus the conversation, during the greater part of

the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the

times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in

the earlier portion of the evening, at length seemed to be

aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,

and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the

beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms

with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an

affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm

from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even

myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of those

very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the

entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign

contempt which it deserves.

Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of

which my readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it

bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical

sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of even more

than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party.

This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in

every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he

was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a

particular set at the university, a reputation for deep

metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent.

As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at G——n. I

forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands;

but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it

was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the

duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most

especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he

rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the

grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded

food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware;

although, in the present instance, I saw clearly that something

of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my friend, and that

Hermann was its especial object.

As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I

perceived the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At

length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon

by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron

replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of

sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with

a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in

his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting

farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember.

“Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung, although in the

main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself

and to the university of which you are a member. In a few

respects they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would

say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of giving you

offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that

your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a

gentleman.”

As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were

turned upon the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red;

then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover it,

when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be

seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the

quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I

had never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and

when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood

erect, confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of

countenance in so short a period I certainly never saw before.

For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and that

he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,

and his face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained

silent, apparently striving to master his emotion. Having at

length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood

near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you

have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing

yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I

have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,

however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is

an observation so directly offensive as to allow me but one line

of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is due to the presence

of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest.

You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I

deviate slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in

similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the

moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to

consider, for an instant, the reflection of your person in yonder

mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being done,

there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this

decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil

all the spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your

insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your real

person will be obviated.”

With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against

the mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the

reflection of his person with great precision, and of course

shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once

started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and

Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron

whispered me that I should follow him and make an offer of my

services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of

so ridiculous a piece of business.

The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and _ultra recherché_

air, and, taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly

forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded to discuss, with

the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar

character” of the insult he had received. After a tiresome

harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book

shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello,

and entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading

aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can just remember

the titles of some of the works. There were the “Ordonnance of

Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by

Favyn, and a treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” by Andiguier.

He displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of

Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a

precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and

bound by Derome. But he requested my attention particularly, and

with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in

barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and having the

quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this

he read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning

“Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”

about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his

own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not one syllable of the

whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having

finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I

thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire

confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would abide

by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and

sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:

Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it

incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest convenience, an

explanation of this evening’s occurrences at your chambers. In

the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to

arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps

preliminary to a meeting.

With sentiments of perfect respect,

Your most humble servant,

JOHANN HERMAN.

“_To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,

August 18th, 18_—.”

Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this

epistle. He bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave

countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused the cartel, he

wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.

“SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your

note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the

propriety of the explanation you suggest. This being admitted, I

still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar

nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered

on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology,

as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable

shadows, of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that

extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to

the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long and so

pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore,

of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any

sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur

Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of

“_Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se_,” in

his “_Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque_.” The nicety of your

discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,

I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me

referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your

request, as a man of honor, for explanation.

“With sentiments of profound respect,

“Your most obedient servant,

“VON JUNG.”

“The Herr Johann Hermann,

August 18th, 18—”

Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,

which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous

self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per

applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished

reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,

to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in

question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great

care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my

character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron

von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in

that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of

the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally

satisfactory nature.

Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He

seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of

course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an

inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex

scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked

me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little

purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning.

He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my

surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd

account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the

mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared _prima facie_,

was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;

that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to

present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and

even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning

existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every

second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series

of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern

times.

The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the

treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the

adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of

his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest

attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.

Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand

deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand

anything and everything in the universe that had ever been

written about the _duello_.

DIDDLING

CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES.

Hey, diddle diddle

The cat and the fiddle

Since the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote

a Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has

been much admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a

small way. The other gave name to the most important of the Exact

Sciences, and was a great man in a great way—I may say, indeed,

in the very greatest of ways.

Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is

sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing

_diddling_, is somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however,

at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by

defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself—but man, as an animal

that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would have been

spared the affront of the picked chicken.

Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken,

which was clearly “a biped without feathers,” was not, according

to his own definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any

similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no

animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hen-coop of

picked chickens to get over that.

What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling

is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats

and pantaloons. A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a

man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. “Man was made to mourn,”

says the poet. But not so:—he was made to diddle. This is his

aim—his object—his end. And for this reason when a man’s diddled

we say he’s “_done_.”

Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the

ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity,

audacity, _nonchalance_, originality, impertinence, and grin.

_Minuteness:_—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a

small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper

at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation,

he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes

what we term “financier.” This latter word conveys the diddling

idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may

thus be regarded as a banker _in petto_—a “financial operation,”

as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to

“Flaccus”—as a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that

of a pig.

_Interest:_—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to

diddle for the mere _sake_ of the diddle. He has an object in

view—his pocket—and yours. He regards always the main chance. He

looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to

yourself.

_Perseverance:_—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily

discouraged. Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about

it. He steadily pursues his end, and

‘Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto,’

so he never lets go of his game.

_Ingenuity:_—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness

large. He understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he

not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he

would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.

_Audacity:_—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He

carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would

not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a little more prudence

Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less

blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a pound or two more brains,

Charles the Twelfth.

_Nonchalance:_—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all

nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a

flurry. He is never put out—unless put out of doors. He is

cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—“calm as a smile from Lady

Bury.” He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient

Baiæ.

_Originality:_—Your diddler is original—conscientiously so. His

thoughts are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another.

A stale trick is his aversion. He would return a purse, I am

sure, upon discovering that he had obtained it by an unoriginal

diddle.

_Impertinence:_—Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets

his arms a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in his trowsers’ pockets.

He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns. He eats your

dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your

nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.

_Grin:_—Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this

nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily work is

done—when his allotted labors are accomplished—at night in his

own closet, and altogether for his own private entertainment. He

goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes.

He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon

the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no

hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason _à priori_, and a

diddle would be no diddle without a grin.

The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the

Human Race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we

can trace the science back to a very remote period of antiquity.

The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never

dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to

speak of the “old saws,” therefore, I shall content myself with a

compendious account of some of the more “modern instances.”

A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for

instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses.

At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She

is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble

individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her

views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted

to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her

expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and

receipt, leaves her address, with a request that the article be

sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a profusion

of bows from the shopkeeper. The night arrives and no sofa. A

servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole

transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold—no money

received—except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the

nonce.

Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus

afford every facility for a trick of this kind. Visitors enter,

look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one

wish to purchase, or to inquire the price of an article, a bell

is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient.

Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed

individual enters a shop, makes a purchase to the value of a

dollar; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his

pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so says to the

shopkeeper—

“My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending

the bundle home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing

less than a five dollar bill, even there. However, you can send

four dollars in change with the bundle, you know.”

“Very good, sir,” replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at

once, a lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. “I

know fellows,” he says to himself, “who would just have put the

goods under their arm, and walked off with a promise to call and

pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon.”

A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite

accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:

“Ah! This is my bundle, I see—I thought you had been home with

it, long ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you

the five dollars—I left instructions with her to that effect. The

change you might as well give to me—I shall want some silver for

the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a good

quarter?—three, four—quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you

met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way.”

The boy doesn’t loiter at all—but he is a very long time in

getting back from his errand—for no lady of the precise name of

Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles himself, however,

that he has not been such a fool as to leave the goods without

the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air,

feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks him what

has become of the change.

A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship,

which is about to sail, is presented by an official looking

person with an unusually moderate bill of city charges. Glad to

get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties pressing upon

him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about

fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is handed him

by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a

diddler, and the original collection a diddle.

And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is

casting loose from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand,

is discovered running toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly,

he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up something from the

ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and—“Has

any gentleman lost a pocketbook?” he cries. No one can say that

he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues,

when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat,

however, must not be detained.

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

“For God’s sake, stay only a few minutes,” says the finder of the

book—“the true claimant will presently appear.”

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

hear?”

“What _am_ I to do?” asks the finder, in great tribulation. “I am

about to leave the country for some years, and I cannot

conscientiously retain this large amount in my possession. I beg

your pardon, sir,” [here he addresses a gentleman on shore,] “but

you have the air of an honest man. _Will_ you confer upon me the

favor of taking charge of this pocket-book—I _know_ I can trust

you—and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very

considerable sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding

you for your trouble—”

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

“Well, if you _must_ have it so—_I_ will take a small reward—just

to satisfy your scruples. Let me see—why these notes are all

hundreds—bless my soul! a hundred is too much to take—fifty would

be quite enough, I am sure—”

“Cast off there!” says the captain.

“But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole,

_you_ had better—”

“Cast off there!” says the captain.

“Never mind!” cries the gentleman on shore, who has been

examining his own pocket-book for the last minute or so—“never

mind! _I_ can fix it—here is a fifty on the Bank of North

America—throw the book.”

And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked

reluctance, and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while

the steamboat fumes and fizzes on her way. In about half an hour

after her departure, the “large amount” is seen to be a

“counterfeit presentment,” and the whole thing a capital diddle.

A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is

to be held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of

a free bridge. A diddler stations himself upon this bridge,

respectfully informs all passers by of the new county law, which

establishes a toll of one cent for foot passengers, two for

horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some grumble but

all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some

fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a

great crowd of people is an excessively troublesome thing.

A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler’s

promises to pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the

ordinary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases one or

two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his

soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a

bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with

the diddler’s dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay

is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his

escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when

up jumps the diddler’s dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler

is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd

behavior of his dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel

the obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation

shall be forthcoming.

A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a

diddler’s accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her

assistance, and, giving his friend a comfortable thrashing,

insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He bows, with

his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bids her adieu.

She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be introduced

to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do

so. “Is there no way, then, sir,” she murmurs, “in which I may be

permitted to testify my gratitude?”

“Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a

couple of shillings?”

In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon

fainting outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her

purse-strings and delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a

diddle minute—for one entire moiety of the sum borrowed has to be

paid to the gentleman who had the trouble of performing the

insult, and who had then to stand still and be thrashed for

performing it.

Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler

approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of

tobacco. These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined

them, he says:

“I don’t much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me

a glass of brandy and water in its place.” The brandy and water

is furnished and imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the

door. But the voice of the tavern-keeper arrests him.

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

water.”

