The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Part 2

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The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Part 2

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EUREKA-A PROSE POEM 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1848 



WITH VERY PROFOUND RESPECT, 

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED 

TO 

ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT 

PREFACE 

To the few who love me and whom I love —to those who feel rather than to those who 
think — to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities — I offer 
this Book of Truths, not in its character of Truth-Teller, but for the Beauty that abounds 
in its Truth; constituting it true. To these I present the composition as an Art-Product 
alone:-let us say as a Romance; or, if I be not urging too lofty a claim, as a Poem. 
What I here propound is true:-* therefore it cannot die:-or if by any means it be now 
trodden down so that it die, it will "rise again to the Life Everlasting." 

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

EUREKA: 

AN ESSAY ON THE MATERIAL AND SPIRITUAL UNIVERSE 

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

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

I design to speak of the Physical, Metaphysical and Mathematical - of the Material and 
Spiritual Universe:-of its Essence, its Origin, its Creation, its Present Condition and its 
Destiny. I shall be so rash, moreover, as to chAUange the conclusions, and thus, in effect, 
to question the sagacity, of many of the greatest and most justly reverenced of men. 

In the beginning, let me as distinctly as possible announce —not the theorem which I 
hope to demonstrate —for, whatever the mathematicians may assert, there is, in this world 
at least, no such thing as demonstration —but the ruling idea which, throughout this 
volume, I shall be continually endeavoring to suggest. 



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

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

He who from the top of AEtna casts his eyes leisurely around, is affected chiefly by the 
extent and diversity of the scene. Only by a rapid whirling on his heel could he hope to 
comprehend the panorama in the sublimity of its oneness. But as, on the summit of 
AEtna, no man has thought of whirling on his heel, so no man has ever taken into his 
brain the full uniqueness of the prospect; and so, again, whatever considerations lie 
involved in this uniqueness, have as yet no practical existence for mankind. 

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

But even of treatises on the really limited, although always assumed as the un limited. 
Universe of stars, I know none in which a survey, even of this limited Universe, is so 
taken as to warrant deductions from its individuality. The nearest approach to such a 
work is made in the "Cosmos" of Alexander Von Humboldt. He presents the subject, 
however, not in its individuality but in its generality. His theme, in its last result, is the 
law of each portion of the merely physical Universe, as this law is related to the laws of 
every other portion of this merely physical Universe. His design is simply synoeretical. In 
a word, he discusses the universality of material relation, and discloses to the eye of 
Philosophy whatever inferences have hitherto lain hidden behind this universality. But 
however admirable be the succinctness with which he has treated each particular point of 
his topic, the mere multiplicity of these points occasions, necessarily, an amount of detail, 
and thus an involution of idea, which preclude all individuality of impression. 

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



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

"Do you know, my dear friend," says the writer, addressing, no doubt, a contemporary — 
"Do you know that it is scarcely more than eight or nine hundred years ago since the 
metaphysicians first consented to relieve the people of the singular fancy that there exist 
but two practicable roads to Truth? Believe it if you can! It appears, however, that long, 
long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher called Aries and 
surnamed Tottle." [Here, possibly, the letter- writer means Aristotle; the best names are 
wretchedly corrupted in two or three thousand years.] "The fame of this great man 
depended mainly upon his demonstration that sneezing is a natural provision, by means 
of which over-profound thinkers are enabled to expel superfluous ideas through the nose; 
but he obtained a scarcely less valuable celebrity as the founder, or at all events as the 
principal propagator, of what was termed the de ductive or a priori philosophy. He started 
with what he maintained to be axioms, or self-evident truths: —and the now well- 
understood fact that no truths are self -evident, really does not make in the slightest 
degree against his speculations: —it was sufficient for his purpose that the truths in 
question were evident at all. From axioms he proceeded, logically, to results. His most 
illustrious disciples were one Tuclid, a geometrician," [meaning Euclid] "and one Kant, a 
Dutchman, the originator of that species of Transcendentalism which, with the change 
merely of a C for a K, now bears his peculiar name. 

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

"Now I do assure you most positively" —proceeds the epistle —"that I represent these 
matters fairly; and you can easily understand how restrictions so absurd on their very face 



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

"Now, my dear friend," continues the letter- writer, "it cannot be maintained that by the 
crawling system, exclusively adopted, men would arrive at the maximum amount of 
truth, even in any long series of ages; for the repression of imagination was an evil not to 
be counterbalanced even by absolute certainty in the snail processes. But their certainty 
was very far from absolute. The error of our progenitors was quite analogous with that of 
the wiseacre who fancies he must necessarily see an object the more distinctly, the more 
closely he holds it to his eyes. They blinded themselves, too, with the impalpable, 
titillating Scotch snuff of detail; and thus the boasted facts of the Hog-ites were by no 
means always facts —a point of little importance but for the assumption that they always 
were. The vital taint, however, in Baconianism — its most lamentable fount of error —lay 
in its tendency to throw power and consideration into the hands of merely perceptive men 
—of those inter- Tritonic minnows, the microscopical savans —the diggers and pedlers of 
minute facts, for the most part in physical science - facts all of which they retailed at the 
same price upon the highway; their value depending, it was supposed, simply upon the 
fact of their fact, without reference to their applicability or inapplicability in the 
development of those ultimate and only legitimate facts, called Law. 

"Than the persons" —the letter goes on to say —"than the persons thus suddenly elevated 
by the Hog-ian philosophy into a station for which they were unfitted —thus transferred 
from the sculleries into the parlors of Science —from its pantries into its pulpits —than 
these individuals a more intolerant —a more intolerable set of bigots and tyrants never 
existed on the face of the earth. Their creed, their text and their sermon were, alike, the 
one word 'fact' —but, for the most part, even of this one word, they knew not even the 
meaning. On those who ventured to disturb their facts with the view of putting them in 
order and to use, the disciples of Hog had no mercy whatever. All attempts at 
generalization were met at once by the words 'theoretical,' 'theory,' 'theorist' — all thought, 
to be brief, was very properly resented as a personal affront to themselves. Cultivating the 
natural sciences to the exclusion of Metaphysics, the Mathematics, and Logic, many of 
these Bacon-engendered philosophers — one-idead, one-sided and lame of a leg —were 
more wretchedly helpless —more miserably ignorant, in view of all the comprehensible 



objects of knowledge, than the veriest unlettered hind who proves that he knows 
something at least, in admitting that he knows absolutely nothing. 

"Nor had our forefathers any better right to talk about certainty, when pursuing, in blind 
confidence, the a priori path of axioms, or of the Ram. At innumerable points this path 
was scarcely as straight as a ram's-horn. The simple truth is, that the Aristotelians erected 
their castles upon a basis far less reliable than air; for no such things as axioms ever 
existed or can possibly exist at all. This they must have been very blind, indeed, not to 
see, or at least to suspect; for, even in their own day, many of their long-admitted 'axioms' 
had been abandoned: — 'ex nihilo nihil fit,' for example, and a 'thing cannot act where it is 
not,' and 'there cannot be antipodes,' and 'darkness cannot proceed from light.' These and 
numerous similar propositions formerly accepted, without hesitation, as axioms, or 
undeniable truths, were, even at the period of which I speak, seen to be altogether 
untenable: —how absurd in these people, then, to persist in relying upon a basis, as 
immutable, whose mutability had become so repeatedly manifest! 

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

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

"And now, by the logic of their own propounder, let us proceed to test any one of the 
axioms propounded. Let us give Mr. Mill the fairest of play. We will bring the point to no 
ordinary issue. We will select for investigation no common-place axiom — no axiom of 
what, not the less preposterously because only impliedly, he terms his secondary class — 
as if a positive truth by definition could be either more or less positively a truth: —we 



will select, I say, no axiom of an unquestionability so questionable as is to be found in 
Euclid. We will not talk, for example, about such propositions as that two straight lines 
cannot enclose a space, or that the whole is greater than any one of its parts. We will 
afford the logician every advantage. We will come at once to a proposition which he 
regards as the acme of the unquestionable —as the quintessence of axiomatic 
undeniability. Here it is: —'Contradictions cannot both be true - that is, cannot coexist in 
nature.' Here Mr. Mill means, for instance, —and I give the most forcible instance 
conceivable — that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree — that it cannot be at the same 
time a tree and not a tree: —all which is quite reasonable of itself and will answer 
remarkably well as an axiom, until we bring it into collation with an axiom insisted upon 
a few pages before —in other words —words which I have previously employed —until 
we test it by the logic of its own propounder. 'A tree,' Mr. Mill asserts, 'must be either a 
tree or not a tree.' Very well: — and now let me ask him, why. To this little query there is 
but one response: —I defy any man living to invent a second. The sole answer is this: — 
'Because we find it impossible to conceive that a tree can be anything else than a tree or 
not a tree.' This, I repeat, is Mr. Mill's sole answer: —he will not pretend to suggest 
another: —and yet, by his own showing, his answer is clearly no answer at all; for has he 
not already required us to admit, as an axiom, that ability or inability to conceive is in no 
case to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic truth? Thus all —absolutely his argumentation 
is at sea without a rudder. Let it not be urged that an exception from the general rule is to 
be made, in cases where the 'impossibility to conceive' is so peculiarly great as when we 
are called upon to conceive a tree both a tree and not a tree. Let no attempt, I say, be 
made at urging this sotticism; for, in the first place, there are no degrees of 'impossibility,' 
and thus no one impossible conception can be more peculiarly impossible than another 
impossible conception: —in the second place, Mr. Mill himself, no doubt after thorough 
deliberation, has most distinctly, and most rationally, excluded all opportunity for 
exception, by the emphasis of his proposition, that, in no case, is ability or inability to 
conceive, to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic truth: — in the third place, even were 
exceptions admissible at all, it remains to be shown how any exception is admissible 
here. That a tree can be both a tree and not a tree, is an idea which the angels, or the 
devils, may entertain, and which no doubt many an earthly Bedlamite, or 
Transcendentalist, does. 

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

"By the bye, my dear friend, is it not an evidence of the mental slavery entailed upon 
those bigoted people by their Hogs and Rams, that in spite of the eternal prating of their 
savans about roads to Truth, none of them fell, even by accident, into what we now so 
distinctly perceive to be the broadest, the straightest and most available of all mere roads 
—the great thoroughfare —the majestic highway of the Consistent? Is it not wonderful 



that they should have failed to deduce from the works of God the vitally momentous 
consideration that a perfect consistency can be nothing but an absolute truth? How plain - 
-how rapid our progress since the late announcement of this proposition! By its means, 
investigation has been taken out of the hands of the ground-moles, and given as a duty, 
rather than as a task, to the true —to the only true thinkers —to the generally-educated 
men of ardent imagination. These latter —our Keplers —our Laplaces —'speculate' — 
'theorize' —these are the terms — can you not fancy the shout of scorn with which they 
would be received by our progenitors, were it possible for them to be looking over my 
shoulders as I write? The Keplers, I repeat, speculate — theorize — and their theories are 
merely corrected — reduced —sifted — cleared, little by little, of their chaff of 
inconsistency —until at length there stands apparent an unencumbered Consistency —a 
consistency which the most stolid admit —because it is a consistency —to be an absolute 
and unquestionable TRuth. 

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

"Yes, Kepler was essentially a theorist; but this title, now of so much sanctity, was, in 
those ancient days, a designation of supreme contempt. It is only now that men begin to 
appreciate that divine old man —to sympathize with the prophetical and poetical 
rhapsody of his ever-memorable words. For my part," continues the unknown 
correspondent, "I glow with a sacred fire when I even think of them, and feel that I shall 
never grow weary of their repetition: — in concluding this letter, let me have the real 



pleasure of transcribing them once again: —1 care not whether my work be read now or 
by posterity. I can afford to wait a century for readers when God himself has waited six 
thousand years for an observer. I triumph. I have stolen the golden secret of the 
Egyptians. I will indulge my sacred fury.'" 

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

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

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

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



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

As regards that infinity now considered —the infinity of space —we often hear it said that 
"its idea is admitted by the mind —is acquiesced in —is entertained —on account of the 
greater difficulty which attends the conception of a limit." But this is merely one of those 
phrases by which even profound thinkers, time out of mind, have occasionally taken 
pleasure in deceiving themselves. The quibble lies concealed in the word "difficulty." 
"The mind," we are told, "entertains the idea of limitless, through the greater difficulty 
which it finds in entertaining that of limited, space." Now, were the proposition but fairly 
put, its absurdity would become transparent at once. Clearly, there is no mere difficulty in 
the case. The assertion intended, if presented according to its intention and without 
sophistry, would run thus: —"The mind admits the idea of limitless, through the greater 
impossibility of entertaining that of limited, space." 

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

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



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

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

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

We believe in a God. We may or may not believe in finite or in infinite space; but our 
belief, in such cases, is more properly designated as faith, and is a matter quite distinct 
from that belief proper — from that intellectual belief — which presupposes the mental 
conception. 

The fact is, that, upon the enunciation of any one of that class of terms to which "Infinity" 
belongs —the class representing thoughts of thought —he who has a right to say that he 
thinks at all, feels himself called upon, not to entertain a conception, but simply to direct 
his mental vision toward some given point, in the intellectual firmament, where lies a 
nebula never to be resolved. To solve it, indeed, he makes no effort; for with a rapid 
instinct he comprehends, not only the impossibility, but, as regards all human purposes, 
the inessentiality, of its solution. He perceives that the Deity has not designed it to be 



solved. He sees, at once, that it lies out of the brain of man, and even how, if not exactly 
why, it lies out of it. There are people, I am aware, who, busying themselves in attempts 
at the unattainable, acquire very easily, by dint of the jargon they emit, among those 
thinkers-that-they-think with whom darkness and depth are synonymous, a kind of cuttle- 
fish reputation for profundity; but the finest quality of Thought is its self-cognizance; 
and, with some little equivocation, it may be said that no fog of the mind can well be 
greater than that which, extending to the very boundaries of the mental domain, shuts out 
even these boundaries themselves from comprehension. 

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

Hitherto, the Universe of stars has always been considered as coincident with the 
Universe proper, as I have defined it in the commencement of this Discourse. It has been 
always either directly or indirectly assumed —at least since the dawn of intelligible 
Astronomy —that, were it possible for us to attain any given point in space, we should 
still find, on all sides of us, an interminable succession of stars. This was the untenable 
idea of Pascal when making perhaps the most successful attempt ever made, at 
periphrasing the conception for which we struggle in the word "Universe." "It is a 
sphere," he says, "of which the centre is everywhere, the circumference, nowhere." But 
although this intended definition is, in fact, no definition of the Universe of stars, we may 
accept it, with some mental reservation, as a definition (rigorous enough for all practical 
purposes) of the Universe proper —that is to say, of the Universe of space. This latter, 
then, let us regard as "a sphere of which the centre is everywhere, the circumference 
nowhere." In fact, while we find it impossible to fancy an end to space, we have no 
difficulty in picturing to ourselves any one of an infinity of beginnings. 

As our starting point, then, let us adopt the Godhead. Of this Godhead, in itself, he alone 
is not imbecile —he alone is not impious who propounds —nothing. "Nous ne 
connaissons rien," says the Baron de Bielfeld —"Nous ne connaissons rien de la nature ou 
de I'essence de Dieu: —pour savoir ce qu'il est, il faut etre Dieu meme." — "We know 
absolutely nothing of the nature or essence of God: — in order to comprehend what he is, 
we should have to be God ourselves." 

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

By Him, however — now, at least, the Incomprehensible — by Him — assuming him as 
Spirit —that is to say, as not Matter —a distinction which, for all intelligible purposes, 
will stand well instead of a definition —by Him, then, existing as Spirit, let us content 
ourselves, to-night, with supposing to have been created, or made out of Nothing, by dint 
of his Volition —at some point of Space which we will take as a centre —at some period 



into which we do not pretend to inquire, but at all events immensely remote —by Him, 
then again, let us suppose to have been created —what? This is a vitally momentous 
epoch in our considerations. What is it that we are justified —that alone we are justified 
in supposing to have been, primarily and solely, created? 

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

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

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

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

The willing into being the primordial particle, has completed the act, or more properly the 
Conception, of Creation. We now proceed to the ultimate purpose for which we are to 
suppose the Particle created — that is to say, the ultimate purpose so far as our 
considerations yet enable us to see it — the constitution of the Universe from it, the 
Particle. 

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



The assumption of absolute Unity in the primordial Particle includes that of infinite 
divisibility. Let us conceive the Particle, then, to be only not totally exhausted by 
diffusion into Space. From the one Particle, as a centre, let us suppose to be irradiated 
spherically —in all directions —to immeasurable but still to definite distances in the 
previously vacant space —a certain inexpressibly great yet limited number of 
unimaginably yet not infinitely minute atoms. 