“Pay for my brandy and water!—didn’t I give you the tobacco for

the brandy and water? What more would you have?”

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

the tobacco.”

“What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?—Didn’t I give you back

your tobacco? Isn’t that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect

me to pay for what I did not take?”

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

“but sir—”

“But me no buts, sir,” interrupts the diddler, apparently in very

high dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his

escape.—“But me no buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon

travellers.”

Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is

not its least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being

really lost, the loser inserts in one of the daily papers of a

large city a fully descriptive advertisement.

Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement,

with a change of heading, of general phraseology and address. The

original, for instance, is long, and verbose, is headed “A

Pocket-Book Lost!” and requires the treasure, when found, to be

left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being headed

with “Lost” only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry Street, as

the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is

inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day,

while in point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours

after the original. Should it be read by the loser of the purse,

he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own

misfortune. But, of course, the chances are five or six to one,

that the finder will repair to the address given by the diddler,

rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The

former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.

Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped,

some where in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value.

For its recovery, she offers some forty or fifty dollars

reward—giving, in her advertisement, a very minute description of

the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that, on its

restoration at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward

would be paid instanter, without a single question being asked.

During the lady’s absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a

ring is heard at the door of No. so and so, in such and such

Avenue; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for and

is declared to be out, at which astounding information, the

visitor expresses the most poignant regret. His business is of

importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the

good fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as

well that he should call again. “By no means!” says the servant;

and “By no means!” says the lady’s sister and the lady’s

sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith. The ring is

clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder nearly

thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some little

dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they

happen to have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of

her diamond ring—a fac-simile made out of real pinch-beck and

unquestionable paste.

But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none

to this essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or

inflections, of which this science is susceptible. I must bring

this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and this I cannot do

better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather

elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the theatre, not

very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success,

in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A

middle-aged gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is

remarkably precise, cautious, staid, and deliberate in his

demeanor. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain,

unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample waistcoat, made

with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking shoes, and

pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your

well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable “man of

business,” _par excellence_—one of the stern and outwardly hard,

internally soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high

comedies—fellows whose words are so many bonds, and who are noted

for giving away guineas, in charity, with the one hand, while, in

the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost fraction of a

farthing with the other.

He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house.

He dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits

are methodical—and then he would prefer getting into a private

and respectable small family, piously inclined. Terms, however,

are no object—only he must insist upon settling his bill on the

first of every month, (it is now the second) and begs his

landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not on any

account to forget his instructions upon this point—but to send in

a bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o’clock, on the first day

of every month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the

second.

These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a

reputable rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is

nothing he more despises than pretense. “Where there is much

show,” he says, “there is seldom any thing very solid behind”—an

observation which so profoundly impresses his landlady’s fancy,

that she makes a pencil memorandum of it forthwith, in her great

family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.

The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this,

in the principal business six-pennies of the city—the pennies are

eschewed as not “respectable”—and as demanding payment for all

advertisements in advance. Our man of business holds it as a

point of his faith that work should never be paid for until done.

“WANTED.—The advertisers, being about to commence extensive

business operations in this city, will require the services of

three or four intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal

salary will be paid. The very best recommendations, not so much

for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected. Indeed, as the

duties to be performed involve high responsibilities, and large

amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of those

engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty

dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply,

therefore, who is not prepared to leave this sum in the

possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most

satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young gentlemen piously

inclined will be preferred. Application should be made between

the hours of ten and eleven A. M., and four and five P. M., of

Messrs.

“Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs & Co.,

“No. 110 Dog Street.”

By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has

brought to the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and

Company, some fifteen or twenty young gentlemen piously inclined.

But our man of business is in no hurry to conclude a contract

with any—no man of business is ever precipitate—and it is not

until the most rigid catechism in respect to the piety of each

young gentleman’s inclination, that his services are engaged and

his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper

precaution, on the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs,

Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning of the first day of the

next month, the landlady does not present her bill, according to

promise—a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of the

house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her severely,

could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two

for that purpose.

As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running

hither and thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of

business most emphatically, a “hen knee high”—by which some

persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is n. e. i.—by

which again the very classical phrase _non est inventus_, is

supposed to be understood. In the meantime the young gentlemen,

one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before,

while the landlady purchases a shilling’s worth of the Indian

rubber, and very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that

some fool has made in her great family Bible, on the broad margin

of the Proverbs of Solomon.

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an

unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed

not the least important item, and was sitting alone in the

dining-room, with my feet upon the fender, and at my elbow a

small table which I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which

were some apologies for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles

of wine, spirit and _liqueur_. In the morning I had been reading

Glover’s “Leonidas,” Wilkie’s “Epigoniad,” Lamartine’s

“Pilgrimage,” Barlow’s “Columbiad,” Tuckermann’s “Sicily,” and

Griswold’s “Curiosities”; I am willing to confess, therefore,

that I now felt a little stupid. I made effort to arouse myself

by aid of frequent Lafitte, and, all failing, I betook myself to

a stray newspaper in despair. Having carefully perused the column

of “houses to let,” and the column of “dogs lost,” and then the

two columns of “wives and apprentices runaway,” I attacked with

great resolution the editorial matter, and, reading it from

beginning to end without understanding a syllable, conceived the

possibility of its being Chinese, and so re-read it from the end

to the beginning, but with no more satisfactory result. I was

about throwing away, in disgust,

“This folio of four pages, happy work

Which not even critics criticise,”

when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which

follows:

“The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper

mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was

playing at ‘puff the dart,’ which is played with a long needle

inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin

tube. He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and

drawing his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force,

drew the needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a

few days killed him.”

Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly

knowing why. “This thing,” I exclaimed, “is a contemptible

falsehood—a poor hoax—the lees of the invention of some pitiable

penny-a-liner—of some wretched concoctor of accidents in

Cocaigne. These fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of

the age, set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable

possibilities—-of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a

reflecting intellect (like mine,” I added, in parenthesis,

putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my nose,) “to

a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it seems

evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these ‘odd

accidents’ is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part,

I intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the

‘singular’ about it.”

“Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!” replied one of the

most remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for a

rumbling in my ears—such as a man sometimes experiences when

getting very drunk—but, upon second thought, I considered the

sound as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty

barrel beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I should have

concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and

words. I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few

glasses of Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me no

little, so that I felt nothing of trepidation, but merely

uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement, and looked carefully

around the room for the intruder. I could not, however, perceive

any one at all.

“Humph!” resumed the voice, as I continued my survey, “you mus pe

so dronk as de pig, den, for not zee me as I zit here at your

zide.”

Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose,

and there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a

personage nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His

body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or something of that

character, and had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether

extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the

purposes of legs. For arms there dangled from the upper portion

of the carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward

for hands. All the head that I saw the monster possessed of was

one of those Hessian canteens which resemble a large snuff-box

with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen (with a funnel

on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set

on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and

through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a

very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling

and grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible

talk.

“I zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and

not zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de

goose, vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de

troof—dat it iz—eberry vord ob it.”

“Who are you, pray?” said I, with much dignity, although somewhat

puzzled; “how did you get here? and what is it you are talking

about?”

“Az vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the figure, “dat iz none of your

pizzness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat

I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I

com’d here for to let you zee for yourzelf.”

“You are a drunken vagabond,” said I, “and I shall ring the bell

and order my footman to kick you into the street.”

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

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

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

villanous mouth.

Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat

into execution; but the ruffian just reached across the table

very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the

neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the

arm-chair from which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded;

and, for a moment, was quite at a loss what to do. In the

meantime, he continued his talk.

“You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you

shall know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”

“And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always

under the impression that an angel had wings.”

“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing?

Mein Gott! do you take me vor a shicken?”

“No—oh no!” I replied, much alarmed, “you are no

chicken—certainly not.”

“Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again

mid me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing,

und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel

ab _not_ te wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”

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

“My pizzness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low bred buppy you

mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!”

This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an

angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay

within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either

he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I

accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which protected

the dial of the clock upon the mantel-piece. As for the Angel, he

evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard

consecutive raps upon the forehead as before. These reduced me at

once to submission, and I am almost ashamed to confess that

either through pain or vexation, there came a few tears into my

eyes.

“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened

at my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry

zorry. You mos not trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te

wine. Here, trink dis, like a goot veller, und don’t gry

now—don’t!”

Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was

about a third full of Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured

from one of his hand bottles. I observed that these bottles had

labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed

“Kirschenwasser.”

The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little

measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my Port

more than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen

to his very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount

all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was

the genius who presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and

whose business it was to bring about the _odd accidents_ which

are continually astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my

venturing to express my total incredulity in respect to his

pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at length I

considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him

have his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while

I merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused

myself with munching raisins and filliping the stems about the

room. But, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior

of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched

his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a

threat of some character which I did not precisely comprehend,

and finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the

language of the archbishop in Gil-Blas, “_beaucoup de bonheur et

un peu plus de bon sens_.”

His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of

Lafitte that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy,

and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty

minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an

appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that

I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had

expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was

agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of directors of the

company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing upward at the

clock on the mantel-piece, (for I felt too drowsy to take out my

watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five

minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to

the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had

never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently

safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.

Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward

the time-piece and was half inclined to believe in the

possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of my

ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three;

for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I

betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke,

when, to my utter amazement, it _still_ wanted twenty-seven

minutes of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that

it had ceased running. My watch informed me that it was half past

seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too late for

my appointment. “It will make no difference,” I said: “I can call

at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what

can be the matter with the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered

that one of the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the

room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd, had flown

through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in

the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested

the revolution of the minute hand.

“Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A

natural accident, such as _will_ happen now and then!”

I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour

retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand

at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages

of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” I unfortunately fell asleep

in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.

My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of

the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside

the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum

puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the

contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long

harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my

gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer,

which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long

necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at

length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to perceive that a

rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_

in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the

hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils;

the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the

blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief

period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from

my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd,

however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of

this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a

huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose

whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me

of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which hitherto had

been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his

head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no

more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of

the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated and had the

misfortune to fracture my arm.

This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more

serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off

by the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that,

finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow

disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her

wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a

reluctant consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude

and adoration. She blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into

close contact with those supplied me, temporarily, by Grandjean.