Now, of these atoms, thus diffused, or upon diffusion, what conditions are we permitted - 
-not to assume, but to infer, from consideration as well of their source as of the character 
of the design apparent in their diffusion? Unity being their source, and difference from 
Unity the character of the design manifested in their diffusion, we are warranted in 
supposing this character to be at least generally preserved throughout the design, and to 
form a portion of the design itself: —that is to say, we shall be warranted in conceiving 
continual differences at all points from the uniquity and simplicity of the origin. But, for 
these reasons, shall we be justified in imagining the atoms heterogeneous, dissimilar, 
unequal, and inequidistant? More explicitly —are we to consider no two atoms as, at their 
diffusion, of the same nature, or of the same form, or of the same size? —and, after 
fulfilment of their diffusion into Space, is absolute inequidistance, each from each, to be 
understood of all of them? In such arrangement, under such conditions, we most easily 
and immediately comprehend the subsequent most feasible carrying out to completion of 
any such design as that which I have suggested —the design of variety out of unity — 
diversity out of sameness — heterogeneity out of homogeneity —complexity out of 
simplicity —in a word, the utmost possible multiplicity of relation out of the emphatically 
irrelative One. Undoubtedly, therefore, we should be warranted in assuming all that has 
been mentioned, but for the reflection, first, that supererogation is not presumable of any 
Divine Act; and, secondly, that the object supposed in view, appears as feasible when 
some of the conditions in question are dispensed with, in the beginning, as when all are 
understood immediately to exist. I mean to say that some are involved in the rest, or so 
instantaneous a consequence of them as to make the distinction inappreciable. Difference 
of size, for example, will at once be brought about through the tendency of one atom to a 
second, in preference to a third, on account of particular inequidistance; which is to be 
comprehended as particular inequidistances between centres of quantity, in neighboring 
atoms of different form — a matter not at all interfering with the generally-equable 
distribution of the atoms. Difference of kind, too, is easily conceived to be merely a result 
of differences in size and form, taken more or less conjointly: —in fact, since the Unity of 
the Particle Proper implies absolute homogeneity, we cannot imagine the atoms, at their 
diffusion, differing in kind, without imagining, at the same time, a special exercise of the 
Divine Will, at the emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting, in each, a change 
of its essential nature: —so fantastic an idea is the less to be indulged, as the object 
proposed is seen to be thoroughly attainable without such minute and elaborate 
interposition. We perceive, therefore, upon the whole, that it would be supererogatory, 
and consequently unphilosophical, to predicate of the atoms, in view of their purposes, 
any thing more than difference of form at their dispersion, with particular inequidistance 
after it — all other differences arising at once out of these, in the very first processes of 
mass-constitution: —We thus establish the Universe on a purely geometrical basis. Of 
course, it is by no means necessary to assume absolute difference, even of form, among 



the atoms irradiated —any more than absolute particular inequidistance of each from 
each. We are required to conceive merely that no neighboring atoms are of similar form - 
-no atoms which can ever approximate, until their inevitable reunition at the end. 

Although the immediate and perpetual tendency of the disunited atoms to return into their 
normal Unity, is implied, as I have said, in their abnormal diffusion; still it is clear that 
this tendency will be without consequence — a tendency and no more — until the diffusive 
energy, in ceasing to be exerted, shall leave it, the tendency, free to seek its satisfaction. 
The Divine Act, however, being considered as determinate, and discontinued on 
fulfilment of the diffusion, we understand, at once, a reaction —in other words, a 
satisfiable tendency of the disunited atoms to return into One. 

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

For the effectual and thorough completion of the general design, we thus see the 
necessity for a repulsion of limited capacity —a separate something which, on withdrawal 
of the diffusive Volition, shall at the same time allow the approach, and forbid the 
junction, of the atoms; suffering them infinitely to approximate, while denying them 
positive contact; in a word, having the power —up to a certain epoch —of preventing their 
Coalition, but no ability to interfere with their Coalescence in any respect or degree. The 
repulsion, already considered as so peculiarly limited in other regards, must be 
understood, let me repeat, as having power to prevent absolute coalition, only up to a 
certain epoch. Unless we are to conceive that the appetite for Unity among the atoms is 
doomed to be satisfied never; —unless we are to conceive that what had a beginning is to 
have no end —a conception which cannot really be entertained, however much we may 
talk or dream of entertaining it — we are forced to conclude that the repulsive influence 
imagined, will, finally —under pressure of the Uni-tendency collectively applied, but, 
never and in no degree until, on fulfilment of the Divine purposes, such collective 
application shall be naturally made —yield to a force which, at that ultimate epoch, shall 
be the superior force precisely to the extent required, and thus permit the universal 
subsidence into the inevitable, because original and therefore normal. One. —The 
conditions here to be reconciled are difficult indeed: —we cannot even comprehend the 
possibility of their conciliation; —nevertheless, the apparent impossibility is brilliantly 
suggestive. 

That the repulsive something actually exists, we see. Man neither employs, nor knows, a 
force sufficient to bring two atoms into contact. This is but the well-established 
proposition of the impenetrability of matter. All Experiment proves — all Philosophy 



admits it. The design of the repulsion — the necessity for its existence — I have 
endeavored to show; but from all attempt at investigating its nature have religiously 
abstained; this on account of an intuitive conviction that the principle at issue is strictly 
spiritual —lies in a recess impervious to our present understanding — lies involved in a 
consideration of what now —in our human state —is not to be considered —in a 
consideration of Spirit in itself. I feel, in a word, that here the God has interposed, and 
here only, because here and here only the knot demanded the interposition of the God. 

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

Calling it, merely for the moment, electricity, we know that all experimental analysis of 
electricity has given, as an ultimate result, the principle, or seeming principle, 
heterogeneity. Only where things differ is electricity apparent; and it is presumable that 
they never differ where it is not developed at least, if not apparent. Now, this result is in 
the fullest keeping with that which I have reached unempirically. The design of the 
repulsive influence I have maintained to be that of preventing immediate Unity among 
the diffused atoms; and these atoms are represented as different each from each. 
Difference is their character — their essentiality —just as no-difference was the 
essentiality of their course. When we say, then, that an attempt to bring any two of these 
atoms together would induce an effort, on the part of the repulsive influence, to prevent 
the contact we may as well use the strictly convertible sentence that an attempt to bring 
together any two differences will result in a development of electricity. All existing 
bodies, of course, are composed of these atoms in proximate contact, and are therefore to 
be considered as mere assemblages of more or fewer differences; and the resistance made 
by the repulsive spirit, on bringing together any two such assemblages, would be in the 
ratio of the two sums of the differences in each: — an expression which, when reduced, is 
equivalent to this: —The amount of electricity developed on the approximation of two 
bodies, is proportional to the difference between the respective sums of the atoms of 
which the bodies are composed. That no two bodies are absolutely alike, is a simple 
corollary from all that has been here said. Electricity, therefore, existing always, is 
developed whenever any bodies, but manifested only when bodies of appreciable 
difference, are brought into approximation. 

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



Discarding now the two equivocal terms, "gravitation" and "electricity," let us adopt the 
more definite expressions, "attraction" and "repulsion." The former is the body; the latter 
the soul: the one is the material; the other the spiritual, principle of the Universe. No 
other principles exist. All phaenomena are referable to one, or to the other, or to both 
combined. So rigorously is this the case —so thoroughly demonstrable is it that attraction 
and repulsion are the sole properties through which we perceive the Universe — in other 
words, by which Matter is manifested to Mind —that, for all merely argumentative 
purposes, we are fully justified in assuming that matter exists only as attraction and 
repulsion — that attraction and repulsion are matter: — there being no conceivable case in 
which we may not employ the term "matter" and the terms "attraction" and "repulsion," 
taken together, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, expressions in Logic. 

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

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

What does the Newtonian law declare? —That all bodies attract each other with forces 
proportional to their quantities of matter and inversely proportional to the squares of their 
distances. Purposely, I have here given, in the first place, the vulgar version of the law; 
and I confess that in this, as in most other vulgar versions of great truths, we find little of 
a suggestive character. Let us now adopt a more philosophical phraseology: —Every 
atom, of every body, attracts every other atom, both of its own and of every other body, 
with a force which varies inversely as the squares of the distances between the attracting 
and attracted atom. —Here, indeed, a flood of suggestion bursts upon the mind. 

But let us see distinctly what it was that Newton proved - according to the grossly 
irrational definitions of proof prescribed by the metaphysical schools. He was forced to 
content himself with showing how thoroughly the motions of an imaginary Universe, 
composed of attracting and attracted atoms obedient to the law he announced, coincide 



with those of the actually existing Universe so far as it comes under our observation. This 
was the amount of his demonstration —that is to say, this was the amount of it, according 
to the conventional cant of the "philosophies." His successes added proof multiplied by 
proof —such proof as a sound intellect admits —but the demonstration of the law itself, 
persist the metaphysicians, had not been strengthened in any degree. "Ocular, physical 
proof," however, of attraction, here upon Earth, in accordance with the Newtonian theory, 
was, at length, much to the satisfaction of some intellectual grovellers, afforded. This 
proof arose collaterally and incidentally (as nearly all important truths have arisen) out of 
an attempt to ascertain the mean density of the Earth. In the famous Maskelyne, 
Cavendish and Bailly experiments for this purpose, the attraction of the mass of a 
mountain was seen, felt, measured, and found to be mathematically consistent with the 
immortal theory of the British astronomer. 

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

Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend —to what species of error does it give 
rise? On the Earth we see and feel, only that gravity impels all bodies towards the centre 
of the Earth. No man in the common walks of life could be made to see or feel anything 
else —could be made to perceive that anything, anywhere, has a perpetual, gravitating 
tendency in any other direction than to the centre of the Earth; yet (with an exception 
hereafter to be specified) it is a fact that every earthly thing (not to speak now of every 
heavenly thing) has a tendency not only to the Earth's centre but in every conceivable 
direction besides. 

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



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

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

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

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

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

Does not so evident a brotherhood among the atoms point to a common parentage? Does 
not a sympathy so omniprevalent, so ineradicable, and so thoroughly irrespective, suggest 
a common paternity as its source? Does not one extreme impel the reason to the other? 
Does not the infinitude of division refer to the utterness of individuality? Does not the 
entireness of the complex hint at the perfection of the simple? It is not that the atoms, as 
we see them, are divided or that they are complex in their relations — but that they are 
inconceivably divided and unutterably complex: — it is the extremeness of the conditions 
to which I now allude, rather than to the conditions themselves. In a word, not because 



the atoms were, at some remote epoch of time, even more than together — is it not 
because originally, and therefore normally, they were One — that now, in all 
circumstances —at all points —in all directions —by all modes of approach —in all 
relations and through all conditions —they struggle back to this absolutely, this 
irrelatively, this unconditionally one? 

Some person may here demand: —"Why —since it is to the One that the atoms struggle 
back — do we not find and define Attraction 'a merely general tendency to a centre?' — 
why, in especial, do not your atoms —the atoms which you describe as having been 
irradiated from a centre — proceed at once, rectilinearly, back to the central point of their 
origin?" 

I reply that they do; as will be distinctly shown; but that the cause of their so doing is 
quite irrespective of the centre as such. They all tend rectilinearly towards a centre, 
because of the sphereicity with which they have been irradiated into space. Each atom, 
forming one of a generally uniform globe of atoms, finds more atoms in the direction of 
the centre, of course, than in any other, and in that direction, therefore, is impelled —but 
is not thus impelled because the centre is the point of its origin. It is not to any point that 
the atoms are allied. It is not any locality, either in the concrete or in the abstract, to 
which I suppose them bound. Nothing like location was conceived as their origin. Their 
source lies in the principle. Unity. This is their lost parent. This they seek always — 
immediately —in all directions — wherever it is even partially to be found; thus 
appeasing, in some measure, the ineradicable tendency, while on the way to its absolute 
satisfaction in the end. It follows from all this, that any principle which shall be adequate 
to account for the LAO or modus operandi, of the attractive force in general, will account 
for this law in particular: — that is to say, any principle which will show why the atoms 
should tend to their general centre of irradiation with forces inversely proportional to the 
squares of the distances, will be admitted as satisfactorily accounting, at the same time, 
for the tendency, according to the same law, of these atoms each to each: — for the 
tendency to the centre is merely the tendency each to each, and not any tendency to a 
centre as such. —Thus it will be seen, also, that the establishment of my propositions 
would involve no necessity of modification in the terms of the Newtonian definition of 
Gravity, which declares that each atom attracts each other atom and so forth, and declares 
this merely; but (always under the supposition that what I propose be, in the end, 
admitted) it seems clear that some error might occasionally be avoided, in the future 
processes of Science, were a more ample phraseology adopted: —for instance: — "Each 
atom tends to every other atom &c. with a force &c.: the general result being a tendency 
of all, with a similar force, to a general centre." 

The reversal of our processes has thus brought us to an identical result; but, while in the 
one process intuition was the starting-point, in the other it was the goal. In commencing 
the former journey I could only say that, with an irresistable intuition, I felt Simplicity to 
have been the characteristic of the original action of God: — in ending the latter I can only 
declare that, with an irresistible intuition, I perceive Unity to have been the source of the 
observed phaenomena of the Newtonian gravitation. Thus, according to the schools, I 
prove nothing. So be it: —I design but to suggest-and to Convince through the suggestion. 



I am proudly aware that there exist many of the most profound and cautiously 
discriminative human intellects which cannot help being abundantly content with my — 
suggestions. To these intellects —as to my own —there is no mathematical demonstration 
which Could bring the least additional TRue proof of the great TRuth which I have 
advanced - the truth of Original Unity as the source —as the principle of the Universal 
Phaenomena. For my part, I am not sure that I speak and see —I am not so sure that my 
heart beats and that my soul lives: — of the rising of to-morrow's sun —a probability that 
as yet lies in the Future —I do not pretend to be one thousandth part as sure —as I am of 
the irretrievably by-gone Fact that All Things and All Thoughts of Things, with all their 
ineffable Multiplicity of Relation, sprang at once into being from the primordial and 
irrelative One. 

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

Now, it is quite true that "ultimate principles," in the common understanding of the 
words, always assume the simplicity of geometrical axioms —(as for "self-evidence," 
there is no such thing) — but these principles are clearly not "ultimate;" in other terms 
what we are in the habit of calling principles are no principles, properly speaking —since 
there can be but one principle, the Volition of God. We have no right to assume, then, 
from what we observe in rules that we choose foolishly to name "principles," anything at 
all in respect to the characteristics of a principle proper. The "ultimate principles" of 
which Dr. Nichol speaks as having geometrical simplicity, may and do have this 
geometrical turn, as being part and parcel of a vast geometrical system, and thus a system 
of simplicity itself —in which, nevertheless, the TRuly ultimate principle is, as we know, 
the consummation of the complex — that is to say, of the unintelligible — for is it not the 
Spiritual Capacity of God? 

I quoted Dr. Nichol's remark, however, not so much to question its philosophy, as by way 
of calling attention to the fact that, while all men have admitted some principle as 
existing behind the Law of Gravity, no attempt has been yet made to point out what this 
principle in particular is: —if we except, perhaps, occasional fantastic efforts at referring 
it to Magnetism, or Mesmerism, or Swedenborgianism, or Transcendentalism, or some 
other equally delicious ism of the same species, and invariably patronized by one and the 
same species of people. The great mind of Newton, while boldly grasping the Law itself, 
shrank from the principle of the Law. The more fluent and comprehensive at least, if not 
the more patient and profound, sagacity of Laplace, had not the courage to attack it. But 
hesitation on the part of these two astronomers it is, perhaps, not so very difficult to 
understand. They, as well as all the first class of mathematicians, were mathematicians 
solely: — their intellect, at least, had a firmly-pronounced mathematico-physical tone. 
What lay not distinctly within the domain of Physics, or of Mathematics, seemed to them 



either Non-Entity or Shadow. Nevertheless, we may well wonder that Leibnitz, who was 
a marked exception to the general rule in these respects, and whose mental temperament 
was a singular admixture of the mathematical with the physico-metaphysical, did not at 
once investigate and establish the point at issue. Either Newton or Laplace, seeking a 
principle and discovering none physical, would have rested contentedly in the conclusion 
that there was absolutely none; but it is almost impossible to fancy, of Leibnitz, that, 
having exhausted in his search the physical dominions, he would not have stepped at 
once, boldly and hopefully, amid his old familiar haunts in the kingdom of Metaphysics. 
Here, indeed, it is clear that he must have adventured in search of the treasure: —that he 
did not find it after all, was, perhaps, because his fairy guide. Imagination, was not 
sufficiently well-grown, or well-educated, to direct him aright. 

I observed, just now, that, in fact, there had been certain vague attempts at referring 
Gravity to some very uncertain isms. These attempts, however, although considered bold 
and justly so considered, looked no farther than to the generality —the merest generality - 
-of the Newtonian Law. Its modus operandi has never, to my knowledge, been 
approached in the way of an effort at explanation. It is, therefore, with no unwarranted 
fear of being taken for a madman at the outset, and before I can bring my propositions 
fairly to the eye of those who alone are competent to decide upon them, that I here 
declare the modus operandi of the Law of Gravity to be an exceedingly simple and 
perfectly explicable thing —that is to say, when we make our advances towards it in just 
gradations and in the true direction —when we regard it from the proper point of view. 

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

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

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

From a luminous centre. Light issues by irradiation; and the quantities of light received 
upon any given plane, supposed to be shifting its position so as to be now nearer the 



centre and now farther from it, will be diminished in the same proportion as the squares 
of the distances of the plane from the lumimous body, are increased; and will be 
increased in the same proportion as these squares are diminished. 

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

For example: at the distance B, from the luminous centre A, a certain number of particles 
are so diffused as to occupy the surface B (see illustration). Then at double the distance - 
-that is to say at C —they will be so much farther diffused as to occupy four such 
surfaces: —at treble the distance, or at D, they will be so much farther separated as to 
occupy nine such surfaces: —while, at quadruple the distance, or at E, they will have 
become so scattered as to spread themselves over sixteen such surfaces —and so on 
forever. 

In saying, generally, that the irradiation proceeds in direct proportion with the squares of 
the distances, we use the term irradiation to express the degree of the diffusion as we 
proceed outwardly from the centre. Conversing the idea, and employing the word 
"concentralization" to express the degree of the drawing together as we come back 
toward the centre from an outward position, we may say that concentralization proceeds 
inversely as the squares of the distances. In other words, we have reached the conclusion 
that, on the hypothesis that matter was originally irradiated from a centre and is now 
returning to it, the concentralization, in the return, proceeds exactly as we know the force 
of gravitation to proceed. 

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

A very slight inspection of the Heavens assures us that the stars have a certain general 
uniformity, equability, or equidistance, of distribution through that region of space in 
which, collectively, and in a roughly globular form, they are situated: —this species of 
very general, rather than absolute, equability, being in full keeping with my deduction of 
inequidistance, within certain limits, among the originally diffused atoms, as a corollary 
from the evident design of infinite complexity of relation out of irrelation. I started, it will 
be remembered, with the idea of a generally uniform but particularly un uniform 
distribution of the atoms; —an idea, I repeat, which an inspection of the stars, as they 
exist, confirms. 