I know not how the entanglement took place, but so it was. I

arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath,

half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an

accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but

which the natural sequence of events had brought about.

Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less

implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief

period; but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my

betrothed in an avenue thronged with the _élite_ of the city, I

was hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows,

when a small particle of some foreign matter, lodging in the

corner of my eye, rendered me, for the moment, completely blind.

Before I could recover my sight, the lady of my love had

disappeared—irreparably affronted at what she chose to consider

my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted. While I

stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident, (which might

have happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while

I still continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel

of the Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had

no reason to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much

gentleness and skill, informed me that I had a drop in it, and

(whatever a “drop” was) took it out, and afforded me relief.

I now considered it high time to die, (since fortune had so

determined to persecute me,) and accordingly made my way to the

nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes, (for there

is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), I threw myself

headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate being a

solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of

brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his

fellows. No sooner had I entered the water than this bird took it

into its head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of

my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal

design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of

my coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the

nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would

admit. But my evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full

speed, with my nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon

the purloiner of my property, I suddenly perceived that my feet

rested no longer upon _terra-firma_; the fact is, I had thrown

myself over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed

to pieces but for my good fortune in grasping the end of a long

guide-rope, which depended from a passing balloon.

As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the

terrific predicament in which I stood or rather hung, I exerted

all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the

æronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain.

Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me.

Meantime the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more

rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to

my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were

suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which

seemed to be lazily humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived

the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning with his arms folded, over

the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he

puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself

and the universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely

regarded him with an imploring air.

For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he

said nothing. At length removing carefully his meerschaum from

the right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to

speak.

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

To this piece of impudence, cruelty and affectation, I could

reply only by ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!”

“Elp!” echoed the ruffian—“not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself,

und pe tam’d!”

With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwasser

which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to

imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with

this idea, I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the

ghost with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the

Angel, who bade me hold on.

“Old on!” he said; “don’t pe in te urry—don’t. Will you pe take

de odder pottle, or ave you pe got zober yet and come to your

zenzes?”

I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the

negative, meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the

other bottle at present—and once in the affirmative, intending

thus to imply that I _was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my

senses. By these means I somewhat softened the Angel.

“Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, “at te last? You pelief, ten,

in te possibilty of te odd?”

I again nodded my head in assent.

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

I nodded again.

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

I nodded once more.

“Put your right hand into your left hand preeches pocket, ten, in

token ov your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd.”

This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible

to do. In the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall

from the ladder, and, therefore, had I let go my hold with the

right hand, I must have let go altogether. In the second place, I

could have no breeches until I came across the crow. I was

therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the

negative—intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I

found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his

very reasonable demand! No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking

my head than—

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

In pronouncing these words, he drew a sharp knife across the

guide-rope by which I was suspended, and as we then happened to

be precisely over my own house, (which, during my peregrinations,

had been handsomely rebuilt,) it so occurred that I tumbled

headlong down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room

hearth.

Upon coming to my senses, (for the fall had very thoroughly

stunned me,) I found it about four o’clock in the morning. I lay

outstretched where I had fallen from the balloon. My head

grovelled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet

reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the

fragments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a

newspaper, some broken glass and shattered bottles, and an empty

jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the

Angel of the Odd.

[Mabbott states that Griswold “obviously had a revised form” for

use in the 1856 volume of Poe’s works. Mabbott does not

substantiate this claim, but it is surely not unreasonable. An

editor, and even typographical errors, may have produced nearly

all of the very minor changes made in this version. (Indeed, two

very necessary words were clearly dropped by accident.) An editor

might have corrected “Wickliffe’s ‘Epigoniad’” to “Wilkie’s

‘Epigoniad’,” but is unlikely to have added “Tuckerman’s

‘Sicily’” to the list of books read by the narrator. Griswold was

not above forgery (in Poe’s letters) when it suited his purpose,

but would have too little to gain by such an effort in this

instance.]

MELLONTA TAUTA

TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY’S BOOK:

I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine, an article

which I hope you will be able to comprehend rather more

distinctly than I do myself. It is a translation, by my friend,

Martin Van Buren Mavis, (sometimes called the “Poughkeepsie

Seer”) of an odd-looking MS. which I found, about a year ago,

tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare Tenebrarum—a sea

well described by the Nubian geographer, but seldom visited

now-a-days, except for the transcendentalists and divers for

crotchets.

Truly yours,

EDGAR A. POE

{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}

ON BOARD BALLOON “SKYLARK”

_April_, 1, 2848

Now, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to suffer the

infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you distinctly that

I am going to punish you for all your impertinences by being as

tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as unsatisfactory as

possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with

some one or two hundred of the canaille, all bound on a pleasure

excursion, (what a funny idea some people have of pleasure!) and

I have no prospect of touching terra firma for a month at least.

Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do. When one has nothing to do,

then is the time to correspond with ones friends. You perceive,

then, why it is that I write you this letter—it is on account of

my ennui and your sins.

Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I

mean to write at you every day during this odious voyage.

Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium? Are

we forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the

balloon? Will nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of

progress? The jog-trot movement, to my thinking, is little less

than positive torture. Upon my word we have not made more than a

hundred miles the hour since leaving home! The very birds beat

us—at least some of them. I assure you that I do not exaggerate

at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it actually

is—this on account of our having no objects about us by which to

estimate our velocity, and on account of our going with the wind.

To be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have a chance of

perceiving our rate, and then, I admit, things do not appear so

very bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode of travelling, I cannot

get over a kind of giddiness whenever a balloon passes us in a

current directly overhead. It always seems to me like an immense

bird of prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its

claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise, and so nearly

overhead that its drag-rope actually brushed the network

suspending our car, and caused us very serious apprehension. Our

captain said that if the material of the bag had been the

trumpery varnished “silk” of five hundred or a thousand years

ago, we should inevitably have been damaged. This silk, as he

explained it to me, was a fabric composed of the entrails of a

species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully fed on mulberries—a

kind of fruit resembling a water-melon—and, when sufficiently

fat, was crushed in a mill. The paste thus arising was called

papyrus in its primary state, and went through a variety of

processes until it finally became “silk.” Singular to relate, it

was once much admired as an article of female dress! Balloons

were also very generally constructed from it. A better kind of

material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down

surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called

euphorbium, and at that time botanically termed milk-weed. This

latter kind of silk was designated as silk-buckingham, on account

of its superior durability, and was usually prepared for use by

being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a substance

which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha now

in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called Indian

rubber or rubber of twist, and was no doubt one of the numerous

fungi. Never tell me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.

Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this moment knocked

a man overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that

swarm in ocean below us—a boat of about six thousand tons, and,

from all accounts, shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques

should be prohibited from carrying more than a definite number of

passengers. The man, of course, was not permitted to get on board

again, and was soon out of sight, he and his life-preserver. I

rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an age so enlightened

that no such a thing as an individual is supposed to exist. It is

the mass for which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talking of

Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is not so

original in his views of the Social Condition and so forth, as

his contemporaries are inclined to suppose? Pundit assures me

that the same ideas were put nearly in the same way, about a

thousand years ago, by an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on

account of his keeping a retail shop for cat peltries and other

furs. Pundit knows, you know; there can be no mistake about it.

How very wonderfully do we see verified every day, the profound

observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by

Pundit)—“Thus must we say that, not once or twice, or a few

times, but with almost infinite repetitions, the same opinions

come round in a circle among men.”

April 2.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle

section of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this

species of telegraph was first put into operation by Horse, it

was considered quite impossible to convey the wires over sea, but

now we are at a loss to comprehend where the difficulty lay! So

wags the world. Tempora mutantur—excuse me for quoting the

Etruscan. What would we do without the Atalantic telegraph?

(Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient adjective.) We lay to a few

minutes to ask the cutter some questions, and learned, among

other glorious news, that civil war is raging in Africa, while

the plague is doing its good work beautifully both in Yurope and

Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent

light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was accustomed

to regard War and Pestilence as calamities? Do you know that

prayers were actually offered up in the ancient temples to the

end that these evils (!) might not be visited upon mankind? Is it

not really difficult to comprehend upon what principle of

interest our forefathers acted? Were they so blind as not to

perceive that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only

so much positive advantage to the mass!

April 3.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the

rope-ladder leading to the summit of the balloon-bag, and thence

survey the surrounding world. From the car below you know the

prospect is not so comprehensive—you can see little vertically.

But seated here (where I write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned

open piazza of the summit, one can see everything that is going

on in all directions. Just now there is quite a crowd of balloons

in sight, and they present a very animated appearance, while the

air is resonant with the hum of so many millions of human voices.

I have heard it asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit will have

it) Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut,

maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in all

directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favorable

current was attained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his

contemporaries, who looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort

of madman, because the philosophers (?) of the day declared the

thing impossible. Really now it does seem to me quite

unaccountable how any thing so obviously feasible could have

escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages the

great obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the

so-called men of science. To be sure, our men of science are not

quite so bigoted as those of old:—oh, I have something so queer

to tell you on this topic. Do you know that it is not more than a

thousand years ago since the metaphysicians consented to relieve

the people of the singular fancy that there existed but two

possible roads for the attainment of Truth! Believe it if you

can! It appears that long, long ago, in the night of Time, there

lived a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo possibly) called Aries

Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events propagated what

was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He

started with what he maintained to be axioms or “self-evident

truths,” and thence proceeded “logically” to results. His

greatest disciples were one Neuclid, and one Cant. Well, Aries

Tottle flourished supreme until advent of one Hog, surnamed the

“Ettrick Shepherd,” who preached an entirely different system,

which he called the a posteriori or inductive. His plan referred

altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing,

and classifying facts-instantiae naturae, as they were affectedly

called—into general laws. Aries Tottle’s mode, in a word, was

based on noumena; Hog’s on phenomena. Well, so great was the

admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first

introduction, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he

recovered ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth

with his more modern rival. The savans now maintained the

Aristotelian and Baconian roads were the sole possible avenues to

knowledge. “Baconian,” you must know, was an adjective invented

as equivalent to Hog-ian and more euphonious and dignified.

Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I

represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority; and you

can easily understand how a notion so absurd on its very face

must have operated to retard the progress of all true

knowledge—which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive

bounds. The ancient idea confined investigations to crawling; and

for hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog

especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking, properly

so called. No man dared utter a truth to which he felt himself

indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the truth was

even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the

time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They

would not even look at the end. “Let us see the means,” they

cried, “the means!” If, upon investigation of the means, it was

found to come under neither the category Aries (that is to say

Ram) nor under the category Hog, why then the savans went no

farther, but pronounced the “theorist” a fool, and would have

nothing to do with him or his truth.

Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system

the greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series

of ages, for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be

compensated for by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of

investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these

Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our

own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with

that of the wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an

object the better the more closely he holds it to his eyes. These

people blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded

Hoggishly, their “facts” were by no means always facts—a matter

of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they were

facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When

they proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely

as straight as a ram’s horn, for they never had an axiom which

was an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not to see

this, even in their own day; for even in their own day many of

the long “established” axioms had been rejected. For example—“Ex

nihilo nihil fit”; “a body cannot act where it is not”; “there

cannot exist antipodes”; “darkness cannot come out of light”—all

these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted

without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which I

speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to

persist in putting faith in “axioms” as immutable bases of Truth!

But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy

to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in

general. Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I

will go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we

have it! Here is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and

lately translated from the Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to

have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit says it is

decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, Logic. The

author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or

Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some

importance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us

glance at the treatise!

Ah!—“Ability or inability to conceive,” says Mr. Mill, very

properly, “is in no case to be received as a criterion of

axiomatic truth.” What modern in his senses would ever think of

disputing this truism? The only wonder with us must be, how it

happened that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at any

thing so obvious. So far good—but let us turn over another paper.

What have we here?—“Contradictories cannot both be true—that is,

cannot co-exist in nature.” Here Mr. Mill means, for example,

that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree—that it cannot be

at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask him

why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing else

than this—“Because it is impossible to conceive that

contradictories can both be true.” But this is no answer at all,

by his own showing, for has he not just admitted as a truism that

“ability or inability to conceive is in no case to be received as

a criterion of axiomatic truth.”

Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their

logic is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and

fantastic altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile

proscription of all other roads of Truth, of all other means for

its attainment than the two preposterous paths—the one of

creeping and the one of crawling—to which they have dared to

confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.

By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled

these ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their

two roads it was that the most important and most sublime of all

their truths was, in effect, attained? I mean the truth of

Gravitation. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his

three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all laws which led

the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of

all physical principle—to go behind which we must enter the

Kingdom of Metaphysics: Kepler guessed—that is to say imagined.

He was essentially a “theorist”—that word now of so much

sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have

puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by which of the

two “roads” a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than

usual secrecy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed

mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which

resulted from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics.

One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it

not passing strange that, with their eternal prattling about

roads to Truth, these bigoted people missed what we now so

clearly perceive to be the great highway—that of Consistency?

Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to deduce

from the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency

must be an absolute truth! How plain has been our progress since

the late announcement of this proposition! Investigation has been

taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task,

to the true and only true thinkers, the men of ardent

imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout

of scorn with which my words would be received by our progenitors

were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder?

These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply

corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared, little by little, of

their dross of inconsistency—until, finally, a perfect

consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit,

because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an

unquestionable truth.

April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the

new improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious,

manageable, and in every respect convenient are our modern

balloons! Here is an immense one approaching us at the rate of at

least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be crowded

with people—perhaps there are three or four hundred

passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile,

looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a

hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling

after all. Do you remember our flight on the railroad across the

Kanadaw continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—that was

travelling. Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but

flirt, feast and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you

remember what an odd sensation was experienced when, by chance,

we caught a glimpse of external objects while the cars were in

full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one mass. For my part,

I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow

train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have

glass windows—even to have them open—and something like a

distinct view of the country was attainable.... Pundit says that

the route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some

measure marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he goes

so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are still

discernible—traces referable to a period quite as remote as that

mentioned. The track, it appears was double only; ours, you know,

has twelve paths; and three or four new ones are in preparation.

The ancient rails were very slight, and placed so close together

as to be, according to modern notions, quite frivolous, if not

dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track—fifty

feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part,

I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in

very remote times, as Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer,

to my mind, than that, at some period—not less than seven

centuries ago, certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw

continents were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have been

driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent.

April 5.—I am almost devoured by _ennui_. Pundit is the only

conversible person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of

nothing but antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the

attempt to convince me that the ancient Amriccans governed

themselves!—did ever anybody hear of such an absurdity?—that they

existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the

fashion of the “prairie dogs” that we read of in fable. He says

that they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that

all men are born free and equal—this in the very teeth of the

laws of _gradation_ so visibly impressed upon all things both in

the moral and physical universe. Every man “voted,” as they

called it—that is to say meddled with public affairs—until at

length, it was discovered that what is everybody’s business is

nobody’s, and that the “Republic” (so the absurd thing was

called) was without a government at all. It is related, however,

that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly,

the self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this

“Republic,” was the startling discovery that universal suffrage

gave opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any

desired number of votes might at any time be polled, without the

possibility of prevention or even detection, by any party which

should be merely villainous enough not to be ashamed of the

fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery sufficed to render

evident the consequences, which were that rascality must

predominate—in a word, that a republican government could never

be any thing but a rascally one. While the philosophers, however,

were busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen

these inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new

theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of

the name of Mob, who took every thing into his own hands and set

up a despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous

Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This

Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said to have been the most

odious of all men that ever encumbered the earth. He was a giant

in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the gall of a bullock

with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He died,

at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him.

Nevertheless, he had his uses, as every thing has, however vile,

and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger

of forgetting—never to run directly contrary to the natural

analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it

upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the

“prairie dogs,” an exception which seems to demonstrate, if

anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of

government—for dogs.

April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk,

through our captain’s spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a

degree, looking very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a

misty day. Alpha Lyrae, although so very much larger than our

sun, by the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its

atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the

last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing

between these two orbs began even to be suspected. The evident

motion of our system in the heavens was (strange to say!)

referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of the

galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of

gravity common to all the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to

be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was

declared to be revolving, our own performing the circuit in a

period of 117,000,000 of years! We, with our present lights, our

vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it

difficult to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its

first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to

this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first instance; but,

this being the case, he should have at least adhered to analogy

in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested;

so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however,

dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding

orbs taken together. The question might then have been asked—“Why

do we not see it?”—we, especially, who occupy the mid region of

the cluster—the very locality near which, at least, must be

situated this inconceivable central sun. The astronomer, perhaps,

at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity;

and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the

central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its

failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of

glorious suns glaring in all directions about it? No doubt what

he finally maintained was merely a centre of gravity common to

all the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must have been let

fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of

gravity, but it does this in connection with and in consequence

of a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest

of the system. The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an

infinity of straight lines; but this idea of the circle—this idea

of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we consider as

merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the practical,

idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we

have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles

with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose

our system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the

centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human imaginations

but attempt to take a single step toward the comprehension of a

circuit so unutterable! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say

that a flash of lightning itself, travelling forever upon the

circumference of this inconceivable circle, would still forever

be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our sun along

such a circumference—that the direction of our system in such an

orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest

degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a

proposition not to be entertained; and yet these ancient

astronomers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into believing

that a decisive curvature had become apparent during the brief

period of their astronomical history—during the mere point—during

the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years! How

incomprehensible, that considerations such as this did not at

once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that of the

binary revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a common

centre of gravity!

April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a

fine view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much

interest the putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels

in the new temple at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think

that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so

little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a mechanical

ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult,

too, to conceive the vast masses which these people handle so

easily, to be as light as our own reason tells us they actually

are.

April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw

spoke us to-day and threw on board several late papers; they

contain some exceedingly curious information relative to

Kanawdian or rather Amriccan antiquities. You know, I presume,

that laborers have for some months been employed in preparing the

ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor’s principal

pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally

speaking, an island time out of mind—that is to say, its northern

boundary was always (as far back as any record extends) a

rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was

gradually widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile.

The whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies

materially. The entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight

hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them

twenty stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason)

being considered as especially precious just in this vicinity.

The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally

uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to

be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our

antiquarians have never yet been able to obtain from the site any

sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions)

wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the

manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants.

Nearly all that we have hitherto known of them is, that they were

a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the

continent at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, a knight of

the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilized, however,

but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of

their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many

respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for building

what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated “churches”—a kind

of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by

the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the

island became, nine tenths of it, church. The women, too, it

appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the

region just below the small of the back—although, most

unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the

light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women

have in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd,

very—like something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary.

Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us

respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that

while digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you

know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a

cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several

hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received,

apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it.

On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!)

an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies.

Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden

box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several

documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters

of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt

that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe

called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are

filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c.

I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the

marble slab:—

This Corner Stone of a Monument to

The Memory of

GEORGE WASHINGTON

Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies

on the

19th Day of October, 1847

The anniversary of the surrender of

Lord Cornwallis

to General Washington at Yorktown

A. D. 1781

Under the Auspices of the

Washington Monument Association of

the city of New York

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

himself, so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words

thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge,

not the least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand

years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse—as was all very

proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a

mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future

time; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself “solitary

and alone” (excuse me for quoting the great American poet

Benton!), as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We

ascertain, too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription,

the how as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender

in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that

was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt

some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription

commemorates the surrender of—what?—why, “of Lord Cornwallis.”

The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered

for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly

cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him

for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be

more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage)

“under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association”—no

doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of

corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I

see—the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into

the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a

hasty inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I

find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were

one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.

Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter

or not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for

my own amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however,

and throw it into the sea.

Yours everlastingly,

PUNDITA.

THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE.

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

Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “The Andromache”?

{*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan.

_L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,

indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru.

From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De

L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau

he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his

loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to

restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this

moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo!

the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men!

But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of

the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet

oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as

servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc

expired in a paroxysm of disgust.

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

“He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with

an air of _hauteur_.

“Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I

have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no

actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into

execution.”

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

“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_

strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de

Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and

Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of

the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest

_robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of

the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I

should have in drawing off my gloves?”

“Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took

thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou

wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent

thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou

sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen

drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty

dimensions.”