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

Now, I have elsewhere * observed that it is by just such difficulties as the one now in 
question —such roughnesses —such peculiarities —such protuberances above the plane of 
the ordinary — that Reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the True. By the 
difficulty — the "peculiarity" —now presented, I leap at once to the secret — a secret which 
I might never have attained but for the peculiarity and the inferences which, in its mere 
character of peculiarity, it affords me. 

* "Murders in the Rue Morgue." 

The process of thought, at this point, may be thus roughly sketched: —I say to myself — 
"Unity, as I have explained it, is a truth —I feel it. Diffusion is a truth —I see it. 
Irradiation, by which alone these two truths are reconciled, is a consequent truth - I 
perceive it. Equability of diffusion, first deduced a priori and then corroborated by the 
inspection of phaenomena, is also a truth — I fully admit it. So far all is clear around me: - 
-there are no clouds behind which the secret — the great secret of the gravitating modus 
operandi —can possibly lie hidden; —but this secret lies hereabouts, most assuredly; and 
were there but a cloud in view, I should be driven to suspicion of that cloud." And now, 
just as I say this, there actually comes a cloud into view. This cloud is the seeming 
impossibility of reconciling my truth, irradiation, with my truth, equability of diffusion. I 
say now: —"Behind this seeming impossibility is to be found what I desire." I do not say 
"real impossibility;" for invincible faith in my truths assures me that it is a mere difficulty 
after all —but I go on to say, with unflinching confidence, that, when this difficulty shall 
be solved, we shall find, wrapped up in the recess of solution, the key to the secret at 
which we aim. Moreover — I feel that we shall discover but one possible solution of the 
difficulty; this for the reason that, were there two, one would be supererogatory —would 
be fruitless —would be empty —would contain no key —since no duplicate key can be 
needed to any secret of Nature. 

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



Universe of stars —and would have involved, secondly, the impossibility of 
understanding a reaction - that is, gravitation —as existing now —since, while an act is 
continued, no reaction, of course, can take place. My assumption, then, or rather my 
inevitable deduction from just premises —was that of a determinate irradiation —one 
finally dis continued. 

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Therefore the number of atoms in any stratum is directly proportional with the square of 
that stratum's distance from the centre. 

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

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

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

Now, Reaction, as far as we know any thing of it, is Action conversed. The general 
principle of Gravity being, in the first place, understood as the reaction of an act —as the 
expression of a desire on the part of Matter, while existing in a state of diffusion, to 
return into the Unity whence it was diffused; and, in the second place, the mind being 
called upon to determine the character of the desire — the manner in which it would, 
naturally, be manifested; in other words, being called upon to conceive a probable law, or 
modus operandi, for the return; could not well help arriving at the conclusion that this law 
of return would be precisely the converse of the law of departure. That such would be the 
case, any one, at least, would be abundantly justified in taking for granted, until such time 
as some person should suggest something like a plausible reason why it should not be the 
case —until such a period as a law of return shall be imagined which the intellect can 
consider as preferable. 

Matter, then, irradiated into space with a force varying as the squares of the distances, 
might, a priori, be supposed to return towards its centre of irradiation with a force varying 
inversely as the squares of the distances: and I have already shown * that any principle 
which will explain why the atoms should tend, according to any law, to the general 
centre, must be admitted as satisfactorily explaining, at the same time, why, according to 
the same law, they should tend each to each. For, in fact, the tendency to the general 
centre is not to a centre as such, but because of its being a point in tending towards which 



each atom tends most directly to its real and essential centre, Unity —the absolute and 
final Union of all. 

* See previous paragraph, "I reply that they do; as will be distinctly..." 

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

The absolute, irrelative particle primarily created by the Volition of God, must have been 
in a condition of positive normality, or rightfulness —for wrongfulness implies relation. 
Right is positive; wrong is negative —is merely the negation of right; as cold is the 
negation of heat —darkness of light. That a thing may be wrong, it is necessary that there 
be some other thing in relation to which it is wrong — some condition which it fails to 
satisfy; some law which it violates; some being whom it aggrieves. If there be no such 
being, law, or condition, in respect to which the thing is wrong — and, still more 
especially, if no beings, laws, or conditions exist at all —then the thing cannot be wrong 
and consequently must be right. Any deviation from normality involves a tendency to 
return to it. A difference from the normal —from the right — from the just — can be 
understood as effected only by the overcoming a difficulty; and if the force which 
overcomes the difficulty be not infinitely continued, the ineradicable tendency to return 
will at length be permitted to act for its own satisfaction. Upon withdrawal of the force, 
the tendency acts. This is the principle of reaction as the inevitable consequence of finite 
action. Employing a phraseology of which the seeming affectation will be pardoned for 
its expressiveness, we may say that Reaction is the return from the condition of as it is 
and ought not to be into the condition of as it was, originally, and therefore ought to be: - 
-and let me add here that the absolute force of Reaction would no doubt be always found 
in direct proportion with the reality — the truth —the absoluteness —of the originality —if 
ever it were possible to measure this latter: —and, consequently, the greatest of all 
conceivable reactions must be that produced by the tendency which we now discuss —the 
tendency to return into the absolutely original —into the supremely primitive. Gravity, 
then, must be the strongest of forces —an idea reached a priori and abundantly confirmed 
by induction. What use I make of the idea, will be seen in the sequel. 

The atoms, now, having been diffused from their normal condition of Unity, seek to 
return to —what? Not to any particular point, certainly; for it is clear that if, upon the 
diffusion, the whole Universe of matter had been projected, collectively, to a distance 
from the point of irradiation, the atomic tendency to the general centre of the sphere 
would not have been disturbed in the least: — the atoms would not have sought the point 
in absolute space from which they were originally impelled. It is merely the Condition, 
and not the point or locality at which this condition took its rise, that these atoms seek to 
re-establish; — it is merely that condition which is their normality, that they desire. "But 
they seek a centre," it will be said, "and a centre is a point." True; but they seek this point 
not in its character of point — (for, were the whole sphere moved from its position, they 
would seek, equally, the centre; and the centre then would be a new point) —but because 



it so happens, on account of the form in which they collectively exist — (that of the 
sphere) — that only through the point in question — the sphere's centre — they can attain 
their true object, Unity. In the direction of the centre each atom perceives more atoms 
than in any other direction. Each atom is impelled towards the centre because along the 
straight line joining it and the centre and passing on to the circumference beyond, there 
lie a greater number of atoms than along any other straight line — a greater number of 
objects that seek it, the individual atom —a greater number of tendencies to Unity —a 
greater number of satisfactions for its own tendency to Unity —in a word, because in the 
direction of the centre lies the utmost possibility of satisfaction, generally, for its own 
individual appetite. To be brief, the Condition, Unity, is all that is really sought; and if the 
atoms seem to seek the centre of the sphere, it is only impliedly, through implication — 
because such centre happens to imply, to include, or to involve, the only essential centre. 
Unity. But on account of this implication or involution, there is no possibility of 
practically separating the tendency to Unity in the abstract, from the tendency to the 
concrete centre. Thus the tendency of the atoms to the general centre is, to all practical 
intents and for all logical purposes, the tendency each to each; and the tendency each to 
each is the tendency to the centre; and the one tendency may be assumed as the other; 
whatever will apply to the one must be thoroughly applicable to the other; and, in 
conclusion, whatever principle will satisfactorily explain the one, cannot be questioned as 
an explanation of the other. 

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

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

I reply, not only that I am warranted in such assumption, but that I should be utterly un 
warranted in any other. What I assume is, simply, that an effect is the measure of its 
cause — that every exercise of the Divine Will will be proportional to that which demands 
the exertion —that the means of Omnipotence, or of Omniscience, will be exactly adapted 
to its purposes. Neither can a deficiency nor an excess of cause bring to pass any effect. 
Had the force which irradiated any stratum to its position, been either more or less than 
was needed for the purpose —that is to say, not directly proportional to the purpose — 
then to its position that stratum could not have been irradiated. Had the force which, with 
a view to general equability of distribution, emitted the proper number of atoms for each 
stratum, been not directly proportional to the number, then the number would not have 
been the number demanded for the equable distribution. 

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

It is an admitted principle in Dynamics that every body, on receiving an impulse, or 
disposition to move, will move onward in a straight line, in the direction imparted by the 



impelling force, until deflected, or stopped, by some other force. How then, it may be 
asked, is my first or external stratum of atoms to be understood as discontinuing their 
movement at the circumference of the imaginary glass sphere, when no second force, of 
more than an imaginary character, appears, to account for the discontinuance? 

I reply that the objection, in this case, actually does arise out of "an unwarranted 
assumption" —on the part of the objector —the assumption of a principle, in Dynamics, at 
an epoch when no "principles," in anything, exist: — I use the word "principle," of course, 
in the objector's understanding of the word. 

"In the beginning" we can admit —indeed we can comprehend — but one First Cause — 
the truly ultimate Principle —the Volition of God. The primary act — that of Irradiation 
from Unity — must have been independent of all that which the world now calls 
"principle" —because all that we so designate is but a consequence of the reaction of that 
primary act: —I say "primary" act; for the creation of the absolute material particle is 
more properly to be regarded as a Conception than as an "act" in the ordinary meaning of 
the term. Thus, we must regard the primary act as an act for the establishment of what we 
now call "principles". But this primary act itself is to be considered as Continuous 
Volition. The Thought of God is to be understood as originating the Diffusion —as 
proceeding with it —as regulating it —and, finally, as being withdrawn from it upon its 
completion. Then commences Reaction, and through Reaction, "Principle," as we employ 
the word. It will be advisable, however, to limit the application of this word to the two 
immediate results of the discontinuance of the Divine Volition — that is, to the two 
agents. Attraction and Repulsion. Every other Natural agent depends, either more or less 
immediately, upon these two, and therefore would be more conveniently designated as 
sub -principle. 

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

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

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



To explain: The Newtonian Gravity —a law of Nature —a law whose existence as such 
no one out of Bedlam questions —a law whose admission as such enables us to account 
for nine-tenths of the Universal phaenomena —a law which, merely because it does so 
enable us to account for these phaenomena, we are perfectly willing, without reference to 
any other considerations, to admit, and cannot help admitting, as a law —a law, 
nevertheless, of which neither the principle nor the modus operandi of the principle, has 
ever yet been traced by the human analysis —a law, in short, which, neither in its detail 
nor in its generality, has been found susceptible of explanation at all —is at length seen to 
be at every point thoroughly explicable, provided we only yield our assent to —what? To 
an hypothesis? Why if an hypothesis —if the merest hypothesis —if an hypothesis for 
whose assumption —as in the case of that pure hypothesis the Newtonian law itself —no 
shadow of a priori reason could be assigned —if an hypothesis, even so absolute as all 
this implies, would enable us to perceive a principle for the Newtonian law —would 
enable us to understand as satisfied, conditions so miraculously —so ineffably complex 
and seemingly irreconcileable as those involved in the relations of which Gravity tells us, 
—what rational being Could so expose his fatuity as to call even this absolute hypothesis 
an hypothesis any longer —unless, indeed, he were to persist in so calling it, with the 
understanding that he did so, simply for the sake of consistency in words? 

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

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

Every other science than Logic is the science of certain concrete relations. Arithmetic, for 
example, is the science of the relations of number — Geometry, of the relations of form — 
Mathematics in general, of the relations of quantity in general — of whatever can be 
increased or diminished. Logic, however, is the science of Relation in the abstract — of 
absolute Relation — of Relation considered solely in itself. An axiom in any particular 
science other than Logic is, thus, merely a proposition announcing certain concrete 
relations which seem to be too obvious for dispute —as when we say, for instance, that 
the whole is greater than its part: —and, thus again, the principle of the Logical axiom — 
in other words, of an axiom in the abstract — is, simply, obviousness of relation. Now, it 
is clear, not only that what is obvious to one mind may not be obvious to another, but that 
what is obvious to one mind at one epoch, may be anything but obvious, at another 
epoch, to the same mind. It is clear, moreover, that what, to-day, is obvious even to the 



majority of mankind, or to the majority of the best intellects of mankind, may to-morrow 
be, to either majority, more or less obvious, or in no respect obvious at all. It is seen, 
then, that the axiomatic principle itself is susceptible of variation, and of course that 
axioms are susceptible of similar change. Being mutable, the "truths" which grow out of 
them are necessarily mutable too; or, in other words, are never to be positively depended 
upon as truths at all —since Truth and Immutability are one. 

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

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

* "Limited sphere" —A sphere is necessarily limited. I prefer tautology to a chance of 
misconception. 

I have already given my reasons for presuming Matter to have been diffused by a 
determinate rather than by a continuous or infinitely continued force.

Supposing a 
continuous force, we should be unable, in the first place, to comprehend a reaction at all; 
and we should be required, in the second place, to entertain the impossible conception of 
an infinite extension of Matter. Not to dwell upon the impossibility of the conception, the 
infinite extension of Matter is an idea which, if not positively disproved, is at least not in 
any respect warranted by telescopic observation of the stars —a point to be explained 
more fully hereafter; and this empirical reason for believing in the original finity of 
Matter is unempirically confirmed. For example: —Admitting, for the moment, the 
possibility of understanding Space filled with the irradiated atoms —that is to say, 
admitting, as well as we can, for argument's sake, that the succession of the irradiated 



atoms had absolutely no end —then it is abundantly clear that, even when the Volition of 
God had been withdrawn from them, and thus the tendency to return into Unity permitted 
(abstractly) to be satisfied, this permission would have been nugatory and invalid — 
practically valueless and of no effect whatever. No Reaction could have taken place; no 
movement toward Unity could have been made; no Law of Gravity could have obtained. 

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

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

What I wish to impress upon the reader is the certainty of there arising, at once, (on 
withdrawal of the diffusive force, or Divine Volition,) out of the condition of the atoms 
as described, at innumerable points throughout the Universal sphere, innumerable 
agglomerations, characterized by innumerable specific differences of form, size, essential 
nature, and distance each from each. The development of Repulsion (Electricity) must 
have commenced, of course, with the very earliest particular efforts at Unity, and must 
have proceeded constantly in the ratio of Coalescence —that is to say, in that of 
Condensation, or, again, of Heterogeneity. 

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

If now, in fancy, we select any one of the agglomerations considered as in their primary 
stages throughout the Universal sphere, and suppose this incipient agglomeration to be 



taking place at that point where the centre of our Sun exists —or rather where it did exist 
originally; for the Sun is perpetually shifting his position —we shall find ourselves met, 
and borne onward for a time at least, by the most magnificent of theories —by the 
Nebular Cosmogony of Laplace: — although "Cosmogony" is far too comprehensive a 
term for what he really discusses —which is the constitution of our solar system alone — 
of one among the myriad of similar systems which make up the Universe Proper — that 
Universal sphere —that all-inclusive and absolute Kosmos which forms the subject of my 
present Discourse. 

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

To explain: —Let us conceive that particular agglomeration of which we have just spoken 
—the one at the point designated by our Sun's centre —to have so far proceeded that a 
vast quantity of nebulous matter has here assumed a roughly globular form; its centre 
being, of course, coincident with what is now, or rather was originally, the centre of our 
Sun; and its periphery extending out beyond the orbit of Neptune, the most remote of our 
planets: —in other words, let us suppose the diameter of this rough sphere to be some 
6000 millions of miles. For ages, this mass of matter has been undergoing condensation, 
until at length it has become reduced into the bulk we imagine; having proceeded 
gradually, of course, from its atomic and imperceptible state, into what we understand of 
visible, palpable, or otherwise appreciable nebulosity. 

Now, the condition of this mass implies a rotation about an imaginary axis —a rotation 
which, commencing with the absolute incipiency of the aggregation, has been ever since 
acquiring velocity. The very first two atoms which met, approaching each other from 
points not diametrically opposite, would, in rushing partially past each other, form a 
nucleus for the rotary movement described. How this would increase in velocity, is 
readily seen. The two atoms are joined by others: —an aggregation is formed. The mass 
continues to rotate while condensing. But any atom at the circumference has, of course, a 
more rapid motion than one nearer the centre. The outer atom, however, with its superior 
velocity, approaches the centre; carrying this superior velocity with it as it goes. Thus 
every atom, proceeding inwardly, and finally attaching itself to the condensed centre, 
adds something to the original velocity of that centre —that is to say, increases the rotary 
movement of the mass. 



Let us now suppose this mass so far condensed that it occupies precisely the space 
circumscribed by the orbit of Neptune, and that the velocity with which the surface of the 
mass moves, in the general rotation, is precisely that velocity with which Neptune now 
revolves about the Sun. At this epoch, then, we are to understand that the constantly 
increasing centrifugal force, having gotten the better of the non-increasing centripetal, 
loosened and separated the exterior and least condensed stratum, or a few of the exterior 
and least condensed strata, at the equator of the sphere, where the tangential velocity 
predominated; so that these strata formed about the main body an independent ring 
encircling the equatorial regions: —just as the exterior portion thrown off, by excessive 
velocity of rotation, from a grindstone, would form a ring about the grindstone, but for 
the solidity of the superficial material: were this caoutchouc, or anything similar in 
consistency, precisely the phaenomenon I describe would be presented. 

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

Now, admitting the ring to have possessed, by some seemingly accidental arrangement of 
its heterogeneous materials, a constitution nearly uniform, then this ring, as such, would 
never have ceased revolving about its primary; but, as might have been anticipated, there 
appears to have been enough irregularity in the disposition of the materials, to make them 
cluster about centres of superior solidity; and thus the annular form was destroyed. * No 
doubt, the band was soon broken up into several portions, and one of these portions, 
predominating in mass, absorbed the others into itself; the whole settling, spherically, 
into a planet. That this latter, as a planet, continued the revolutionary movement which 
characterized it while a ring, is sufficiently clear; and that it took upon itself, also, an 
additional movement in its new condition of sphere, is readily explained. The ring being 
understood as yet unbroken, we see that its exterior, while the whole revolves about the 
parent body, moves more rapidly than its interior. When the rupture occurred, then, some 
portion in each fragment must have been moving with greater velocity than the others. 
The superior movement prevailing, must have whirled each fragment round — that is to 
say, have caused it to rotate; and the direction of the rotation must, of course, have been 
the direction of the revolution whence it arose, the fragments having become subject to 
the rotation described, must, in coalescing, have imparted it to the one planet constituted 
by their coalescence. —This planet was Neptune. Its material continuing to undergo 
condensation, and the centrifugal force generated in its rotation getting, at length, the 
better of the centripetal, as before in the case of the parent orb, a ring was whirled also 
from the equatorial surface of this planet: this ring, having been ununiform in its 
constitution, was broken up, and its several fragments, being absorbed by the most 
massive, were collectively spherified into a moon. Subsequently, the operation was 
repeated, and a second moon was the result. We thus account for the planet Neptune, with 
the two satellites which accompany him. 



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

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

By the time the Sun had shrunk until it occupied a space just that circumscribed by the 
orbit of Saturn, the balance, we are to suppose, between its centripetal and centrifugal 
forces had again become so far disturbed, through increase of rotary velocity, the result of 
condensation, that a third effort at equilibrium became necessary; and an annular band 
was therefore whirled off, as twice before; which, on rupture through ununiformity, 
became consolidated into the planet Saturn. This latter threw off, in the first place, seven 
uniform bands, which, on rupture, were spherified respectively into as many moons; but, 
subsequently, it appears to have discharged, at three distinct but not very distant epochs, 
three rings whose equability of constitution was, by apparent accident, so considerable as 
to present no occasion for their rupture; thus they continue to revolve as rings. I use the 
phrase "apparent accident;" for of accident in the ordinary sense there was, of course, 
nothing: —the term is properly applied only to the result of indistinguishable or not 
immediately traceable LAO 

Shrinking still farther, until it occupied just the space circumscribed by the orbit of 
Jupiter, the Sun now found need of farther effort to restore the counterbalance of its two 
forces, continually disarranged in the still continued increase of rotation. Jupiter, 
accordingly, was now thrown off; passing from the annular to the planetary condition; 
and, on attaining this latter, threw off in its turn, at four different epochs, four rings, 
which finally resolved themselves into so many moons. 

Still shrinking, until its sphere occupied just the space defined by the orbit of the 
Asteroids, the Sun now discarded a ring which appears to have had eight centres of 
superior solidity, and, on breaking up, to have separated into eight fragments no one of 



which so far predominated in mass as to absorb the others. All therefore, as distinct 
although comparatively small planets, proceeded to revolve in orbits whose distances, 
each from each, may be considered as in some degree the measure of the force which 
drove them asunder: —all the orbits, nevertheless, being so closely coincident as to admit 
of our calling them one, in view of the other planetary orbits. 

Continuing to shrink, the Sun, on becoming so small as just to fill the orbit of Mars, now 
discharged this planet —of course by the process repeatedly described. Having no moon, 
however. Mars could have thrown off no ring. In fact, an epoch had now arrived in the 
career of the parent body, the centre of the system. The de crease of its nebulosity, which 
is the in crease of its density, and which again is the de crease of its condensation, out of 
which latter arose the constant disturbance of equilibrium —must, by this period, have 
attained a point at which the efforts for restoration would have been more and more 
ineffectual just in proportion as they were less frequently needed. Thus the processes of 
which we have been speaking would everywhere show signs of exhaustion — in the 
planets, first, and secondly, in the original mass. We must not fall into the error of 
supposing the decrease of interval observed among the planets as we approach the Sun, to 
be in any respect indicative of an increase of frequency in the periods at which they were 
discarded. Exactly the converse is to be understood. The longest interval of time must 
have occurred between the discharges of the two interior; the shortest, between those of 
the two exterior, planets. The decrease of the interval of space is, nevertheless, the 
measure of the density, and thus inversely of the condensation, of the Sun, throughout the 
processes detailed. 

Having shrunk, however, so far as to fill only the orbit of our Earth, the parent sphere 

whirled from itself still one other body — the Earth — in a condition so nebulous as 

to admit of this body's discarding, in its turn, yet another, which is our Moon; —but here 
terminated the lunar formations. 

Finally, subsiding to the orbits first of Venus and then of Mercury, the Sun discarded 
these two interior planets; neither of which has given birth to any moon. 

Thus from his original bulk — or, to speak more accurately, from the condition in which 
we first considered him — from a partially spherified nebular mass, certainly much more 
than 5,600 millions of miles in diameter — the great central orb and origin of our solar- 
planetary-lunar system, has gradually descended, by condensation, in obedience to the 
law of Gravity, to a globe only 882,000 miles in diameter; but it by no means follows, 
either that its condensation is yet complete, or that it may not still possess the capacity of 
whirling from itself another planet. 

I have here given — in outline of course, but still with all the detail necessary for 
distinctness — a view of the Nebular Theory as its author himself conceived it. From 
whatever point we regard it, we shall find it beautifully true. It is by far too beautiful, 
indeed, not to possess Truth as its essentiality —and here I am very profoundly serious in 
what I say. In the revolution of the satellites of Uranus, there does appear something 
seemingly inconsistent with the assumptions of Laplace; but that one inconsistency can 



invalidate a theory constructed from a million of intricate consistencies, is a fancy fit only 
for the fantastic. In prophecying, confidently, that the apparent anomaly to which I refer, 
will, sooner or later, be found one of the strongest possible corroborations of the general 
hypothesis, I pretend to no especial spirit of divination. It is a matter which the only 
difficulty seems not to foresee. * 

* I am prepared to show that the anomalous revolution of the satellites of Uranus is a 
simply perspective anomaly arising from the inclination of the axis of the planet. 

The bodies whirled off in the processes described, would exchange, it has been seen, the 
superficial rotation of the orbs whence they originated, for a revolution of equal velocity 
about these orbs as distant centres; and the revolution thus engendered must proceed, so 
long as the centripetal force, or that with which the discarded body gravitates toward its 
parent, is neither greater nor less than that by which it was discarded; that is, than the 
centrifugal, or, far more properly, than the tangential, velocity. From the unity, however, 
of the origin of these two forces, we might have expected to find them as they are found - 
-the one accurately counterbalancing the other. It has been shown, indeed, that the act of 
whirling-off is, in every case, merely an act for the preservation of the counterbalance. 

After referring, however, the centripetal force to the omniprevalent law of Gravity, it has 
been the fashion with astronomical treatises, to seek beyond the limits of mere Nature — 
that is to say, of Secondary Cause —a solution of the phaenomenon of tangential velocity. 
This latter they attribute directly to a First Cause —to God. The force which carries a 
stellar body around its primary they assert to have originated in an impulse given 
immediately by the finger — this is the childish phraseology employed — by the finger of 
Deity itself. In this view, the planets, fully formed, are conceived to have been hurled 
from the Divine hand, to a position in the vicinity of the suns, with an impetus 
mathematically adapted to the masses, or attractive capacities, of the suns themselves. An 
idea so grossly unphilosophical, although so supinely adopted, could have arisen only 
from the difficulty of otherwise accounting for the absolutely accurate adaptation, each to 
each, of two forces so seemingly independent, one of the other, as are the gravitating and 
tangential. But it should be remembered that, for a long time, the coincidence between 
the moon's rotation and her sidereal revolution — two matters seemingly far more 
independent than those now considered —was looked upon as positively miraculous; and 
there was a strong disposition, even among astronomers, to attribute the marvel to the 
direct and continual agency of God —who, in this case, it was said, had found it 
necessary to interpose, specially, among his general laws, a set of subsidiary regulations, 
for the purpose of forever concealing from mortal eyes the glories, or perhaps the horrors, 
of the other side of the Moon —of that mysterious hemisphere which has always avoided, 
and must perpetually avoid, the telescopic scrutiny of mankind. The advance of Science, 
however, soon demonstrated —what to the philosophical instinct needed no 
demonstration — that the one movement is but a portion — something more, even, than a 
consequence —of the other. 

For my part, I have no patience with fantasies at once so timorous, so idle, and so 
awkward. They belong to the veriest Cowardice of thought. That Nature and the God of 



Nature are distinct, no thinking being can long doubt. By the former we imply merely the 
laws of the latter. But with the very idea of God, omnipotent, omniscient, we entertain, 
also, the idea of the infallibility of his laws. With Him there being neither Past nor Future 
—with Him all being Now —do we not insult him in supposing his laws so contrived as 
not to provide for every possible contingency? —or, rather, what idea can we have of any 
possible contingency, except that it is at once a result and a manifestation of his laws? He 
who, divesting himself of prejudice, shall have the rare courage to think absolutely for 
himself, cannot fail to arrive, in the end, at the condensation of LAO into LAO -cannot fail 
of reaching the conclusion that each law of Nature is dependent at all points upon all 
other laws, and that all are but consequences of one primary exercise of the Divine 
Volition. Such is the principle of the Cosmogony which, with all necessary deference, I 
here venture to suggest and to maintain. 

In this view, it will be seen that, dismissing as frivolous, and even impious, the fancy of 
the tangential force having been imparted to the planets immediately, by "the finger of 
God," I consider this force as originating in the rotation of the stars: —this rotation as 
brought about by the in-rushing of the primary atoms, towards their respective centres of 
aggregation: —this in-rushing as the consequence of the law of Gravity: —this law as but 
the mode in which is necessarily manifested the tendency of the atoms to return into 
imparticularity: —this tendency to return as but the inevitable reaction of the first and 
most sublime of Acts —that act by which a God, self-existing and alone existing, became 
all things at once, through dint of his volition, while all things were thus constituted a 
portion of God. 

The radical assumptions of this Discourse suggest to me, and in fact imply, certain 
important modifications of the Nebular Theory as given by Laplace. The efforts of the 
repulsive power I have considered as made for the purpose of preventing contact among 
the atoms, and thus as made in the ratio of the approach to contact —that is to say, in the 
ratio of condensation. * In other words. Electricity, with its involute phaenomena, heat, 
light and magnetism, is to be understood as proceeding as condensation proceeds, and, of 
course, inversely as density proceeds, or the cessation to condense. Thus the Sun, in the 
process of its aggregation, must soon, in developing repulsion, have become excessively 
heated —perhaps incandescent: and we can perceive how the operation of discarding its 
rings must have been materially assisted by the slight incrustation of its surface 
consequent on cooling. Any common experiment shows us how readily a crust of the 
character suggested, is separated, through heterogeneity, from the interior mass. But, on 
every successive rejection of the crust, the new surface would appear incandescent as 
before; and the period at which it would again become so far encrusted as to be readily 
loosened and discharged, may well be imagined as exactly coincident with that at which a 
new effort would be needed, by the whole mass, to restore the equilibrium of its two 
forces, disarranged through condensation. In other words: — by the time the electric 
influence (Repulsion) has prepared the surface for rejection, we are to understand that the 
gravitating influence (Attraction) is precisely ready to reject it. Here, then, as everywhere, 
the Body and the Soul walk hand in hand. 

* See previous paragraph, "With the understanding of a sphere of atoms..." 



These ideas are empirically confirmed at all points. Since condensation can never, in any 
body, be considered as absolutely at an end, we are warranted in anticipating that, 
whenever we have an opportunity of testing the matter, we shall find indications of 
resident luminosity in the stellar bodies —moons and planets as well as suns. That our 
Moon is strongly self-luminous, we see at her every total eclipse, when, if not so, she 
would disappear. On the dark part of the satellite, too, during her phases, we often 
observe flashes like our own Auroras; and that these latter, with our various other so- 
called electrical phaenomena, without reference to any more steady radiance, must give 
our Earth a certain appearance of luminosity to an inhabitant of the Moon, is quite 
evident. In fact, we should regard all the phaenomena referred to, as mere manifestations, 
in different moods and degrees, of the Earth's feebly-continued condensation. 

If my views are tenable, we should be prepared to find the newer planets —that is to say, 
those nearer the Sun — more luminous than those older and more remote: — and the 
extreme brilliancy of Venus (on whose dark portions, during her phases, the Auroras are 
frequently visible) does not seem to be altogether accounted for by her mere proximity to 
the central orb. She is no doubt vividly self-luminous, although less so than Mercury: 
while the luminosity of Neptune may be comparatively nothing. 

Admitting what I have urged, it is clear that, from the moment of the Sun's discarding a 
ring, there must be a continuous diminution both of his heat and light, on account of the 
continuous encrustation of his surface; and that a period would arrive —the period 
immediately previous to a new discharge —when a very material decrease of both light 
and heat, must become apparent. Now, we know that tokens of such changes are 
distinctly recognizable. On the Melville islands — to adduce merely one out of a hundred 
examples —we find traces of ULO vegetation —of plants that never could have flourished 
without immensely more light and heat than are at present afforded by our Sun to any 
portion of the surface of the Earth. Is such vegetation referable to an epoch immediately 
subsequent to the whirling-off of Venus? At this epoch must have occurred to us our 
greatest access of solar influence; and, in fact, this influence must then have attained its 
maximum: —leaving out of view, of course, the period when the Earth itself was 
discarded —the period of its mere organization. 

Again: —we know that there exist non-luminous suns —that is to say, suns whose 
existence we determine through the movements of others, but whose luminosity is not 
sufficient to impress us. Are these suns invisible merely on account of the length of time 
elapsed since their discharge of a planet? And yet again: —may we not —at least in 
certain cases —account for the sudden appearances of suns where none had been 
previously suspected, by the hypothesis that, having rolled with encrusted surfaces 
throughout the few thousand years of our astronomical history, each of these suns, in 
whirling off a new secondary, has at length been enabled to display the glories of its still 
incandescent interior? — To the well-ascertained fact of the proportional increase of heat 
as we descend into the Earth, I need of course, do nothing more than refer: — it comes in 
the strongest possible corroboration of all that I have said on the topic now at issue. 



In speaking, not long ago, of the repulsive or electrical influence, I remarked that "the 
important phaenomena of vitality, consciousness, and thought, whether we observe them 
generally or in detail, seem to proceed at least in the ratio of the heterogeneous. " * I 
mentioned, too, that I would recur to the suggestion: —and this is the proper point at 
which to do so. Looking at the matter, first, in detail, we perceive that not merely the 
manifestation of vitality, but its importance, consequences, and elevation of character, 
keep pace, very closely, with the heterogeneity, or complexity, of the animal structure. 
Looking at the question, now, in its generality, and referring to the first movements of the 
atoms towards mass-constitution, we find that heterogeneousness, brought about directly 
through condensation, is proportional with it forever. We thus reach the proposition that 
the importance of the development of the terrestrial vitality proceeds equably with the 
terrestrial condensation. 

* See previous paragraph, "To electricity —so, for the present, continuing to call it..." 

Now this is in precise accordance with what we know of the succession of animals on the 
Earth. As it has proceeded in its condensation, superior and still superior races have 
appeared. Is it impossible that the successive geological revolutions which have attended, 
at least, if not immediately caused, these successive elevations of vitalic character —is it 
improbable that these revolutions have themselves been produced by the successive 
planetary discharges from the Sun —in other words, by the successive variations in the 
solar influence on the Earth? Were this idea tenable, we should not be unwarranted in the 
fancy that the discharge of yet a new planet, interior to Mercury, may give rise to yet a 
new modification of the terrestrial surface — a modification from which may spring a race 
both materially and spiritually superior to Man. These thoughts impress me with all the 
force of truth — but I throw them out, of course, merely in their obvious character of 
suggestion. 

The Nebular Theory of Laplace has lately received far more confirmation than it needed, 
at the hands of the philosopher, Compte. These two have thus together shown —not, to be 
sure, that Matter at any period actually existed as described, in a state of nebular 
diffusion, but that, admitting it so to have existed throughout the space and much beyond 
the space now occupied by our solar system, and to have commenced a movement 
towards a centre - it must gradually have assumed the various forms and motions which 
are now seen, in that system, to obtain. A demonstration such as this —a dynamical and 
mathematical demonstration, as far as demonstration can be —unquestionable and 
unquestioned —unless, indeed, by that unprofitable and disreputable tribe, the 
professional questioners — the mere madmen who deny the Newtonian law of Gravity on 
which the results of the French mathematicians are based —a demonstration, I say, such 
as this, would to most intellects be conclusive —and I confess that it is so to mine —of the 
validity of the nebular hypothesis upon which the demonstration depends. 

That the demonstration does not prove the hypothesis, according to the common 
understanding of the word "proof," I admit, of course. To show that certain existing 
results —that certain established facts - may be, even mathematically, accounted for by 
the assumption of a certain hypothesis, is by no means to establish the hypothesis itself. 



In other words: —to show that, certain data being given, a certain existing result might, or 
even must, have ensued, will fail to prove that this result did ensue, FR until such time as 
it shall be also shown that there are, and can be, no other data from which the result in 
question might equally have ensued. But, in the case now discussed, although all must 
admit the deficiency of what we are in the habit of terming "proof," still there are many 
intellects, and those of the loftiest order to which no proof could bring one iota of 
additional Conviction. Without going into details which might impinge upon the Cloud- 
Land of Metaphysics, I may as well here observe that the force of conviction, in cases 
such as this, will always, with the right-thinking, be proportional to the amount of 
Complexity intervening between the hypothesis and the result. To be less abstract: — The 
greatness of the complexity found existing among cosmical conditions, by rendering 
great in the same proportion the difficulty of accounting for all these conditions at once, 
strengthens, also in the same proportion, our faith in that hypothesis which does, in such 
manner, satisfactorily account for them: — and as no complexity can well be conceived 
greater than that of the astronomical conditions, so no conviction can be stronger — to my 
mind at least —than that with which I am impressed by an hypothesis that not only 
reconciles these conditions, with mathematical accuracy, and reduces them into a 
consistent and intelligible whole, but is, at the same time, the sole hypothesis by means of 
which the human intellect has been ever enabled to account for them at all. 