“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with

impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging

this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au

revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic

presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman

in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged

his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his

identity, he took a bird’s eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L’Omelette pronounced it _bien

comme il faut_. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its

height—ah, that was appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly

none—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His

Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a

chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the

city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung

a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there

poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never

worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never

dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a

bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God

Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these

were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty

was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_

French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was _not_

colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De

L’Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes,

raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.

But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the

same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,

for did he not paint the—? and was he not consequently damned?

The paintings—the paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on

those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices

of the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth

and the porphyry walls?

But the Duc’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,

as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the

ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C’est vrai que de

toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!_ The Duc De

L’Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which

a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most

ghastly of all fires!

_Le pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious,

the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that

hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy

of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings

of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!—there!—upon the

ottoman!—who could _he_ be?—he, the _petitmaître_—no, the

Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his

pale countenance, _si amèrement?_

_Mais il faut agir_—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints

outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L’Omelette is

himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points

also. The Duc had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six

hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. He measures two points,

and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.

_Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!

_Mais il joue!_—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an

excellent memory. He had dipped in the “_Diable_” of Abbé

Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un

jeu d’écarté._”

But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more

desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he

not skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club

Vingt-un? “_Si je perds_,” said he, “_je serai deux fois perdu_—I

shall be doubly damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his

shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les

cartes soient préparées!_”

His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence.

A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace

thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The

Duc cut.

The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king!

No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine

habiliments. De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts

heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

“_C’est à vous à faire_,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace

bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes;

and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “_que s’il

n’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le

Diable._”

THE OBLONG BOX.

Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the

city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain

Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),

weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to

arrange some matters in my state-room.

I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a

more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my

acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that

of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained

feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student

at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the

ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of

misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he

united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human

bosom.

I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,

upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he

had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.

The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,

one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so

exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one

person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three

state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in

one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally

inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I

busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous

conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It

was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less

pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the

enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great

wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of

course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of

so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but

here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,

although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring

one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then

overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to

myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something

to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and

this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the

Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my

curiosity for the nonce.

Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever

girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never

yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,

however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her

as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,

therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.

On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt

and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I

waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of

being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.

was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until

to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”

The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the

wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to

circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather

thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and

that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This

I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as

“the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for

them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return

home and digest my impatience at leisure.

I did not receive the expected message from the captain for

nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went

on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing

was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party

arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two

sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his

customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to

these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not

even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,

upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in

a few hurried words, made us acquainted.

Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,

in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly

astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not

long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a

reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,

when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When

beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared

into the regions of the purely ideal.

The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a

decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was

not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in

exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated

my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect

and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her

state-room with Mr. W.

My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that

was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.

After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong

pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.

Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time

were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.

The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet

in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it

attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;

and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the

accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be

remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,

would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he

had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now

here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain

nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and

a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at

Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of

Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently

settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It

was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of

his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a

march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my

very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved

to quiz him well, now and hereafter.

One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go

into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and

there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the

floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his

wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it

was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,

disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On

the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New

York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled

with care.”

Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the

artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address

as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my

mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get

farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in

Chambers Street, New York.

For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although

the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,

immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers

were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I

must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,

and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the

party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,

even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I

was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could

make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms

during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,

although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any

person on board.

Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she

was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.

She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to

my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to

coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say

“amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I

soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The

gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little

while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent

looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great

wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.

Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution

at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a

dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had

married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride

was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these

expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt

indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking

leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so

intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of

the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be

sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in

his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent

quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.

Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own

delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the

meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in

the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up

alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said

to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse

herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main

cabin.

My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,

by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of

enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite

himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the

natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied

him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,

quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last

Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.

One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my

wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,

however (which I considered quite natural under the

circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and

that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,

and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I

thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put

on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series

of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just

to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the

butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My

first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said

something about the “peculiar shape of _that_ box”; and, as I

spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him

gently with my forefinger in the ribs.

The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry

convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me

as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my

remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his

brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from

their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as

if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and

boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with

gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In

conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to

uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.

I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to

himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At

length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was

quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of

his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest

of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide

with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me

to say nothing on this head to any person on board.

Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of

Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I

was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been

nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at

night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to

sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or

dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s

three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the

main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As

we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a

little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and

whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door

between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the

trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a

position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as

the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on

account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite

distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were

situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights

(not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about

eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the

state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she

remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and

went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had

separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent

divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the

extra state-room.

There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.

During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after

the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was

attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of

her husband. After listening to them for some time, with

thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in

translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the

artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and

mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some

soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.

In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment

when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine

when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the

lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,

by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the

wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very

gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there

was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either

occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a

low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be

nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were

not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to

resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have

been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.

Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein

to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic

enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his

eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,

however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have

been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain

Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of

which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon

the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by

means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his

state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from

hers.

We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,

when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We

were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had

been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made

snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay

to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.

In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship

proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and

shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,

however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our

after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough

of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one

immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men

overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard

bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the

foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail

and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading

the sea much more steadily than before.

The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its

abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly

strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the

afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by

the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of

it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before

we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet

of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps

choked and nearly useless.

All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to

lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as

could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that

remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable

to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak

gained on us very fast.

At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as

the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of

saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke

away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece

of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping

spirits.

After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the

longboat over the side without material accident, and into this

we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This

party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,

finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day

after the wreck.

Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,

resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.

We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a

miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the

water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.

Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and

myself, with a negro valet.

We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively

necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our

backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing

more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when

having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up

in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that

the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his

oblong box!

“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,

“you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale

is almost in the water now.”

“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!

Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight

will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother

who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I

implore you to put back for the box!”

The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal

of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely

said:

“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,

or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about

to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”

As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the

boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by

almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung

from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and

rushing frantically down into the cabin.

In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being

quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea

which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,

but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the

tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate

artist was sealed.

As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for

as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the

companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared

gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in

the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns

of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his

body. In another instant both body and box were in the

sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.

We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted

upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained

unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.

“Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that

an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some

feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself

to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”

“They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that

like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the

salt melts.”

“The salt!” I ejaculated.

“Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the

deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate

time.”

We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune

befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,

in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense

distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained

here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length

obtained a passage to New York.

About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to

meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,

naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of

poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.

The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and

a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a

most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the

fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),

the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was

frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the

deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her

mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the

universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was

well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned

the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being

first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of

salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on

board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s

decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had

engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some

person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased

lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,

originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was

now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,

of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best

of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had

been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers

on board.

My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too

inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is

a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a

countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an

hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.

LOSS OF BREATH

O breathe not, etc.

—Moore’s _Melodies_

The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the

untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the

ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in

holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.

Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;

but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second

lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a

gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having

barred them for the fifth part of a century....

“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the

morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou

whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced

quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing

upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth

close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more

decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if

ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my

extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my

breath.

The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,

are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had

never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak

could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you

have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my

consternation—my despair!

There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely

deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense

of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord

Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie

véritable_.

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree

the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to

conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should

discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.

Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its

bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and

coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and

a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I

could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted

out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.

Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful

instance of the ill consequences attending upon

irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,

with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the

earth—being very calm, yet breathless.

Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was

entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my

life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.

Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first

overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the

powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the

conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally

destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered

that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a

singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the

communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the

guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,

but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.

Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed

in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory

kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession

of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;

but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the

obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I

shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while

the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very

water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to

itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all

obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.

Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length

heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being

now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart

to the scene of my disaster.

Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous

search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some

obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be

found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it

might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many

points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William

Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things

are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in

point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing

such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,

it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I

have since found to be the case.

Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the

contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be

only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle

of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well

here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for

Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath

should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and

necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent

appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.

What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,

and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met

with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to

return.

My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet

after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were

scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself

sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,

accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of

Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the

liberty of recommending.

With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon

some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make

arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had

already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I

might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my

unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,

to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down

upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and

the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I

committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the

good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,

or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the

tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether

unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign

monotonously throughout.

I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented

marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar

proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and

conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to

make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion

for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every

question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my

most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the

tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in

observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It

is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such

passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the

showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in

any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered

the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke

of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never

suspected me of having lost my breath.

Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very

early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be

understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last

importance required my immediate personal attendance in that

city.

The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight

the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without

making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed

between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a

size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to

take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling

asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for

relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of

the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory

faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the

question.

As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the

outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his

shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my

civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were

dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions

began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he

communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead

man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and

responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right

eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.

Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),

believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising

physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and

found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was

pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a

determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the

future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the

present.

I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by

which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting

with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,

under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the

driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after

me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my

head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and

extraordinary.

The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that

my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little

trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon

of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and

receipt for ten dollars.

The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations

immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs

of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring

apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his

suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately

correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and

removed several of my viscera for private dissection.

The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I

endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,

and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the

surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my

faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new

galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man

of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,

from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help

feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to

me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at

conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,

that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply

to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other

circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian

pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners

remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a

garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with

drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and

tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door

on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to

silence and to meditation.

I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken

had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.

Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating

some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom

before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and

vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with

a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on

my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the

paltry consideration of my nose.

But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the

throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the

cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the

loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my

body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,

at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking

across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,

and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and

disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the

window.

The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was

at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected

for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long

continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining

unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar

to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s

cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at

the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the

driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,

who were drunk.

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the

vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.

Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an

alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,

aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of

the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart

of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,

they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after

making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having

communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,

and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.

It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of

course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my

inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half

stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the

sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose

about my neck. The drop fell.

I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although

here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic

upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon

such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author

should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony

composed a treatise upon getting drunk.

I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but

I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my

left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that

I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the

jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely

proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman

in the coach.

For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the

worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be

extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.

The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude

of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself

of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,

his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”

When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper

to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as

the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,

a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.

Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no

one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be

interred in a public vault.

Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,

and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—

Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.

I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.

The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled

with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous

coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,

and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about

the mortality within.

“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,

and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,

an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not

to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human

being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a

rhinoceros.