A most unfounded opinion has been latterly current and even in scientific circles — the 
opinion that the so-called Nebular Cosmogony has been overthrown. This fancy has 
arisen from the report of late observations made, among what hitherto have been termed 
the "nebulae," through the large telescope of Cincinnati, and the world-renowned 
instrument of Lord Rosse. Certain spots in the firmament which presented, even to the 
most powerful of the old telescopes, the appearance of nebulosity, or haze, had been 
regarded for a long time as confirming the theory of Laplace. They were looked upon as 
stars in that very process of condensation which I have been attempting to describe. Thus 
it was supposed that we "had ocular evidence" —an evidence, by the way, which has 
always been found very questionable - of the truth of the hypothesis; and, although 
certain telescopic improvements, every now and then, enabled us to perceive that a spot, 
here and there, which we had been classing among the nebulae, was, in fact, but a cluster 
of stars deriving its nebular character only from its immensity of distance —still it was 
thought that no doubt could exist as to the actual nebulosity of numerous other masses, 
the strong-holds of the nebulists, bidding defiance to every effort at segregation. Of these 
latter the most interesting was the great "nebulae" in the constellation Orion: —but this, 
with innumerable other miscalled "nebulae," when viewed through the magnificent 
modem telescopes, has become resolved into a simple collection of stars. Now this fact 
has been very generally understood as conclusive against the Nebular Hypothesis of 
Laplace; and, on announcement of the discoveries in question, the most enthusiastic 
defender and most eloquent popularizer of the theory. Dr. Nichol, went so far as to 
"admit the necessity of abandoning" an idea which had formed the material of his most 
praiseworthy book. * 

* "Views of the Architecture of the Heavens." A letter, purporting to be from Dr. Nichol 
to a friend in America, went the rounds of our newspapers, about two years ago, I think. 



admitting "the necessity" to which I refer. In a subsequent Lecture, however, Dr. N. 
appears in some manner to have gotten the better of the necessity, and does not quite 
renounce the theory, although he seems to wish that he could sneer at it as "a purely 
hypothetical one." What else was the Law of Gravity before the Maskelyne experiments? 
and who questioned the Law of Gravity, even then? 

Many of my readers will no doubt be inclined to say that the result of these new 
investigations has at least a strong tendency to overthrow the hypothesis; while some of 
them, more thoughtful, will suggest that, although the theory is by no means disproved 
through the segregation of the particular "nebulae" alluded to, still a failure to segregate 
them, with such telescopes, might well have been understood as a triumphant 
Corroboration of the theory: —and this latter class will be surprised, perhaps, to hear me 
say that even with them I disagree. If the propositions of this Discourse have been 
comprehended, it will be seen that, in my view, a failure to segregate the "nebulae" would 
have tended to the refutation, rather than to the confirmation, of the Nebular Hypothesis. 

Let me explain: —The Newtonian Law of Gravity we may, of course, assume as 
demonstrated. This law, it will be remembered, I have referred to the reaction of the first 
Divine Act — to the reaction of an exercise of the Divine Volition temporarily 
overcoming a difficulty. This difficulty is that of forcing the normal into the abnormal — 
of impelling that whose originality, and therefore whose rightful condition, was One, to 
take upon itself the wrongful condition of Many. It is only by conceiving this difficulty as 
temporarily overcome, that we can comprehend a reaction. There could have been no 
reaction had the act been infinitely continued. So long as the act LAO no reaction, of 
course, could commence; in other words, no gravitation could take place —for we have 
considered the one as but the manifestation of the other. But gravitation has taken place; 
therefore the act of Creation has ceased: and gravitation has long ago taken place; 
therefore the act of Creation has long ago ceased. We can no more expect, then, to 
observe the primary processes of Creation; and to these primary processes the condition 
of nebulosity has already been explained to belong. 

Through what we know of the propagation of light, we have direct proof that the more 
remote of the stars have existed, under the forms in which we now see them, for an 
inconceivable number of years. So far back at least, then, as the period when these stars 
underwent condensation, must have been the epoch at which the mass-constitutive 
processes began. That we may conceive these processes, then, as still going on in the case 
of certain "nebulae," while in all other cases we find them thoroughly at an end, we are 
forced into assumptions for which we have really no basis whatever —we have to thrust 
in, again, upon the revolting Reason, the blasphemous idea of special interposition —we 
have to suppose that, in the particular instances of these "nebulae," an unerring God 
found it necessary to introduce certain supplementary regulations - certain improvements 
of the general law —certain retouchings and emendations, in a word, which had the effect 
of deferring the completion of these individual stars for centuries of centuries beyond the 
aera during which all the other stellar bodies had time, not only to be fully constituted, 
but to grow hoary with an unspeakable old age. 



Of course, it will be immediately objected that since the light by which we recognize the 
nebulae now, must be merely that which left their surfaces a vast number of years ago, 
the processes at present observed, or supposed to be observed, are, in fact, not processes 
now actually going on, but the phantoms of processes completed long in the Past —just as 
I maintain all these mass-constitutive processes must have been. 

To this I reply that neither is the now-observed condition of the condensed stars their 
actual condition, but a condition completed long in the Past; so that my argument drawn 
from the relative condition of the stars and the "nebulae," is in no manner disturbed. 
Moreover, those who maintain the existence of nebulae, do not refer the nebulosity to 
extreme distance; they declare it a real and not merely a perspective nebulosity. That we 
may conceive, indeed, a nebular mass as visible at all, we must conceive it as very near 
us in comparison with the condensed stars brought into view by the modern telescopes. In 
maintaining the appearances in question, then, to be really nebulous, we maintain their 
comparative vicinity to our point of view. Thus, their condition, as we see them now, 
must be referred to an epoch far less remote than that to which we may refer the now- 
observed condition of at least the majority of the stars. - In a word, should Astronomy 
ever demonstrate a "nebula," in the sense at present intended, I should consider the 
Nebular Cosmogony — not, indeed, as corroborated by the demonstration —but as thereby 
irretrievably overthrown. 

By way, however, of rendering unto Caesar no more than the things that are Caesar's, let 
me here remark that the assumption of the hypothesis which led him to so glorious a 
result, seems to have been suggested to Laplace in great measure by a misconception — 
by the very misconception of which we have just been speaking — by the generally 
prevalent misunderstanding of the character of the nebulae, so mis-named. These he 
supposed to be, in reality, what their designation implies. The fact is, this great man had, 
very properly, an inferior faith in his own merely perceptive powers. In respect, therefore, 
to the actual existence of nebulae — an existence so confidently maintained by his 
telescopic contemporaries —he depended less upon what he saw than upon what he 
heard. 

It will be seen that the only valid objections to his theory, are those made to its hypothesis 
as such —to what suggested it —not to what it suggests; to its propositions rather than to 
its results. His most unwarranted assumption was that of giving the atoms a movement 
towards a centre, in the very face of his evident understanding that these atoms, in 
unlimited succession, extended throughout the Universal space. I have already shown 
that, under such circumstances, there could have occurred no movement at all; and 
Laplace, consequently, assumed one on no more philosophical ground than that 
something of the kind was necessary for the establishment of what he intended to 
establish. 

His original idea seems to have been a compound of the true Epicurean atoms with the 
false nebulae of his contemporaries; and thus his theory presents us with the singular 
anomaly of absolute truth deduced, as a mathematical result, from a hybrid datum of 
ancient imagination intertangled with modern inacumen. Laplace's real strength lay, in 



fact, in an almost miraculous mathematical instinct: —on this he relied; and in no instance 
did it fail or deceive him: — in the case of the Nebular Cosmogony, it led him, 
blindfolded, through a labyrinth of Error, into one of the most luminous and stupendous 
temples of Truth. 

Let us now fancy, for the moment, that the ring first thrown off by the Sun —that is to 
say, the ring whose breaking-up constituted Neptune —did not, in fact, break up until the 
throwing-off of the ring out of which Uranus arose; that this latter ring, again, remained 
perfect until the discharge of that out of which sprang Saturn; that this latter, again, 
remained entire until the discharge of that from which originated Jupiter — and so on. Let 
us imagine, in a word, that no dissolution occurred among the rings until the final 
rejection of that which gave birth to Mercury. We thus paint to the eye of the mind a 
series of coexistent concentric circles; and looking as well at them as at the processes by 
which, according to Laplace's hypothesis, they were constructed, we perceive at once a 
very singular analogy with the atomic strata and the process of the original irradiation as I 
have described it. Is it impossible that, on measuring the forces, respectively, by which 
each successive planetary circle was thrown off —that is to say, on measuring the 
successive excesses of rotation over gravitation which occasioned the successive 
discharges —we should find the analogy in question more decidedly confirmed? Is it 
improbable that we should discover these forces to have varied —as in the original 
radiation —proportional to the squares of the distances? 

Our solar system, consisting, in chief, of one sun, with sixteen planets certainly, and 
possibly a few more, revolving about it at various distances, and attended by seventeen 
moons assuredly, but very probably by several others —is now to be considered as an 
example of the innumerable agglomerations which proceeded to take place throughout 
the Universal Sphere of atoms on withdrawal of the Divine Volition. I mean to say that 
our solar system is to be understood as affording a generic instance of these 
agglomerations, or, more correctly, of the ulterior conditions at which they arrived. If we 
keep our attention fixed on the idea of the utmost possible Relation as the Omnipotent 
design, and on the precautions taken to accomplish it through difference of form, among 
the original atoms, and particular inequidistance, we shall find it impossible to suppose 
for a moment that even any two of the incipient agglomerations reached precisely the 
same result in the end. We shall rather be inclined to think that no two stellar bodies in 
the Universe —whether suns, planets or moons —are particularly, while are generally, 
similar. Still less, then, can we imagine any two assemblages of such bodies —any two 
"systems" —as having more than a general resemblance. * Our telescopes, at this point, 
thoroughly confirm our deductions. Taking our own solar system, then, as merely a loose 
or general type of all, we have so far proceeded in our subject as to survey the Universe 
under the aspect of a spherical space, throughout which, dispersed with merely general 
equability, exist a number of but generally similar systems. 

* It is not impossible that some unlooked-for optical improvement may disclose to us, 
among innumerable varieties of systems, a luminous sun, encircled by luminous and non- 
luminous rings, within and without and between which, revolve luminous and non- 



luminous planets, attended by moons having moons —and even these latter again having 
moons. 

Let us now, expanding our conceptions, look upon each of these system as in itself an 
atom; which in fact it is, when we consider it as but one of the countless myriads of 
systems which constitute the Universe. Regarding all, then, as but colossal atoms, each 
with the same ineradicable tendency to Unity which characterizes the actual atoms of 
which it consists —we enter at once upon a new order of aggregations. The smaller 
systems, in the vicinity of a larger one, would, inevitably, be drawn into still closer 
vicinity. A thousand would assemble here; a million there —perhaps here, again, even a 
billion —leaving, thus, immeasurable vacancies in space. And if, now, it be demanded 
why, in the case of these systems —of these merely Titanic atoms —I speak, simply, of an 
"assemblage," and not, as in the case of the actual atoms, of a more or less consolidated 
agglomeration: —if it be asked, for instance, why I do not carry what I suggest to its 
legitimate conclusion, and describe, at once, these assemblages of system-atoms as 
rushing to consolidation in spheres — as each becoming condensed into one magnificent 
sun —my reply is that mellonta tauta —I am but pausing, for a moment, on the awful 
threshold of the Future. For the present, calling these assemblages "clusters," we see them 
in the incipient stages of their consolidation. Their absolute consolidation is to come. 

We have now reached a point from which we behold the Universe as a spherical space, 
interspersed, unequably, with clusters. It will be noticed that I here prefer the adverb 
"unequably" to the phrase "with a merely general equability," employed before. It is 
evident, in fact, that the equability of distribution will diminish in the ratio of the 
agglomerative processes —that is to say, as the things distributed diminish in number. 
Thus the increase of in equability — an increase which must continue until, sooner or later 
an epoch will arrive at which the largest agglomeration will absorb all the others —should 
be viewed as, simply, a corroborative indication of the tendency to One. 

And here, at length, it seems proper to inquire whether the ascertained facts of 
Astronomy confirm the general arrangement which I have thus, deductively, assigned to 
the Heavens. Thoroughly, they do. Telescopic observation, guided by the laws of 
perspective, enables us to understand that the perceptible Universe exists as a cluster of 
clusters, irregularly disposed. 

The "clusters" of which this Universal "cluster of clusters" consists, are merely what we 
have been in the practice of designating "nebulae" —and, of these "nebulae," one is of 
paramount interest to mankind. I allude to the Galaxy, or Milky Way. This interests us, 
first and most obviously, on account of its great superiority in apparent size, not only to 
any one other cluster in the firmament, but to all the other clusters taken together. The 
largest of these latter occupies a mere point, comparatively, and is distinctly seen only 
with the aid of a telescope. The Galaxy sweeps throughout the Heaven and is brilliantly 
visible to the naked eye. But it interests man chiefly, although less immediately, on 
account of its being his home; the home of the Earth on which he exists; the home of the 
Sun about which this Earth revolves; the home of that "system" of orbs of which the Sun 
is the centre and primary — the Earth one of sixteen secondaries, or planets —the Moon 



one of seventeen tertiaries, or satellites. The Galaxy, let me repeat, is but one of the 
clusters which I have been describing —but one of the mis-called "nebulae" revealed to 
us —by the telescope alone, sometimes —as faint hazy spots in various quarters of the 
sky. We have no reason to suppose the Milky Way really more extensive than the least of 
these "nebulae". Its vast superiority in size is but an apparent superiority arising from our 
position in regard to it —that is to say, from our position in its midst. However strange the 
assertion may at first appear to those unversed in Astronomy, still the astronomer himself 
has no hesitation in asserting that we are in the midst of that inconceivable host of stars — 
of suns —of systems —which constitute the Galaxy. Moreover, not only have we —not 
only has our Sun a right to claim the Galaxy as its own especial cluster, but, with slight 
reservation, it may be said that all the distinctly visible stars of the firmament —all the 
stars visible to the naked eye —have equally a right to claim it as their own. 

There has been a great deal of misconception in respect to the shape of the Galaxy; 
which, in nearly all our astronomical treatises, is said to resemble that of a capital Y. The 
cluster in question has, in reality, a certain general — very general resemblance to the 
planet Saturn, with its encompassing triple ring. Instead of the solid orb of that planet, 
however, we must picture to ourselves a lenticular star-island, or collection of stars; our 
Sun lying excentrically — near the shore of the island — on that side of it which is nearest 
the constellation of the Cross and farthest from that of Cassiopeia. The surrounding ring, 
where it approaches our position, has in it a longitudinal gash, which does in fact, cause 
the ring, in our vicinity, to assume, loosely, the appearance of a capital Y. 

We must not fall into the error, however, of conceiving the somewhat indefinite girdle as 
at all remote, comparatively speaking, from the also indefinite lenticular cluster which it 
surrounds; and thus, for mere purpose of explanation, we may speak of our Sun as 
actually situated at that point of the Y where its three component lines unite; and, 
conceiving this letter to be of a certain solidity —of a certain thickness, very trivial in 
comparison with its length —we may even speak of our position as in the middle of this 
thickness. Fancying ourselves thus placed, we shall no longer find difficulty in 
accounting for the phaenomena presented —which are perspective altogether. When we 
look upward or downward —that is to say, when we cast our eyes in the direction of the 
letter's thickness —we look through fewer stars than when we cast them in the direction 
of its length, or either of the three component lines. Of course, in the former case, the 
stars appear scattered —in the latter, crowded. —To reverse this explanation: —An 
inhabitant of the Earth, when looking, as we commonly express ourselves, at the Galaxy, 
is then beholding it in some of the directions of its length — is looking the lines of the Y - 
-but when, looking out into the general Heaven, he turns his eyes FR the Galaxy, he is 
then surveying it in the direction of the letter's thickness; and on this account the stars 
seem to him scattered; while, in fact, they are as close together, on an average, as in the 
mass of the cluster. No consideration could be better adapted to convey an idea of this 
cluster's stupendous extent. 

If, with a telescope of high space-penetrating power, we carefully inspect the firmament, 
we shall become aware of a belt of clusters —of what we have hitherto called "nebulae" - 
-a band, of varying breadth, stretching from horizon to horizon, at right angles to the 



general course of the Milky Way. This band is the ultimate cluster of clusters. This belt is 
The Universe. Our Galaxy is but one, and perhaps one of the most inconsiderable, of the 
clusters which go to the constitution of this ultimate. Universal belt or band. The 
appearance of this cluster of clusters, to our eyes, as a belt or band, is altogether a 
perspective phaenomenon of the same character as that which causes us to behold our 
own individual and roughly- spherical cluster, the Galaxy, under guise also of a belt, 
traversing the Heavens at right angles to the Universal one. The shape of the all-inclusive 
cluster is, of course generally, that of each individual cluster which it includes. Just as the 
scattered stars which, on looking FR the Galaxy, we see in the general sky, are, in fact, 
but a portion of that Galaxy itself, and as closely intermingled with it as any of the 
telescopic points in what seems the densest portion of its mass —so are the scattered 
"nebulae" which, on casting our eyes FR the Universal belt, we perceive at all points of 
the firmament —so, I say, are these scattered "nebulae" to be understood as only 
perspectively scattered, and as part and parcel of the one supreme and Universal sphere. 

No astronomical fallacy is more untenable, and none has been more pertinaciously 
adhered to, than that of the absolute illimitation of the Universe of Stars. The reasons for 
limitation, as I have already assigned them, a priori, seem to me unanswerable; but, not to 
speak of these, observation assures us that there is, in numerous directions around us, 
certainly, if not in all, a positive limit — or, at the very least, affords us no basis whatever 
for thinking otherwise. Were the succession of stars endless, then the background of the 
sky would present us an uniform luminosity, like that displayed by the Galaxy —since 
there could be absolutely no point, in all that background, at which would not exist a star. 
The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a state of affairs, we could comprehend 
the voids which our telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by supposing the 
distance of the invisible background so immense that no ray from it has yet been able to 
reach us at all. That this may be so, who shall venture to deny? I maintain, simply, that 
we have not even the shadow of a reason for believing that it is so. 

When speaking of the vulgar propensity to regard all bodies on the Earth as tending 
merely to the Earth's centre, I observed that, "with certain exceptions to be specified 
hereafter, every body on the Earth tended not only to the Earth's centre, but in every 
conceivable direction besides." * The "exceptions" refer to those frequent gaps in the 
Heavens, where our utmost scrutiny can detect not only no stellar bodies, but no 
indications of their existence: — where yawning chasms, blacker than Erebus, seem to 
afford us glimpses, through the boundary walls of the Universe of Stars, into the 
illimitable Universe of Vacancy, beyond. Now as any body, existing on the Earth, 
chances to pass, either through its own movement or the Earth's, into a line with any one 
of these voids, or cosmical abysses, it clearly is no longer attracted in the direction of that 
void, and for the moment, consequently, is "heavier" than at any period, either after or 
before. Independently of the consideration of these voids however, and looking only at 
the generally unequable distribution of the stars, we see that the absolute tendency of 
bodies on the Earth to the Earth's centre, is in a state of perpetual variation. 

* See prevous paragraph, "Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend..." 



We comprehend, then, the insulation of our Universe. We perceive the isolation of that — 
of that which we grasp with the senses. We know that there exists one cluster of clusters - 
-a collection around which, on all sides, extend the immeasurable wildernesses of a 
Space to all human perception untenanted. But because upon the confines of this 
Universe of Stars we are compelled to pause, through want of farther evidence from the 
senses, is it right to conclude that, in fact, there is no material point beyond that which we 
have thus been permitted to attain? Have we, or have we not, an analogical right to the 
inference that this perceptible Universe — that this cluster of clusters —is but one of a 
series of clusters of clusters, the rest of which are invisible through distance —through the 
diffusion of their light being so excessive, ere it reaches us, as not to produce upon our 
retinas a light-impression — or from there being no such emanation as light at all, in these 
unspeakably distant worlds —or, lastly, from the mere interval being so vast, that the 
electric tidings of their presence in Space, have not yet —through the lapsing myriads of 
years —been enabled to traverse that interval? 

Have we any right to inferences —have we any ground whatever for visions such as 
these? If we have a right to them in any degree, we have a right to their infinite extension. 

The human brain has obviously a leaning to the "Infinite," and fondles the phantom of the 
idea. It seems to long with a passionate fervor for this impossible conception, with the 
hope of intellectually believing it when conceived. What is general among the whole race 
of Man, of course no individual of that race can be warranted in considering abnormal; 
nevertheless, there may be a class of superior intelligences, to whom the human bias 
alluded to may wear all the character of monomania. 

My question, however, remains unanswered: —Have we any right to infer —let us say, 
rather, to imagine — an interminable succession of the "clusters of clusters," or of 
"Universes" more or less similar? 

I reply that the "right," in a case such as this, depends absolutely upon the hardihood of 
that imagination which ventures to claim the right. Let me declare, only, that, as an 
individual, I myself feel impelled to the fancy —without daring to call it more — that there 
does exist a limitless succession of Universes, more or less similar to that of which we 
have cognizance — to that of which we shall ever have cognizance — at the very least until 
the return of our own particular Universe into Unity. If such clusters of clusters exist, 
however —and they do —it is abundantly clear that, having had no part in our origin, they 
have no portion in our laws. They neither attract us, nor we them. Their material —their 
spirit is not ours —is not that which obtains in any part of our Universe. They could not 
impress our senses or our souls. Among them and us —considering all, for the moment, 
collectively —there are no influences in common. Each exists, apart and independently, 
in the bosom of its proper and particular God. 

In the conduct of this Discourse, I am aiming less at physical than at metaphysical order. 
The clearness with which even material phaenomena are presented to the understanding, 
depends very little, I have long since learned to perceive, upon a merely natural, and 
almost altogether upon a moral, arrangement. If then I seem to step somewhat too 



discursively from point to point of my topic, let me suggest that I do so in the hope of 
thus the better keeping unbroken that chain of graduated impression by which alone the 
intellect of Man can expect to encompass the grandeurs of which I speak, and, in their 
majestic totality, to comprehend them. 

So far, our attention has been directed, almost exclusively, to a general and relative 
grouping of the stellar bodies in space. Of specification there has been little and whatever 
ideas of quantity have been conveyed —that is to say, of number, magnitude, and distance 
— have been conveyed incidentally and by way of preparation for more definitive 
conceptions. These latter let us now attempt to entertain. 

Our solar system, as has been already mentioned, consists, in chief, of one sun and 
sixteen planets certainly, but in all probability a few others, revolving around it as a 
centre, and attended by seventeen moons of which we know, with possibly several more 
of which as yet we know nothing. These various bodies are not true spheres, but oblate 
spheroids —spheres flattened at the poles of the imaginary axes about which they rotate: - 
-the flattening being a consequence of the rotation. Neither is the Sun absolutely the 
centre of the system; for this Sun itself, with all the planets, revolves about a perpetually 
shifting point of space, which is the system's general centre of gravity. Neither are we to 
consider the paths through which these different spheroids move — the moons about the 
planets, the planets about the Sun, or the Sun about the common centre —as circles in an 
accurate sense. They are, in fact, ellipses — one of the foci being the point about which 
the revolution is made. An ellipse is a curve, returning into itself, one of whose diameters 
is longer than the other. In the longer diameter are two points, equidistant from the 
middle of the line, and so situated otherwise that if, from each of them a straight line be 
drawn to any one point of the curve, the two lines, taken together, will, be equal to the 
longer diameter itself. Now let us conceive such an ellipse. At one of the points 
mentioned, which are the foci, let us fasten an orange. By an elastic thread let us connect 
this orange with a pea; and let us place this latter on the circumference of the ellipse. Let 
us now move the pea continuously around the orange —keeping always on the 
circumference of the ellipse. The elastic thread, which, of course, varies in length as we 
move the pea, will form what in geometry is called a radius vector. Now, if the orange be 
understood as the Sun, and the pea as a planet revolving about it, then the revolution 
should be made at such a rate —with a velocity so varying —that the radius vector may 
pass over equal areas of space in equal times. The progress of the pea should be —in 
other words, the progress of the planet is, of course, —slow in proportion to its distance 
from the Sun —swift in proportion to its proximity. Those planets, moreover, move the 
more slowly which are the farther from the Sun; the squares of their periods of revolution 
having the same proportion to each other, as have to each other the cubes of their mean 
distances from the Sun. 

The wonderfully complex laws of revolution here described, however, are not to be 
understood as obtaining in our system alone. They everywhere prevail where Attraction 
prevails. They control the Universe. Every shining speck in the firmament is, no doubt, a 
luminous sun, resembling our own, at least in its general features, and having in 
attendance upon it a greater or less number of planets, greater or less, whose still 



lingering luminosity is not sufficient to render them visible to us at so vast a distance, but 
which, nevertheless, revolve, moon-attended, about their starry centres, in obedience to 
the principles just detailed — in obedience to the three omniprevalent laws of revolution 
the three immortal laws guessed by the imaginative Kepler, and but subsequently 
demonstrated and accounted for by the patient and mathematical Newton. Among a tribe 
of philosophers who pride themselves excessively upon matter-of-fact, it is far too 
fashionable to sneer at all speculation under the comprehensive sobriquet, "guess-work." 
The point to be considered is, who guesses. In guessing with Plato, we spend our time to 
better purpose, now and then, than in hearkening to a demonstration by Alcmaeon. 

In many works on Astronomy I find it distinctly stated that the laws of Kepler are the 
basis of the great principle. Gravitation. This idea must have arisen from the fact that the 
suggestion of these laws by Kepler, and his proving them a posteriori to have an actual 
existence, led Newton to account for them by the hypothesis of Gravitation, and, finally, 
to demonstrate them a priori, as necessary consequences of the hypothetical principle. 
Thus so far from the laws of Kepler being the basis of Gravity, Gravity is the basis of 
these laws —as it is, indeed, of all the laws of the material Universe which are not 
referable to Repulsion alone. 

The mean distance of the Earth from the Moon — that is to say, from the heavenly body in 
our closest vicinity —is 237,000 miles. Mercury, the planet nearest the Sun, is distant 
from him 37 millions of miles. Venus, the next, revolves at a distance of 68 millions: — 
the Earth, which comes next, at a distance of 95 millions: —Mars, then, at a distance of 
144 millions. Now come the eight Asteroids (Ceres, Juno, Vesta, Pallas, Astraea, Flora, 
Iris, and Hebe) at an average distance of about 250 millions. Then we have Jupiter, 
distant 490 millions; then Saturn, 900 millions; then Uranus, 19 hundred millions; finally 
Neptune, lately discovered, and revolving at a distance, say of 28 hundred millions. 
Leaving Neptune out of the account —of which as yet we know little accurately and 
which is, possibly, one of a system of Asteroids —it will be seen that, within certain 
limits, there exists an order of interval among the planets. Speaking loosely, we may say 
that each outer planet is twice as far from the Sun as is the next inner one. May not the 
order here mentioned —may not the law of Bode —be deduced from consideration of the 
analogy suggested by me as having place between the solar discharge of rings and the 
mode of the atomic irradiation? 

The numbers hurriedly mentioned in this summary of distance, it is folly to attempt 
comprehending, unless in the light of abstract arithmetical facts. They are not practically 
tangible ones. They convey no precise ideas. I have stated that Neptune, the planet 
farthest from the Sun, revolves about him at a distance of 28 hundred millions of miles. 
So far good: —I have stated a mathematical fact; and, without comprehending it in the 
least, we may put it to use —mathematically. But in mentioning, even, that the Moon 
revolves about the Earth at the comparatively trifling distance of 237,000 miles, I 
entertained no expectation of giving any one to understand —to know —to feel —how far 
from the Earth the Moon actually is. 237,000 miles! There are, perhaps, few of my 
readers who have not crossed the Atlantic ocean; yet how many of them have a distinct 
idea of even the 3,000 miles intervening between shore and shore? I doubt, indeed. 



whether the man lives who can force into his brain the most remote conception of the 
interval between one milestone and its next neighbor upon the turnpike. We are in some 
measure aided, however, in our consideration of distance, by combining this 
consideration with the kindred one of velocity. Sound passes through 1 100 feet of space 
in a second of time. Now were it possible for an inhabitant of the Earth to see the flash of 
a cannon discharged in the Moon, and to hear the report, he would have to wait, after 
perceiving the former, more than 13 entire days and nights before getting any intimation 
of the latter. 

However feeble be the impression, even thus conveyed, of the Moon's real distance from 
the Earth, it will, nevertheless, effect a good object in enabling us more clearly to see the 
futility of attempting to grasp such intervals as that of the 28 hundred millions of miles 
between our Sun and Neptune; or even that of the 95 millions between the Sun and the 
Earth we inhabit. A cannon-ball, flying at the greatest velocity with which a ball has ever 
been known to fly, could not traverse the latter interval in less than 20 years; while for the 
former it would require 590. 

Our Moon's real diameter is 2160 miles; yet she is comparatively so trifling an object that 
it would take nearly 50 such orbs to compose one as great as the Earth. 

The diameter of our own globe is 7912 miles —but from the enunciation of these 
numbers what positive idea do we derive? 

If we ascend an ordinary mountain and look around us from its summit, we behold a 
landscape stretching, say 40 miles, in every direction; forming a circle 250 miles in 
circumference; and including an area of 5000 square miles. The extent of such a prospect, 
on account of the successiveness with which its portions necessarily present themselves 
to view, can be only very feebly and very partially appreciated: —yet the entire panorama 
would comprehend no more than one 40,000th part of the mere surface of our globe. 
Were this panorama, then, to be succeeded, after the lapse of an hour, by another of equal 
extent; this again by a third, after the lapse of another hour; this again by a fourth after 
lapse of another hour - and so on, until the scenery of the whole Earth were exhausted; 
and were we to be engaged in examining these various panoramas for twelve hours of 
every day; we should nevertheless, be 9 years and 48 days in completing the general 
survey. 

But if the mere surface of the Earth eludes the grasp of the imagination, what are we to 
think of its cubical contents? It embraces a mass of matter equal in weight to at least 2 
sextillions, 200 quintillions of tons. Let us suppose it in a state of quiescence; and now let 
us endeavor to conceive a mechanical force sufficient to set it in motion! Not the strength 
of all the myriads of beings whom we may conclude to inhabit the planetary worlds of 
our system —not the combined physical strength of these beings —even admitting all to 
be more powerful than man —would avail to stir the ponderous mass a single inch from 
its position. 



What are we to understand, then, of the force, which under similar circumstances, would 
be required to move the LAO of our planets, Jupiter? This is 86,000 miles in diameter, 
and would include within its periphery more than a thousand orbs of the magnitude of our 
own. Yet this stupendous body is actually flying around the Sun at the rate of 29,000 
miles an hour —that is to say, with a velocity 40 times greater than that of a cannon-ball! 
The thought of such a phaenomenon cannot well be said to startle the mind: —it palsies 
and appals it. Not unfrequently we task our imagination in picturing the capacities of an 
angel. Let us fancy such a being at a distance of some hundred miles from Jupiter —a 
close eye-witness of this planet as it speeds on its annual revolution. Now can we, I 
demand, fashion for ourselves any conception so distinct of this ideal being's spiritual 
exaltation, as that involved in the supposition that, even by this immeasurable mass of 
matter, whirled immediately before his eyes, with a velocity so unutterable, he — an angel 
—angelic though he be — is not at once struck into nothingness and overwhelmed? 

At this point, however, it seems proper to suggest that, in fact, we have been speaking of 
comparative trifles. Our Sun — the central and controlling orb of the system to which 
Jupiter belongs, is not only greater than Jupiter, but greater by far than all the planets of 
the system taken together. This fact is an essential condition, indeed, of the stability of 
the system itself. The diameter of Jupiter has been mentioned: —it is 86,000 miles: — that 
of the Sun is 882,000 miles. An inhabitant of the latter, travehng 90 miles a day, would 
be more than 80 years in going round a great circle of its circumference. It occupies a 
cubical space of 681 quadrillions, 472 trillions of miles. The Moon, as has been stated, 
revolves about the Earth at a distance of 237,000 miles —in an orbit, consequently, of 
nearly a million and a half. Now, were the Sun placed upon the Earth, centre over centre, 
the body of the former would extend, in every direction, not only to the line of the 
Moon's orbit, but beyond it, a distance of 200,000 miles. 

And here, once again, let me suggest that, in fact, we have still been speaking of 
comparative trifles. The distance of the planet Neptune from the Sun has been stated: —it 
is 28 hundred millions of miles; the circumference of its orbit, therefore, is about 17 
billions. Let this be borne in mind while we glance at some one of the brightest stars. 
Between this and the star of our system, (the Sun,) there is a gulf of space, to convey any 
idea of which we should need the tongue of an archangel. From our system, then, and 
from our Sun, or star, the star at which we suppose ourselves glancing is a thing 
altogether apart: —still, for the moment, let us imagine it placed upon our Sun, centre 
over centre, as we just now imagined this Sun itself placed upon the Earth. Let us now 
conceive the particular star we have in mind, extending, in every direction, beyond the 
orbit of Mercury — of Venus —of the Earth: —still on, beyond the orbit of Mars — of 
Jupiter — of Uranus — until, finally, we fancy it filling the circle —17 billions of miles in 
circumference — which is described by the revolution of Leverrier's planet. When we 
have conceived all this, we shall have entertained no extravagant conception. There is the 
very best reason for believing that many of the stars are even far larger than the one we 
have imagined. I mean to say that we have the very best empirical basis for such belief: - 
-and, in looking back at the original, atomic arrangements for diversity, which have been 
assumed as a part of the Divine plan in the constitution of the Universe, we shall be 
enabled easily to understand, and to credit, the existence of even far vaster disproportions 



in stellar size than any to which I have hitherto alluded. The largest orbs, of course, we 
must expect to find rolling through the widest vacancies of Space. 

I remarked, just now, that to convey an idea of the interval between our Sun and any one 
of the other stars, we should require the eloquence of an archangel. In so saying, I should 
not be accused of exaggeration; for, in simple truth, these are topics on which it is 
scarcely possible to exaggerate. But let us bring the matter more distinctly before the eye 
of the mind. 

In the first place, we may get a general, relative conception of the interval referred to, by 
comparing it with the inter-planetary spaces. If, for example, we suppose the Earth, 
which is, in reality, 95 millions of miles from the Sun, to be only one foot from that 
luminary; then Neptune would be 40 feet distant; and the star Alpha Lyrae, at the very 
least, 159. 

Now I presume that, in the termination of my last sentence, few of my readers have 
noticed anything especially objectionable — particularly wrong. I said that the distance of 
the Earth from the Sun being taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would be 40 feet, 
and that of Alpha Lyrae, 159. The proportion between one foot and 159, has appeared, 
perhaps, to convey a sufficiently definite impression of the proportion between the two 
intervals — that of the Earth from the Sun and that of Alpha Lyrae from the same 
luminary. But my account of the matter should, in reality, have run thus: —The distance 
of the Earth from the Sun being taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would be 40 
feet, and that of Alpha Lyrae, 159 —miles: —that is to say, I had assigned to Alpha Lyrae, 
in my first statement of the case, only the 5280th part of that distance which is the least 
distance possible at which it can actually lie. 

To proceed: However distant a mere PLO,0, is, yet when we look at it through a 
telescope, we see it under a certain form — of a certain appreciable size. Now I have 
already hinted at the probable bulk of many of the stars; nevertheless, when we view any 
one of them, even through the most powerful telescope, it is found to present us with no 
form, and consequently with no magnitude whatever. We see it as a point and nothing 
more. 

Again; —Let us suppose ourselves walking, at night, on a highway. In a field on one side 
of the road, is a line of tall objects, say trees, the figures of which are distinctly defined 
against the background of the sky. This line of objects extends at right angles to the road, 
and from the road to the horizon. Now, as we proceed along the road, we see these 
objects changing their positions, respectively, in relation to a certain fixed point in that 
portion of the firmament which forms the background of the view. Let us suppose this 
fixed point — sufficiently fixed for our purpose — to be the rising moon. We become 
aware, at once, that while the tree nearest us so far alters its position in respect to the 
moon, as to seem flying behind us, the tree in the extreme distance has scarcely changed 
at all its relative position with the satellite. We then go on to perceive that the farther the 
objects are from us, the less they alter their positions; and the converse. Then we begin, 
unwittingly, to estimate the distances of individual trees by the degrees in which they 



evince the relative alteration. Finally, we come to understand how it might be possible to 
ascertain the actual distance of any given tree in the hne, by using the amount of relative 
alteration as a basis in a simple geometrical problem. Now this relative alteration is what 
we call "parallax;" and by parallax we calculate the distances of the heavenly bodies. 
Applying the principle to the trees in question, we should, of course, be very much at a 
loss to comprehend the distance of that tree, which, however far we proceeded along the 
road, should evince no parallax at all. This, in the case described, is a thing impossible; 
but impossible only because all distances on our Earth are trivial indeed: —in comparison 
with the vast cosmical quantities, we may speak of them as absolutely nothing. 