“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his

circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step

forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,

and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the

poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a

pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract

conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has

never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat

has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the

days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and

suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He

was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.

He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was

the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He

patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in

attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a

deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.

“But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its

receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose

remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome

familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly

commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct

view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its

nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the

ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued

my soliloquy.

“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed

would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had

his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the

originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy

poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized

him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of

“South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied

pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon

the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who

walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and

Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.

He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,

like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably

a—”

“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my

animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate

exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be

so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you

not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know

any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you

do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is

really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to

expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do

not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread

of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should

undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one

person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by,

and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this

place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible

accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your

windows—some short while ago—about the time you were

stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,”

eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always

too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give

me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked,

consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they

took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of

them!—heard all you said about me—every word a

lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et

cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”

It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a

discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced

that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I

soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the

identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with

my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter

beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold

upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in

which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with

his explanations.

In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which

has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many

difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which

only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many

persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their

possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however

troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages

to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves

from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.

Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was

at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to

the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,

I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair

opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is

from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most

anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they

feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.

Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my

grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to

model my reply.

“Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster

and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it

has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost

thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an

old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be

sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single

breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the

calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the

superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”

Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.

Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon

protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with

which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I

failed to take the fullest advantage.

Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered

me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I

gave him afterward a receipt.

I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in

a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be

thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the

details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new

light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of

physical philosophy.

To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only

answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but

I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as

possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and

at the time involving the interests of a third party whose

sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this

moment, of incurring.

We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an

escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of

our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,

the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and

origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and

justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It

was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,

that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both

parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.

I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in

a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again

recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that

indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield

against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt

nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,

among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven

would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with

good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word

“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great

plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain

attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in

his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a

shrine and temple “to the proper God.”

LYTTLETON BARRY.

THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP

A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.

_Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!_

_La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau._

—CORNEILLE.

I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the

acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier

General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one _did_ introduce me to the

gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very

well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some

place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably

forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon

my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to

prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am

constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and

I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of

mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once

into a pitiable state of agitation.

There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, _remarkable_,

although this is but a feeble term to express my full

meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in

question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence

singularly commanding. There was an _air distingué_ pervading the

whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high

birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I

have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head

of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more

richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty

black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of

his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these

latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they

were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all

events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a

mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and

the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between

them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing

clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my

acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair

was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a

deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was

perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of

interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever

saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its

wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great

advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush

of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble

Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I

never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were

admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These

were, indeed, the _ne plus ultra_ of good legs. Every connoisseur

in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither

too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I

could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os

femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the

rear of the _fibula_ which goes to the conformation of a properly

proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend

Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet

Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty

as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to

believe that _the remarkable_ something to which I alluded just

now,—that the odd air of _je ne sais quoi_ which hung about my

new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the

supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be

traced to the _manner_;—yet here again I could not pretend to be

positive. There _was_ a primness, not to say stiffness, in his

carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of

rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,

observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least

little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or

constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted

dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,

_hauteur_—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the

dignity of colossal proportion.

The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my

ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a _remarkable_

man—a _very_ remarkable man—indeed one of the _most_ remarkable

men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the

ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.

“In _that_ point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect

desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my

friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me

with the mystery of his tone.

“A downright fire-eater, and _no_ mistake. Showed _that_, I

should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight

away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my

friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and

thunder, and all that!—_prodigies_ of valor!—heard of him of

course?—you know he’s the man—”

“Man alive, how _do_ you do? why, how _are_ ye? _very_ glad to

see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my

companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but

profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so

still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor

beheld a finer set of teeth: but I _must_ say that I was sorry

for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the

whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly

excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet

Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated

this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a

long _tête-à-tête_, and I was not only pleased but

_really_—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man

of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he

forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then

most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the

Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper

sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in

truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that

the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,

and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid

march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,

this was a point to which he invariably came back.

“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a

wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and

rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon

every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular

trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between

London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense

influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon

literature—which will be the immediate result of the great

principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure

you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most

wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I

believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most _useful_—the

most truly _useful_—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing

up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more

figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.

Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”

Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say

that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,

with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep

sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age

of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been

altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate

inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier

General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous

events _quorum pars magna fuit_, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo

campaign.

The first opportunity which presented itself, and which

(_horresco referens_) I did not in the least scruple to seize,

occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where

I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not

only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and

communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,

I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very

flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about

Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was

clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,

and then commenced, _sotto voce_, a brisk _tête-à-tête_.

“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;

“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you

_knew_ all about _him!_ This is a wonderfully inventive age!

Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those

Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.

Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s

the man—”

“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,

and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our

ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;

he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the

extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the

divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the

pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.

There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and

listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the

balance of that very capital discourse.

Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole

Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by

merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of

affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda

Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a

very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in

making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the

slips, and completely overlooked the stage.

“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the

purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”

“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever

behold a finer figure?”

“Never, madam, but _do_ tell me—”

“Or so inimitable grace?”

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

“Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”

“Madam!”

“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be

so good as to look at that leg!”

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

“Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair

that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so

on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!

great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of

valor! _Never heard!_” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my

soul! why, he’s the man—”

“——mandragora

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owd’st yesterday!”

here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my

face all the time, in a way that I _couldn’t_ stand, and I

_wouldn’t_. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went

behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such

a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.

At the _soirée_ of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was

confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.

Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my

pretty hostess for a _vis-à-vis_, than I propounded those

questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential

to my peace.

“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid

affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches

those Kickapoos!—we are playing _whist_, if you please, Mr.

Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly

_the_ age, one may say—_the_ age _par excellence_—speak

French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—_no hearts_, Mr.

Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all

that!—prodigies of valor! _Never heard!!_—why, bless me, he’s the

man—”

“Mann!—_Captain_ Mann?” here screamed some little feminine

interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking

about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I _must_ hear—do tell—go on,

Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about

a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should

have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and

I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther

that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.

Smith.

Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill

luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make

a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little

angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.

“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de

zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful

business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,

those Indians!—_do_ turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of

you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful

age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a

desperado—prodigies of valor—_never heard!_—can’t believe it—I

shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the

man—”

“Man-_Fred_, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led

Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s

Man-_Fred_, I say, and not at all by any means Man-_Friday_.”

Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;

and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the

purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain

poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great

promptness, that the true title was Man-_Friday_, and not by any

means Man-_Fred_, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she

was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in

a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the

Bas-Bleus.

Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved

to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;

for I knew that here at least I should get something like

definite information.

“Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out

his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage

affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you

think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my

honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the

by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”

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

“Hem!—oh well!—quite _la même cho-o-ose_, as we say in France.

Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.

thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,

you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and

conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of

Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,

he’s the ma-a-an—”

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

mask?”

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

This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so

left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to

call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his

ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.

In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted

touching the information I desired. There was one resource left

me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith

upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a

solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,

there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,

positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus

or Montesquieu.

It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I

pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room

by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my

visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for

the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a

large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay

close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best

humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.

“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in

one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,

between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days

of my existence.

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

I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into

the farthest extremity of the room.

“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,

“what—what—what—why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you

don’t know me at all.”

What _could_ I say to all this—what _could_ I? I staggered into

an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the

solution of the wonder.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently

re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was

performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very

analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a

single leg, however, apparent.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring

me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork

leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it

stood up before my eyes.

“And a bloody action it _was_,” continued the thing, as if in a

soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and

Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,

I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is

decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever

want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you

to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.

“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,

slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,

but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”

“Bosom!” said I.

“Pompey, will you _never_ be ready with that wig? Scalping is a

rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital

scratch at De L’Orme’s.”

“Scratch!”

“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a _good_ set of these you had

better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I

swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big

Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”

“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”

“O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !

Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a

belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how

well I see with the eyes of his make.”

I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me

was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet

Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of

Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in

the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still

puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily

cleared up.

“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do

believe you would let me go out without my palate.”

Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his

master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,

and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a

very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.

The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the

General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he

again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and

strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.

“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I

positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not

only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut

off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s

equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this

description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here

the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest

pleasure in so doing.”

I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of

him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of

affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had

troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet

Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man

that was used up_.

THE BUSINESS MAN

Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.

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

after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than

your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding

it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit.

These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in

what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a

positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the

obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the _outré_. What

definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as

“methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a systematical Will o’ the Wisp”?

My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they

are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was

a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall

not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I

was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round

two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little

spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the

bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A

bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty

an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that

positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the

distinguished man of business that I am.

If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your

geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater

the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.

Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,

any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of

pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into

some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at

variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business

whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell

these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.

If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a

manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any

of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,

or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a

lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the

usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,

according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.

Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.

My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are

well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of

accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.

Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with

the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least

indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,

who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at

last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the

rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in

autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be

believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put

me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the

counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and

commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital

bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,

that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my

button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most

violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my

organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just

touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all

that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a

thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable

hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of

business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been

the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female

who had originally put these means within my reach.

The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of

age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should

have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother

talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The

grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,

and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without

dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these

eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius

of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the

first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself

doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s

Walking-Advertisement line.

I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,

only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading

feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions

as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which

made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor

whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that

individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in

some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.

The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person

about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the

suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in

the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer

to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this

proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves

the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we

quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought

overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of

the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud

satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My

bill ran thus:

_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors.

To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.

July 10. to promenade, as usual and customer brought home $00 25

July 11. To do do do 25

July 12. To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold

for invisible green 25

July 13. To one lie, first class, extra quality and size;

recommended milled satinet as broadcloth, 75

July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey,

to set off gray Petersham 02

Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer

106 in the shade) 25

Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off

new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per

hour 37½

Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought

(fat man) 50

Aug. 18. To do do (medium size) 25

Aug. 19. To do do (small man and bad pay) 6

TOTAL $2 95½

The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate

charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this

was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the

cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good

reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.

The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one

penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what

manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a

sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon

the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be

done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling

me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in

any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &

Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the

most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary

occupations.

My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here

again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,

and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never

dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober

routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,

have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident

which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual

business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks

or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of

putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as

stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.

The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.