Now, let us suppose the star Alpha Lyrae directly overhead; and let us imagine that, 
instead of standing on the Earth, we stand at one end of a straight road stretching through 
Space to a distance equalling the diameter of the Earth's orbit —that is to say, to a 
distance of 190 millions of miles. Having observed, by means of the most delicate 
micrometrical instruments, the exact position of the star, let us now pass along this 
inconceivable road, until we reach its other extremity. Now, once again, let us look at the 
star. It is precisely where we left it. Our instruments, however delicate, assure us that its 
relative position is absolutely —is identically the same as at the commencement of our 
unutterable journey. No parallax — none whatever —has been found. 

The fact is, that, in regard to the distance of the fixed stars - of any one of the myriads of 
suns glistening on the farther side of that awful chasm which separates our system from 
its brothers in the cluster to which it belongs —astronomical science, until very lately, 
could speak only with a negative certainty. Assuming the brightest as the nearest, we 
could say, even of them, only that there is a certain incomprehensible distance on the 
hither side of which they cannot be: —how far they are beyond it we had in no case been 
able to ascertain. We perceived, for example, that Alpha Lyrae cannot be nearer to us 
than 19 trillions, 200 billions of miles; but, for all we knew, and indeed for all we now 
know, it may be distant from us the square, or the cube, or any other power of the number 
mentioned. By dint, however, of wonderfully minute and cautious observations, 
continued, with novel instruments, for many laborious years, Bessel, not long ago 
deceased, has lately succeeded in determining the distance of six or seven stars; among 
others, that of the star numbered 61 in the constellation of the Swan. The distance in this 
latter instance ascertained, is 670,000 times that of the Sun; which last it will be 
remembered, is 95 millions of miles. The star 61 Cygni, then, is nearly 64 trillions of 
miles from us —or more than three times the distance assigned, as the least possible, for 
Alpha Lyrae. 

In attempting to appreciate this interval by the aid of any considerations of velocity, as 
we did in endeavoring to estimate the distance of the moon, we must leave out of sight, 
altogether, such nothings as the speed of a cannon ball, or of sound. Light, however, 
according to the latest calculations of Struve, proceeds at the rate of 167,000 miles in a 
second. Thought itself cannot pass through this interval more speedily —if, indeed, 
thought can traverse it at all. Yet, in coming from 61 Cygni to us, even at this 
inconceivable rate, light occupies more than ten years; and, consequently, were the star 



this moment blotted out from the Universe, still, for ten years, would it continue to 
sparkle on, undimmed in its paradoxical glory. 

Keeping now in mind whatever feeble conception we may have attained of the interval 
between our Sun and 61 Cygni, let us remember that this interval, however unutterably 
vast, we are permitted to consider as but the average interval among the countless host of 
stars composing that cluster, or "nebula," to which our system, as well as that of 61 
Cygni, belongs. I have, in fact, stated the case with great moderation we have excellent 
reason for believing 61 Cygni to be one of the nearest stars, and thus for concluding, at 
least for the present, that its distance from us is less than the average distance between 
star and star in the magnificent cluster of the Milky Way. 

And here, once again and finally, it seems proper to suggest that even as yet we have 
been speaking of trifles. Ceasing to wonder at the space between star and star in our own 
or in any particular cluster, let us rather turn our thoughts to the intervals between cluster 
and cluster, in the all comprehensive cluster of the Universe. 

I have already said that light proceeds at the rate of 167,000 miles in a second —that is, 
about 10 millions of miles in a minute, or about 600 millions of miles in an hour: — yet so 
far removed from us are some of the "nebulae" that even light, speeding with this 
velocity, could not and does not reach us, from those mysterious regions, in less than 3 
millions of years. This calculation, moreover, is made by the elder Herschel, and in 
reference merely to those comparatively proximate clusters within the scope of his own 
telescope. There are "nebulae," however, which, through the magical tube of Lord Rosse, 
are this instant whispering in our ears the secrets of a million of ages by-gone. In a word, 
the events which we behold now — at this moment — in those worlds — are the identical 
events which interested their inhabitants ten hundred thousand centuries ago. In intervals 
—in distances such as this suggestion forces upon the soul —rather than upon the mind — 
we find, at length, a fitting climax to all hitherto frivolous considerations of quantity. 

Our fancies thus occupied with the cosmical distances, let us take the opportunity of 
referring to the difficulty which we have so often experienced, while pursuing the beaten 
path of astronomical reflection, in accounting for the immeasurable voids alluded to — in 
comprehending why chasms so totally unoccupied and therefore apparently so needless, 
have been made to intervene between star and star —between cluster and cluster — in 
understanding, to be brief, a sufficient reason for the Titanic scale, in respect of mere 
Space, on which the Universe is seen to be constructed. A rational cause for the 
phaenomenon, I maintain that Astronomy has palpably failed to assign: —but the 
considerations through which, in this Essay, we have proceeded step by step, enable us 
clearly and immediately to perceive that Space and Duration are one. That the Universe 
might endure throughout an aera at all commensurate with the grandeur of its component 
material portions and with the high majesty of its spiritual purposes, it was necessary that 
the original atomic diffusion be made to so inconceivable an extent as to be only not 
infinite. It was required, in a word, that the stars should be gathered into visibility from 
invisible nebulosity —proceed from nebulosity to consolidation —and so grow grey in 
giving birth and death to unspeakably numerous and complex variations of vitalic 



development it was required that the stars should do all this — should have time 
thoroughly to accomplish all these Divine purposes - during the period in which all 
things were effecting their return into Unity with a velocity accumulating in the inverse 
proportion of the squares of the distances at which lay the inevitable End. 

Throughout all this we have no difficulty in understanding the absolute accuracy of the 
Divine adaptation. The density of the stars, respectively, proceeds, of course, as their 
condensation diminishes; condensation and heterogeneity keep pace with each other; 
through the latter, which is the index of the former, we estimate the vitalic and spiritual 
development. Thus, in the density of the globes, we have the measure in which their 
purposes are fulfilled. As density proceeds —as the divine intentions are accomplished — 
as less and still less remains to be accomplished — so —in the same ratio —should we 
expect to find an acceleration of the End: —and thus the philosophical mind will easily 
comprehend that the Divine designs in constituting the stars, advance mathematically to 
their fulfilment: — and more; it will readily give the advance a mathematical expression; 
it will decide that this advance is inversely proportional with the squares of the distances 
of all created things from the starting-point and goal of their creation. 

Not only is this Divine adaptation, however, mathematically accurate, but there is that 
about it which stamps it as divine, in distinction from that which is merely the work of 
human constructiveness. I allude to the complete mutuality of adaptation. For example; in 
human constructions a particular cause has a particular effect; a particular intention 
brings to pass a particular object; but this is all; we see no reciprocity. The effect does not 
re-act upon the cause; the intention does not change relations with the object. In Divine 
constructions the object is either design or object as we choose to regard it —and we may 
take at any time a cause for an effect, or the converse —so that we can never absolutely 
decide which is which. 

To give an instance: — In polar climates the human frame, to maintain its animal heat, 
requires, for combustion in the capillary system, an abundant supply of highly azotized 
food, such as train-oil. But again: —in polar climates nearly the sole food afforded man is 
the oil of abundant seals and whales. Now, whether is oil at hand because imperatively 
demanded, or the only thing demanded because the only thing to be obtained? It is 
impossible to decide. There is an absolute reciprocity of adaptation. 

The pleasure which we derive from any display of human ingenuity is in the ratio of the 
approach to this species of reciprocity. In the construction of plot, for example, in 
fictitious literature, we should aim at so arranging the incidents that we shall not be able 
to determine, of any one of them, whether it depends from any one other or upholds it. In 
this sense, of course, perfection of PLO, is really, or practically, unattainable —but only 
because it is a finite intelligence that constructs. The plots of God are perfect. The 
Universe is a plot of God. 

And now we have reached a point at which the intellect is forced, again, to struggle 
against its propensity for analogical inference - against its monomaniac grasping at the 
infinite. Moons have been seen revolving about planets; planets about stars; and the 



poetical instinct of humanity — its instinct of the symmetrical, if the symmetry be but a 
symmetry of surface: —this instinct, which the Soul, not only of Man but of all created 
beings, took up, in the beginning, from the geometrical basis of the Universal irradiation - 
-impels us to the fancy of an endless extension of this system of cycles. Closing our eyes 
equally to de duction and in duction, we insist upon imagining a revolution of all the orbs 
of the Galaxy about some gigantic globe which we take to be the central pivot of the 
whole. Each cluster in the great cluster of clusters is imagined, of course, to be similarly 
supplied and constructed; while, that the "analogy" may be wanting at no point, we go on 
to conceive these clusters themselves, again, as revolving about some still more august 
sphere; —this latter, still again, with its encircling clusters, as but one of a yet more 
magnificent series of agglomerations, gyrating about yet another orb central to them — 
some orb still more unspeakably sublime —some orb, let us rather say, of infinite 
sublimity endlessly multiplied by the infinitely sublime. Such are the conditions, 
continued in perpetuity, which the voice of what some people term "analogy" calls upon 
the Fancy to depict and the Reason to contemplate, if possible, without becoming 
dissatisfied with the picture. Such, in general, are the interminable gyrations beyond 
gyration which we have been instructed by Philosophy to comprehend and to account for, 
at least in the best manner we can. Now and then, however, a philosopher proper - one 
whose frenzy takes a very determinate turn — whose genius, to speak more reverentially, 
has a strongly-pronounced washer- womanish bias, doing every thing up by the dozen — 
enables us to see precisely that point out of sight, at which the revolutionary processes in 
question do, and of right ought to, come to an end. 

It is hardly worth while, perhaps, even to sneer at the reveries of Fourrier — but much has 
been said, latterly, of the hypothesis of Madler —that there exists, in the centre of the 
Galaxy, a stupendous globe about which all the systems of the cluster revolve. The period 
of our own, indeed, has been stated —117 millions of years. 

That our Sun has a motion in space, independently of its rotation, and revolution about 
the system's centre of gravity, has long been suspected. This motion, granting it to exist, 
would be manifested perspectively. The stars in that firmamental region which we were 
leaving behind us, would, in a very long series of years, become crowded; those in the 
opposite quarter, scattered. Now, by means of astronomical History, we ascertain, 
cloudily, that some such phaenomena have occurred. On this ground it has been declared 
that our system is moving to a point in the heavens diametrically opposite the star Zeta 
Herculis: — but this inference is, perhaps, the maximum to which we have any logical 
right. Madler, however, has gone so far as to designate a particular star, Alcyone in the 
Pleiades, as being at or about the very spot around which a general revolution is 
performed. 

Now, since by "analogy" we are led, in the first instance, to these dreams, it is no more 
than proper that we should abide by analogy, at least in some measure, during their 
development; and that analogy which suggests the revolution, suggests at the same time a 
central orb about which it should be performed —so far the astronomer was consistent. 
This central orb, however, should, dynamically, be greater than all the orbs, taken 
together, which surround it. Of these there are about 100 millions. "Why, then," it was of 



course demanded, "do we not see this vast central sun —at least equal in mass to 100 
millions of such suns as ours —why do we not see it —we, especially, who occupy the 
mid region of the cluster —the very locality near which, at all events, must be situated 
this incomparable star?" The reply was ready —"It must be non-luminous, as are our 
planets." Here, then, to suit a purpose, analogy is suddenly let fall. "Not so," it may be 
said —"we know that non-luminous suns actually exist." It is true that we have reason at 
least for supposing so; but we have certainly no reason whatever for supposing that the 
non-luminous suns in question are encircled by luminous suns, while these again are 
surrounded by non-luminous planets and it is precisely all this with which Madler is 
called upon to find any thing analogous in the heavens —for it is precisely all this which 
he imagines in the case of the Galaxy. Admitting the thing to be so, we cannot help here 
picturing to ourselves how sad a puzzle the why is it so must prove to all a priori 
philosophers. 

But granting, in the very teeth of analogy and of every thing else, the non-luminosity of 
the vast central orb, we may still inquire how this orb, so enormous, could fail of being 
rendered visible by the flood of light thrown upon it from the 100 millions of glorious 
suns glaring in all directions about it. Upon the urging of this question, the idea of an 
actually solid central sun appears, in some measure, to have been abandoned; and 
speculation proceeded to assert that the systems of the cluster perform their revolutions 
merely about an immaterial centre of gravity common to all. Here again then, to suit a 
purpose, analogy is let fall. The planets of our system revolve, it is true, about a common 
centre of gravity; but they do this in connexion with, and in consequence of, a material 
sun whose mass more than 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 —an idea which in view of all ordinary geometry, is merely the 
mathematical, as contradistinguished from the practical, idea —is, in sober fact, the 
practical conception which alone we have any right to entertain in regard to the majestic 
circle with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our system 
revolving about a point in the centre of the Galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human 
imaginations attempt but to take a single step towards the comprehension of a sweep so 
ineffable! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say that a flash of lightning itself, travelling 
forever upon the circumference of this unutterable circle, would still, forever, be 
travelling in a straight line. That the path of our Sun in such an orbit would, to any human 
perception, deviate in the slightest degree from a straight line, even in a million of years, 
is a proposition not to be entertained: —yet we are required to believe that a curvature has 
become apparent during the brief period of our astronomical history — during a mere 
point —during the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years. 

It may be said that Madler has really ascertained a curvature in the direction of our 
system's now well-established progress through Space. Admitting, if necessary, this fact 
to be in reality such, I maintain that nothing is thereby shown except the reality of this 
fact the fact of a curvature. For its thorough determination, ages will be required; and, 
when determined, it will be found indicative of some binary or other multiple relation 
between our Sun and some one or more of the proximate stars. I hazard nothing however. 



in predicting, that, after the lapse of many centuries, all efforts at determining the path of 
our sun through Space, will be abandoned as fruitless. This is easily conceivable when we 
look at the infinity of perturbation it must experience, from its perpetually- shifting 
relations with other orbs, in the common approach of all to the nucleus of the Galaxy. 

But in examining other "nebulae" than that of the Milky Way — in surveying, generally, 
the clusters which overspread the heavens — do we or do we not find confirmation of 
Madler's hypothesis? We do not. The forms of the clusters are exceedingly diverse when 
casually viewed; but on close inspection, through powerful telescopes, we recognize the 
sphere, very distinctly, as at least the proximate form of all: —their constitution, in 
general, being at variance with the idea of revolution about a common centre. 

"It is difficult," says Sir John Herschel, "to form any conception of the dynamical state of 
such systems. On one hand, without a rotary motion and a centrifugal force, it is hardly 
possible not to regard them as in a state of progressive collapse. On the other, granting 
such a motion and such a force, we find it no less difficult to reconcile their forms with 
the rotation of the whole system [meaning cluster] around any single axis, without which 
internal collision would appear to be inevitable." 

Some remarks lately made about the "nebulae" by Dr. Nichol, in taking quite a different 
view of the cosmical conditions from any taken in this Discourse — have a very peculiar 
applicability to the point now at issue. He says: 

"When our greatest telescopes are brought to bear upon them, we find that those which 
were thought to be irregular, are not so; they approach nearer to a globe. Here is one that 
looked oval; but Lord Rosse's telescope brought it into a circle.... Now there occurs a 
very remarkable circumstance in reference to these comparatively sweeping circular 
masses of nebulae. We find they are not entirely circular, but the reverse; and that all 
around them, on every side, there are volumes of stars, stretching out apparently as if they 
were rushing towards a great central mass in consequence of the action of some great 
power." * 

* I must be understood as denying, especially, only the revolutionary portion of Madler's 
hypothesis. Of course, if no great central orb exists now in our cluster, such will exist 
hereafter. Whenever existing, it will be merely the nucleus of the consolidation. 

Were I to describe, in my own words, what must necessarily be the existing condition of 
each nebula on the hypothesis that all matter is, as I suggest, now returning to its original 
Unity, I should simply be going over, nearly verbatim, the language here employed by 
Dr. Nichol, without the faintest suspicion of that stupendous truth which is the key to 
these nebular phaenomena. 

And here let me fortify my position still farther, by the voice of a greater than Madler — 
of one, moreover, to whom all the data of Madler have long been familiar things, 
carefully and thoroughly considered. Referring to the elaborate calculations of 



Argelander — the very researches which form Madler's basis — Humboldt, whose 
generalizing powers have never, perhaps been equalled, has the following observation: 

"When we regard the real, proper, or non-perspective motions of the stars, we find many 
groups of them moving in opposite directions; and the data as yet in hand render it not 
necessary, at least, to conceive that the systems composing the Milky Way, or the 
clusters, generally, composing the Universe, are revolving about any particular centre 
unknown, whether luminous or non-luminous. It is but Man's longing for a fundamental 
First Cause, that impels both his intellect and fancy to the adoption of such an 
hypothesis." * 

* Betrachtet man die nicht perspectivischen eigenen Bewegungen der Sterne, so scheinen 
viele gruppenweise in ihrer Richtung entgegengesetzt; und die bisher gesammelten 
Thatsachen machen es auf s wenigste nicht nothwendig, anzunehmen, dass alle Theile 
unserer Sternenschicht oder gar der gesammten Sterneninseln, welche den Weltraum 
fuUen, sich um einen grossen, unbekannten, leuchtenden oder dunkeln Centralkorper 
bewegen. Das Streben nach den letzten und hochsten Grundursachen macht freilich die 
reflectirende Thatigkeit des Menschen, wie seine Phantasie, zu einer solchen Annahme 
geneigt. 