As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one

of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in

contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or

tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way

up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an

ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch

Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,

either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t

afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five

hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can

we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be

irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally

corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!

I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I

felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of

their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into

jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well

avoid cutting my connection when I came out.

The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to

adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the

delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with

a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those

stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into

me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of

men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,

the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a

well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many

serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very

decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,

in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just

copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the

necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of

which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a

thing that don’t lie.

“Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.

Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll

answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a

running account with each.

“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his

toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.

Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the

damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock

down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get

rid of Bag—no system at all.

“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting

in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean

one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw

the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the

box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull

it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and

winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of

finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over

into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally

splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,

and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.

“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in

Journal—fifty cents—which see.

“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of

five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.

Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”

Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less

than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases

of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these

extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.

It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is

nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the

profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,

discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so

that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so

that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell

that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best

expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I

turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it

for some years.

The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a

fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.

Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in

sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or

an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,

that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never

was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no

brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in

this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but

my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected

my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,

and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I

took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I

could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known

as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me

tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and

got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my

business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I

never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up

with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered

no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of

course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous

inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but

corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have

neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.

I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I

was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat

analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My

location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I

had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite

fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a

long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was

this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end

at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright

boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a

rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and

looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,

with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then

came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I

was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the

profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t

stand—so we quarrelled and parted.

I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may

say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward

business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a

music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but

to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a

hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,

more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll

along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the

street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and

grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.

Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,

with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some

grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for

my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to

permit of my “going on” under a shilling.

At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not

quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I

labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American

streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,

and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.

I was now out of employment for some months, but at length

succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in

the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether

unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to

make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of

these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred

to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom

Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded

and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,

Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,

forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I

always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and

receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a

letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it

was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to

open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had

to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.

Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to

hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took

to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to

hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.

My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I

have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,

really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has

become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for

relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought

before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The

Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having

passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all

with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a

premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate

succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the

word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,

that the House concurred in it nem. con.

As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole

estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only

afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they

fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that

I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so

indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a

legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have

discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force

three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the

animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have

the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,

therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on

the Hudson.

THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN

The garden like a lady fair was cut

That lay as if she slumbered in delight,

And to the open skies her eyes did shut;

The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right

In a large round set with flow’rs of light:

The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew

That hung upon their azure leaves, did show

Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.

—GILES FLETCHER

No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young

Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion

of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle

to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.

Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external

sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom

I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild

doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of

exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the

mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of

Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in

man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,

the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of

his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from

the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the

Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our

possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that

even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on

the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible

that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly

fortuitous conditions, may be happy.

With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and

thus is it especially worthy of observation that the

uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great

part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with

less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so

well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found

himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his

life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those

of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object

to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be

summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or

rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered

chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one

of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,

“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”

He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a

class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he

instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second

principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of

ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he

held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was

proportioned to the spirituality of this object.

I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous

profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal

grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that

order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a

necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most

illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most

devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,

upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was

discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had

been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world

amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the

entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It

appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s

attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,

one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely

fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the

whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after

his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes

of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest

of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the

end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to

set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character

rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government

was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all

similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,

upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,

as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four

hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}

When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous

wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to

the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the

immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered

all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable

amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a

thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any

citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to

supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or

busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at

ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or

devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large

specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters

and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive

institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the

actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all

ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to

figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that

even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance

amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred

thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and

twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine

hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and

forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute

that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly

broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even

conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at

least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous

opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of

his superabundance.

I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made

up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of

discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the

nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a

poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august

aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.

The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt

to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some

peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of

his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the

whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,

perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most

advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise

of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel

moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he

became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in

its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became

neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his

which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of

ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on

earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of

genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above

that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that

many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and

inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,

unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order

of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,

that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer

productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely

capable.

Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man

lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under

other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not

impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of

sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too

limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,

at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all

the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the

poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of

expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized

conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”

But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the

most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly

neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as

of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the

creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the

most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest

field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the

endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which

should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast

superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In

the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,

he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of

Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or

concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its

adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he

perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to

the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.

“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”

In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much

towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean

the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such

combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius

has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in

reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most

enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a

defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the

component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of

the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be

susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be

attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will

not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the

composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is

this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard

Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.

Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to

improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism

which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be

exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or

sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more

than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it

gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in

saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the

nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the

principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it

is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced

him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.

Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no

affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute

demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the

artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and

such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,

constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his

reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for

a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to

investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his

instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let

a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its

mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to

every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be

admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective

composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest

the identical emendation.

I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,

is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,

therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,

was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was

Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as

improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,

as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each

alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly

effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture

viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is

easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a

closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a

general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this

topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious

importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions

to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which

it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class

of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose

scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,

more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God

the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.

In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to

quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have

well treated this theme.

“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of

landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to

recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means

to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the

hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing

into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color

which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to

the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural

style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects

and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and

order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.

The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different

tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the

various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and

retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed

old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic

Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said

against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a

mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.

This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and

design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered

balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have

passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an

evidence of care and human interest.”

“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will

understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling

the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never

so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends

upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in

respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice

relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of

speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which

guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style

of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and

incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or

miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling

apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of

genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains

to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate

Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which

consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the

understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier

merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be

apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the

excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.

Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be

instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are

told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus

Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive

Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,

and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists

of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have

scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,

in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure

reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort

admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the

sublime.

“Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”

continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of

pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is

just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally

so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is

incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.

There may be an object in full keeping with the principle

suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in

possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm

to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a

merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of

very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining

the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his

designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey

the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in

bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of

interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness

and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in

the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent

the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to

reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.

Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be

harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape

whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and

magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or

superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin

to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while

the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary

Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but

which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of

the angels that hover between man and God.”

It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical

embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the

open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in

the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in

the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of

ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,

lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted

wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from

the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of

positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De

Staël.

MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER

Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general

attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has

been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.

Yet the question of its _modus operandi_ is still undetermined.

Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as

decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical

genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative

understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a

_pure machine_, unconnected with human agency in its movements,

and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of

the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were

they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it

would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any

similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have

been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on

Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among

these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,

the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV

when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,

into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table

was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and

drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,

a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on

the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.

Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his

whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the

edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone

as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to

the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its

former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In

this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair

of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and

opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to

her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,

closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped

his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original

position.

The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy

the following account of it from the _Letters_ before mentioned

of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the

Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.

“One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,

Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of

answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a

magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand

in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready

prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator

takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,

and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer

shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician

then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with

his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts

it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the

proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the

wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an

appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the

magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to

return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all

containing different questions, to which the magician returns the

most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin

plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each

other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each

side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the

drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the

magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes

his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is

returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer

together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the

machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,

during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The

inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions

acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to

the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”

The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the

size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal

that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says

Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and

drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head

and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled

the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the

sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical

structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in

the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its

wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and

curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper

movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck

stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.

{*1}

But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the

calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an

engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical

and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the

exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its

power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a

machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually

print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the

slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,

be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is

altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By

no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we

assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the

Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations

without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical

calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.

Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and

inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,

and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.

And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its

final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to

no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,

we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so

arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance

with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue

its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards

the required solution, since these movements, however complex,

are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.

But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him

there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess

necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular

disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate

their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first

move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an

algebraical question, and their great difference will be

immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second

step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It

is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.

But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second

move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it

proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations

remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a

consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a

consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of

the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.

But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the

_uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,

_no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would

advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable

judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be

granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in

themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and

disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is

then no analogy whatever between the operations of the

Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.

Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we

must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the

most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original

projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring

it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose

effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the

conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for

promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this

point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton

are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter

is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The

only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is

brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as

well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player

for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an

opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.

The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron

Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards

disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to

its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was

exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental

cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.

Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United

States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by

its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of

all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on

this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen

by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,

however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board

should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while

the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in

the costume of the player since it came into the possession of

Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image

of automaton}

At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or

folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within

about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom

and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen

habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large

box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The

exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of

the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,

or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a

game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the

floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it

moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the

Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on

which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the

top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.

The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length

before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an

apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back

of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches

square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in

the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the

Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To

judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into

five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two

drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the

cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of

the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of

the spectators.

Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their

view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch

of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut

above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of

all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,

pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely

together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance

into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes

now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the

figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the

one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and

shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same

time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,

which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of

machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel

closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets

fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The

door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The

exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the

cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are

apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles

and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having

opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set

of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them

perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as

cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.

3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and

the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,

(that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six

inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The

main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box

visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the

main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no

machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,

and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the

compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and

also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the

compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.

Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and

door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main

compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly

all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle

behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently

disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving

the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,

and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A

door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the

figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of

the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be

crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now

thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,

at one and the same time, every individual portion of the

Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the

interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if

ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the

extreme.

M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original

position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a

game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This

challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the

antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’

side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from

obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this

table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them

generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess

board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares

painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the

exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom

the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the

Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking

also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he

arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now

proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of

keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,

winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the

left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now

commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of

the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not

finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist

still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has

seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is

the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.

It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his

own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at

the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as

the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the

Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the

antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the

representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary

that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.

He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the

chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,

on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the

Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is

occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and

to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.

He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to

induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are

more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,

mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,

he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the

spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.

The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm

are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved

and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the

piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers

receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,

however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,

the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this

occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its

movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if

the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot

whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its

cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton

pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard

in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and

then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,

and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a

false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box

with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and

replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,

assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves

his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon

the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,

suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,

the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game

being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism

of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then

rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.

There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the

Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion

too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,

was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was

employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine

and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter

himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means

operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke

confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall

say nothing at present more than we have already said. In

relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we

have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,

and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to

any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The

supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were

the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would

disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will

suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box

during the whole of the exhibition.

The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at

least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,

was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The

author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the

machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the

opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow

cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among

the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of

the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When

the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body

within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the

machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the

door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being

then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says

the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within

any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too

obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and

accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.

In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in

which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.

Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated

by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught

boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could

be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the

chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the

evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly

than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,

and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the

wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by

suffering a close examination of the top of the box.

These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others

equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a

course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to

blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it

altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a

Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled

“An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”

This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet

to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural

Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and

satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are

undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for

Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory

explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very

cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,

made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite

impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the

adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross

misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference

employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as

we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute

explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many

pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so

shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,

concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one

part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the

mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can

be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently

endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of

this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the

box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,

however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in

which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of

the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in

the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made

to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived

at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is

managed, it is of course concealed at every step from

observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be

effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are

actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods

by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the

one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.

But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the

partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether

unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of

proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the

wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the

necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,

with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the

pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the

author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to

show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the

observation of the spectators.

In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,

in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are

effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the

nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our

result.

It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,

that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the

exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from

which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the

first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes

round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the

back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.

He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to

the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he

opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays

the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main

compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he

now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the

main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is

observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before

the drawer.

Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into

the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His

body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.

(the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip

_en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as

occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the

main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man

within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye

cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness

within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the

cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the

cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were

there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back

door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought

his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it

altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,

however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.

Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This

being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not

resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as

to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the

person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly

occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of

the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the

machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied

by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty

to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its

back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators

are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to

view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same

time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the

space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the

front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in

shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine

around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in

his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,

brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the

doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up

into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above

the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats

himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is

seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.

In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the

Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast

he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm

and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just

beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily

reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his

right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and

eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound

_echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and

actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this

mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the

machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of

about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the

spectators’ right) of the main compartment.

In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have

purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the

partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended

that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism

within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected

in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,

however performed, it is performed out of the view of the

spectators. Our result is founded upon the following

_observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of

Maelzel. {*5}

I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of

time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the

antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in

all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily

brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the

antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the

moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals

longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when

regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that

regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other

words, that the Automaton is not a _pure machine._

2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion

is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion

agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of

the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two

seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any

instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding

move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the

Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,

until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself

begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an

error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of

the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the

motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel

has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move

corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,

that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did

not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the

antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.

This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in

performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the

Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,

2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who

sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not

regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards

the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.

3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the

machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always

win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be

made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same

principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would

enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game

of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one

that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in

the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the

operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.

If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,

(what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving

it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more

absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would

afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure

machine—the very argument we now adduce.

4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we

never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.

It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so

circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would

be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of

the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in

meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted

these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions

proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But

the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies

precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When

engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of

setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are

moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,

he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head

shake and the eyes roll.

5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an

examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is

lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the

interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In

scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,

that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,

it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed

their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted

for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent

examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were

attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The

introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been

intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their

operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must

necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at

once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to

the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to

give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the

direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure

machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its

mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose

of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous

of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the

_simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were

brought about.

6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of

the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but

very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no

ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human

face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll

unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the

lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in

an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.

Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do

better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of

the question, when we consider that the whole time of the

ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his

machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like

appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata

are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and

peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The

rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,

his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the

features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate

expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so

entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,

that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the

fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous

to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to

convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata

were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.

Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he

intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same

artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt

also through design) originally made it. What this design was it

is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its

motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its

operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)

than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey

the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.

7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,

the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in

any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a

system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,

that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,

cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or

any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same

as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the

operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of

exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.

8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the

Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the

same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the

Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,

are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a

pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it

is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure

machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could

there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,

than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the

other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be

of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,

than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will

naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this

thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,

although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,

indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to

represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the

more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a

consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of

his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his

words may.

9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has

thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind

it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned

above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of

convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled

with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be

apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of

the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and

unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very

slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This

circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more

remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily

slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should

require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when

the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position

upon the closing of the back door.

10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the

size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.

Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The

body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no

means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer

ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake

may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as

is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,

to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,

his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of

the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a

sitting position.

11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely

three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two

feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for

the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and

the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man

in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person

concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may

prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon

them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is

apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the

spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it

when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very

thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those

who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about

three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the

exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be

included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make

the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are

referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress

the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can

be accommodated within the box.

12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with

_cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A

portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only

partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the

changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the

rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,

and the partition between the main compartment, and the space

behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,

the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if

indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any

circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to

deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the

movements of the person within.

13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered

to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some

distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would

be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,

is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would

intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude

the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be

easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or

by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The

true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were

the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would

be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick

car, the breathings of the man concealed.

14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the

machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we

have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so

_deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,

he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never

opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of

cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first

pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first

shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of

cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of

chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now

if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.

Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary

to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible

arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes

infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that

he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does

_so _deviate as to falsify the solution.

15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during

exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many

employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have

been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of

the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition

room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure

machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed

any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and

when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table

of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that

so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see

through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which

the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the

arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents

itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.

Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote

from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about

two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches

shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from

the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio

different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on

one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on

the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the

candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of

ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against

which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by

the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the

rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of

radiation all upon different levels.

16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,

it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the

suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game

at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken

seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.

This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,

although all others of the suite played well. Similar

observations have been made since the Automaton has been

purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends

him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other

than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the

automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable

stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or

not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he

is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,

although frequently visible just before and just after the

exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond

with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house

now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er

was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no

exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to

many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of

the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of

_Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without

farther comment, to the reader.

17. The Turk plays with his _left_ arm. A circumstance so

remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it

whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the

fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not

to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.

The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,

but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is

obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as

this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall

lead us to the truth.

The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand

cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,

considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would

cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left

arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the

right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human

organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in

the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right

and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally

refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this

peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine

some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man

_would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of

themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few

more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The

Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other

circumstances could the man within play with his right—a

_desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the

Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery

which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie

just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man

within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and

awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly

compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or

else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither

case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the

contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the

left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man

within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,

without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the

figure.

We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged

against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.

THE POWER OF WORDS

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

immortality!

AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is

to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.

For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!

OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once

cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being

cognizant of all.

AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the

acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever

blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.

OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?

AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one

thing unknown even to Him.

OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last

all things be known?

AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force

the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep

slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual

vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden

walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining

bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?

OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no

dream.

AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered

that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford

infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to

know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench

it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my

Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left

the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the

throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies

and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and

triple-tinted suns.

OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me

in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted

to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during

mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to

say that the Creator is not God?

AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

OINOS. Explain.

AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures

which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing

into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,

not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative

power.

OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered

heretical in the extreme.

AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of

what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain

conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of

creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there

were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what

some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of

animalculæ.

AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of

the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which

has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the

first law.

OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of

nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these

stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?

AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to

the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought

can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our

hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in

so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.

This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to

every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for

ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the

mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special

effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the

subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine

in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle

the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere

circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a

given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of

the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the

results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw

that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through

the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of

the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this

species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for

indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its

advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him

who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians

paused.

OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest

beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of

infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the

algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in

tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the

air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote

epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse

given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing

that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite

understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the

remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in

their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and

onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other

words, in their creation of new—until he found them

reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the

Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any

epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these

numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he

could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic

retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power

of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this

faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is

of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety

of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself

exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.

OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;

but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the

ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is

thus the great medium of creation.

OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the

source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—

OINOS. God.

AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair

Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of

the Earth.

OINOS. You did.

AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind

some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an

impulse on the air?

OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your

wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the

greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our

flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its

fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.

AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three

centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at

the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate

sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of

all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions

of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.

THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA

Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._

“These things are in the near future.”

_ Una._ “Born again?”

_ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These

were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long

pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until

Death himself resolved for me the secret.

_Una._ Death!

_Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,

too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes.

You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the

Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how

singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror

to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!

_Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How

often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its

nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human

bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!” That earnest

mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms—how

vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first

up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its

strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of

that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus,

in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy

then.

_Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine,

forever now!

_ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I

have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I

burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark

Valley and Shadow.

_ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos

in vain? I will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall

the weird narrative begin?

_Una._ At what point?

_Monos._ You have said.

_Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the

propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,

then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence

with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you,

you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed

down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.

_ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general

condition at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the

wise among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in the

world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term

“improvement,” as applied to the progress of our civilization.

There were periods in each of the five or six centuries

immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous

intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth

appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly

obvious—principles which should have taught our race to submit to

the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their

control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking

upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in

the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that

intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of

all—since those truths which to us were of the most enduring

importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in

proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason

bears no weight—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a

step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the

philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the

tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a

distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the

infant condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—living and

perishing amid the scorn of the “utilitarians”—of rough pedants,

who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been

properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets,

pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when

our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days

when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was

happiness—holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers ran

undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes,

primæval, odorous, and unexplored.

Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to

strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most

evil of all our evil days. The great “movement”—that was the cant

term—went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the

Arts—arose supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the

intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could

not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish

exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her

elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an

infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the

origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with

abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other

odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the

face of analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning voice

of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in

Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy

were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading

evil—Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime

huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank

before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was

deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And

methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and

of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it

appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the

perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its

culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that

taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle position between

the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely have

been disregarded—it was now that taste alone could have led us

gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the

pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas

for the μουσικη which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient

education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since both were

most desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or

despised. {*1}

Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how

truly!—“que tout notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au

sentiment;” and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the

natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old

ascendancy over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But

this thing was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of

knowledge the old age of the world drew on. This the mass of

mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected

not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to

look for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. I had

imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the

simple and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the

astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent

mother of all Arts. In history {*2} of these regions I met with a

ray from the Future. The individual artificialities of the three

latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their individual

overthrows we had seen local remedies applied; but for the

infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration save

in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw

that he must be “born again.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,

daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of

the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth,

having undergone that purification {*3} which alone could efface