The phaenomenon here alluded to —that of "many groups moving in opposite directions" 
—is quite inexplicable by Madler's idea; but arises, as a necessary consequence, from that 
which forms the basis of this Discourse. While the merely general direction of each atom 
- of each moon, planet, star, or cluster —would, on my hypothesis, be, of course, 
absolutely rectilinear; while the general path of all bodies would be a right line leading to 
the centre of all; it is clear, nevertheless, that this general rectilinearity would be 
compounded of what, with scarcely any exaggeration, we may term an infinity of 
particular curves — an infinity of local deviations from rectilinearity — the result of 
continuous differences of relative position among the multudinous masses as each 
proceeded on its own proper journey to the End. 

I quoted, just now, from Sir John Herschel, the following words, used in reference to the 
clusters: —"On one hand, without a rotary motion and a centrifugal force, it is hardly 
possible not to regard them as in a state of progressive collapse." The fact is, that, in 
surveying the "nebulae" with a telescope of high power, we shall find it quite impossible, 
having once conceived this idea of "collapse," not to gather, at all points, corroboration of 
the idea. A nucleus is always apparent, in the direction of which the stars seem to be 
precipitating themselves; nor can these nuclei be mistaken for merely perspective 
phaenomena: —the clusters are really denser near the centre — sparser in the regions more 
remote from it. In a word, we see every thing as we should see it were a collapse taking 
place; but, in general, it may be said of these clusters, that we can fairly entertain, while 
looking at them, the idea of orbitual movement about a centre, only by admitting the 
possible existence, in the distant domains of space, of dynamical laws with which we are 
unacquainted. 



On the part of Herschel, however, there is evidently a reluctance to regard the nebulae as 
in "a state of progressive collapse." But if facts —if even appearances justify the 
supposition of their being in this state, why, it may well be demanded, is he disinclined to 
admit it? Simply on account of a prejudice; —merely because the supposition is at war 
with a preconceived and utterly baseless notion —that of the endlessness —that of the 
eternal stability of the Universe. 

If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the "state of progressive collapse" is 
precisely that state in which alone we are warranted in considering All Things; and, with 
due humility, let me here confess that, for my part, I am at a loss to conceive how any 
other understanding of the existing condition of affairs, could ever have made its way 
into the human brain. "The tendency to collapse" and "the attraction of gravitation" are 
convertible phrases. In using either, we speak of the reaction of the First Act. Never was 
necessity less obvious than that of supposing Matter imbued with an ineradicable quality 
forming part of its material nature —a quality, or instinct, forever inseparable from it, and 
by dint of which inalienable principle every atom is perpetually impelled to seek its 
fellow-atom. Never was necessity less obvious than that of entertaining this 
unphilosophical idea. Going boldly behind the vulgar thought, we have to conceive, 
metaphysically, that the gravitating principle appertains to Matter temporarily —only 
while diffused - only while existing as Many instead of as One —appertains to it by 
virtue of its state of irradiation alone —appertains, in a word, altogether to its Condition, 
and not in the slightest degree to itself. In this view, when the irradiation shall have 
returned into its source — when the reaction shall be completed —the gravitating principle 
will no longer exist. And, in fact, astronomers, without at any time reaching the idea here 
suggested, seem to have been approximating it, in the assertion that "if there were but one 
body in the Universe, it would be impossible to understand how the principle. Gravity, 
could obtain": —that is to say, from a consideration of Matter as they find it, they reach a 
conclusion at which I deductively arrive. That so pregnant a suggestion as the one quoted 
should have been permitted to remain so long unfruitful, is, nevertheless, a mystery 
which I find it difficult to fathom. 

It is, perhaps, in no little degree, however, our propensity for the continuous —for the 
analogical —in the present case more particularly for the symmetrical which has been 
leading us astray. And, in fact, the sense of the symmetrical is an instinct which may be 
depended upon with an almost blindfold reliance. It is the poetical essence of the 
Universe — OF0,0 which, in the supremeness of its symmetry, is but the most sublime of 
poems. Now symmetry and consistency are convertible terms: — thus Poetry and Truth 
are one. A thing is consistent in the ratio of its truth —true in the ratio of its consistency. 
A Perfect consistency, I repeat, can be nothing but a absolute truth. We may take it for 
granted, then, that Man cannot long or widely err, if he suffer himself to be guided by his 
poetical, which I have maintained to be his truthful, in being his symmetrical, instinct. He 
must have a care, however, lest, in pursuing too heedlessly the superficial symmetry of 
forms and motions, he leave out of sight the really essential symmetry of the principles 
which determine and control them. 



That the stellar bodies would finally be merged in one —that, at last, all would be drawn 
into the substance of one stupendous central orb already existing —is an idea which, for 
some time past, seems, vaguely and indeterminately, to have held possession of the fancy 
of mankind. It is an idea, in fact, which belongs to the class of the excessively obvious. It 
springs, instantly, from a superficial observation of the cyclic and seemingly gyrating, or 
vorticial movements of those individual portions of the Universe which come most 
immediately and most closely under our observation. There is not, perhaps, a human 
being, of ordinary education and of average reflective capacity, to whom, at some period, 
the fancy inquestion has not occurred, as if spontaneously, or intuitively, and wearing all 
the character of a very profound and very original conception. This conception, however, 
so commonly entertained, has never, within my knowledge, arisen out of any abstract 
considerations. Being, on the contrary, always suggested, as I say, by the vorticial 
movements about centres, a reason for it, also, —a cause for the ingathering of all the 
orbs into one, imagined to be already existing, was naturally sought in the same direction 
—among these cyclic movements themselves. 

Thus it happened that, on announcement of the gradual and perfectly regular decrease 
observed in the orbit of Enck's comet, at every successive revolution about our Sun, 
astronomers were nearly unanimous in the opinion that the cause in question was found - 
-that a principle was discovered sufficient to account, physically, for that final, universal 
agglomeration which, I repeat, the analogical, symmetrical or poetical instinct of Man 
had predetermined to understand as something more than a simple hypothesis. 

This cause —this sufficient reason for the final ingathering —was declared to exist in an 
exceedingly rare but still material medium pervading space; which medium, by retarding, 
in some degree, the progress of the comet, perpetually weakened its tangential force; thus 
giving a predominance to the centripetal; which, of course, drew the comet nearer and 
nearer at each revolution, and would eventually precipitate it upon the Sun. 

All this was strictly logical —admitting the medium or ether; but this ether was assumed, 
most illogically, on the ground that no other mode than the one spoken of could be 
discovered, of accounting for the observed decrease in the orbit of the comet: — as if from 
the fact that we could discover no other mode of accounting for it, it followed, in any 
respect, that no other mode of accounting for it existed. It is clear that innumerable causes 
might operate, in combination, to diminish the orbit, without even a possibility of our 
ever becoming acquainted with one of them. In the meantime, it has never been fairly 
shown, perhaps, why the retardation occasioned by the skirts of the Sun's atmosphere, 
through which the comet passes at perihelion, is not enough to account for the 
phaenomenon. That Enck's comet will be absorbed into the Sun, is probable; that all the 
comets of the system will be absorbed, is more than merely possible; but, in such case, 
the principle of absorption must be referred to eccentricity of orbit —to the close 
approximation to the Sun, of the comets at their perihelia; and is a principle not affecting, 
in any degree, the ponderous spheres, which are to be regarded as the true material 
constituents of the Universe. — Touching comets, in general, let me here suggest, in 
passing, that we cannot be far wrong in looking upon them as the lightning-flashes of the 
cosmical Heaven. 



The idea of a retarding ether and, through it, of a final agglomeration of all things, 
seemed at one time, however, to be confirmed by the observation of a positive decrease 
in the orbit of the solid moon. By reference to eclipses recorded 2500 years ago, it was 
found that the velocity of the satellite's revolution then was considerably less than it is 
now; that on the hypothesis that its motions in its orbit is uniformly in accordance with 
Kepler's law, and was accurately determined then —2500 years ago —it is now in 
advance of the position it should occupy, by nearly 9000 miles. The increase of velocity 
proved, of course, a diminution of orbit; and astronomers were fast yielding to a belief in 
an ether, as the sole mode of accounting for the phaenomenon, when Lagrange came to 
the rescue. He showed that, owing to the configurations of the spheroids, the shorter axes 
of their ellipses are subject to variation in length; the longer axes being permanent; and 
that this variation is continuous and vibratory —so that every orbit is in a state of 
transition, either from circle to ellipse, or from ellipse to circle. In the case of the moon, 
where the shorter axis is de creasing, the orbit is passing from circle to ellipse, and, 
consequently, is de creasing too; but, after a long series of ages, the ultimate eccentricity 
will be attained; then the shorter axis will proceed to in crease, until the orbit becomes a 
circle; when the process of shortening will again take place; —and so on forever. In the 
case of the Earth, the orbit is passing from ellipse to circle. The facts thus demonstrated 
do away, of course, with all necessity for supposing an ether, and with all apprehension 
of the system's instability —on the ether's account. 

It will be remembered that I have myself assumed what we may term an ether. I have 
spoken of a subtle influence which we know to be ever in attendance upon matter, 
although becoming manifest only through matter's heterogeneity. To this influence — 
without daring to touch it at all in any effort at explaining its awful nature —I have 
referred the various phaenomena of electricity, heat, light, magnetism; and more — of 
vitality, consciousness, and thought —in a word, of spirituality. It will be seen, at once, 
then, that the ether thus conceived is radically distinct from the ether of the astronomers; 
inasmuch as theirs is matter and mine not. 

With the idea of material ether, seems, thus, to have departed altogether the thought of 
that universal agglomeration so long predetermined by the poetical fancy of mankind: — 
an agglomeration in which a sound Philosophy might have been warranted in putting 
faith, at least to a certain extent, if for no other reason than that by this poetical fancy it 
had been so predetermined. But so far as Astronomy —so far as mere Physics have yet 
spoken, the cycles of the Universe are perpetual — the Universe has no conceivable end. 
Had an end been demonstrated, however, from so purely collateral a cause as an ether, 
Man's instinct of the Divine capacity to adapt, would have rebelled against the 
demonstration. We should have been forced to regard the Universe with some such sense 
of dissatisfaction as we experience in contemplating an unnecessarily complex work of 
human art. Creation would have affected us as an imperfect PLO, in a romance, where the 
denoument is awkwardly brought about by interposed incidents external and foreign to 
the main subject; instead of springing out of the bosom of the thesis —out of the heart of 
the ruling idea —instead of arising as a result of the primary proposition —as inseparable 
and inevitable part and parcel of the fundamental conception of the book. 



What I mean by the symmetry of mere surface — will now be more clearly understood. It 
is simply by the blandishment of this symmetry that we have been beguiled into the 
general idea of which Madler's hypothesis is but a part —the idea of the vorticial 
indrawing of the orbs. Dismissing this nakedly physical conception, the symmetry of 
principle sees the end of all things metaphysically involved in the thought of a beginning; 
seeks and finds in this origin of all things the rudiment of this end; and perceives the 
impiety of supposing this end likely to be brought about less simply —less directly —less 
obviously —less artistically —than through the reaction of the originating Act. 

Recurring, then, to a previous suggestion, let us understand the systems —let us 
understand each star, with its attendant planets —as but a Titanic atom existing in space 
with precisely the same inclination for Unity which characterized, in the beginning, the 
actual atoms after their irradiation throughout the Universal sphere. As these original 
atoms rushed towards each other in generally straight lines, so let us conceive as at least 
generally rectilinear, the paths of the system-atoms towards their respective centres of 
aggregation: —and in this direct drawing together of the systems into clusters, with a 
similar and simultaneous drawing together of the clusters themselves while undergoing 
consolidation, we have at length attained the great Now —the awful Present —the 
Existing Condition of the Universe. 

Of the still more awful Future a not irrational analogy may guide us in framing an 
hypothesis. The equilibrium between the centripetal and centrifugal forces of each 
system, being necessarily destroyed upon attainment of a certain proximity to the nucleus 
of the cluster to which it belongs, there must occur, at once, a chaotic or seemingly 
chaotic precipitation, of the moons upon the planets, of the planets upon the suns, and of 
the suns upon the nuclei; and the general result of this precipitation must be the gathering 
of the myriad now-existing stars of the firmament into an almost infinitely less number of 
almost infinitely superior spheres. In being immeasurably fewer, the worlds of that day 
will be immeasurably greater than our own. Then, indeed, amid unfathomable abysses, 
will be glaring unimaginable suns. But all this will be merely a climacic magnificence 
foreboding the great End. Of this End the new genesis described, can be but a very partial 
postponement. While undergoing consolidation, the clusters themselves, with a speed 
prodigiously accumulative, have been rushing towards their own general centre —and 
now, with a thousandfold electric velocity, commensurate only with their material 
grandeur and with the spiritual passion of their appetite for oneness, the majestic 
remnants of the tribe of Stars flash, at length, into a common embrace. The inevitable 
catastrophe is at hand. 

But this catastrophe —what is it? We have seen accomplished the ingathering of the orbs. 
Henceforward, are we not to understand one material globe of globes as constituting and 
comprehending the Universe? Such a fancy would be altogether at war with every 
assumption and consideration of this Discourse. 

I have already alluded to that absolute reciprocity of adaptation which is the idiosyncrasy 
of the divine Art — stamping it divine. Up to this point of our reflections, we have been 
regarding the electrical influence as a something by dint of whose repulsion alone Matter 



is enabled to exist in that state of diffusion demanded for the fulfilment of its purposes: — 
so far, in a word, we have been considering the influence in question as ordained for 
Matter's sake — to subserve the objects of matter. With a perfectly legitimate reciprocity, 
we are now permitted to look at Matter, as created solely for the sake of this influence — 
solely to serve the objects of this spiritual Ether. Through the aid —by the means — 
through the agency of Matter, and by dint of its heterogeneity —is this Ether manifested - 
-is Spirit individualized. It is merely in the development of this Ether, through 
heterogeneity, that particular masses of Matter become animate —sensitive —and in the 
ratio of their heterogeneity; —some reaching a degree of sensitiveness involving what we 
call Thought and thus attaining Conscious Intelligence. 

In this view, we are enabled to perceive Matter as a Means —not as an End. Its purposes 
are thus seen to have been comprehended in its diffusion; and with the return into Unity 
these purposes cease. The absolutely consolidated globe of globes would be objectless: — 
therefore not for a moment could it continue to exist. Matter, created for an end, would 
unquestionably, on fulfilment of that end, be Matter no longer. Let us endeavor to 
understand that it would disappear, and that God would remain all in all. 

That every work of Divine conception must coexist and coexpire with its particular 
design, seems to me especially obvious; and I make no doubt that, on perceiving the final 
globe of globes to be objectless, the majority of my readers will be satisfied with my 
"therefore it cannot continue to exist." Nevertheless, as the startling thought of its 
instantaneous disappearance is one which the most powerful intellect cannot be expected 
readily to entertain on grounds so decidedly abstract, let us endeavor to look at the idea 
from some other and more ordinary point of view: — let us see how thoroughly and 
beautifully it is corroborated in an a posteriori consideration of Matter as we actually find 
it. 

I have before said that "Attraction and Repulsion being undeniably the sole properties by 
which Matter is manifested to Mind, we are justified in assuming that Matter exists only 
as Attraction and Repulsion —in other words that Attraction and Repulsion are Matter; 
there being no conceivable case in which we may not employ the term Matter and the 
terms 'Attraction' and 'Repulsion' taken together, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, 
expressions of Logic." * 

* See previous paragraph, "Discarding now the two equivocal terms..." 

Now the very definition of Attraction implies particularity — the existence of parts, 
particles, or atoms; for we define it as the tendency of "each atom &c. to every other 
atom," &c. according to a certain law. Of course where there are no parts — where there is 
absolute Unity — where the tendency to oneness is satisfied —there can be no Attraction: - 
-this has been fully shown, and all Philosophy admits it. When, on fulfilment of its 
purposes, then. Matter shall have returned into its original condition of One —a condition 
which presupposes the expulsion of the separative ether, whose province and whose 
capacity are limited to keeping the atoms apart until that great day when, this ether being 
no longer needed, the overwhelming pressure of the finally collective Attraction shall at 



length just sufficiently predominate * and expel it: —when, I say, Matter, finally, 
expelling the Ether, shall have returned into absolute Unity, —it will then (to speak 
paradoxically for the moment) be Matter without Attraction and without Repulsion —in 
other words. Matter without Matter —in other words, again. Matter no more. In sinking 
into Unity, it will sink at once into that Nothingness which, to all Finite Perception, Unity 
must be — into that Material Nihility from which alone we can conceive it to have been 
evoked — to have been created by the Volition of God. 

* "Gravity, therefore, must be the strongest of forces." See previous section, "Now, 
although the philosophic cannot be said to..." 

I repeat then — Let us endeavor to comprehend that the final globe of globes will 
instantaneously disappear, and that God will remain all in all. 

But are we here to pause? Not so. On the Universal agglomeration and dissolution, we 
can readily conceive that a new and perhaps totally different series of conditions may 
ensue — another creation and irradiation, returning into itself —another action and 
reaction of the Divine Will. Guiding our imaginations by that omniprevalent law of laws, 
the law of periodicity, are we not, indeed, more than justified in entertaining a belief — let 
us say, rather, in indulging a hope —that the processes we have here ventured to 
contemplate will be renewed forever, and forever, and forever; a novel Universe swelling 
into existence, and then subsiding into nothingness, at every throb of the Heart Divine? 

And now —this Heart Divine —what is it? It is our own. 

Let not the merely seeming irreverence of this idea frighten our souls from that cool 
exercise of consciousness — from that deep tranquillity of self-inspection —through which 
alone we can hope to attain the presence of this, the most sublime of truths, and look it 
leisurely in the face. 

The phaenomena on which our conclusions must at this point depend, are merely spiritual 
shadows, but not the less thoroughly substantial. 

We walk about, amid the destinies of our world-existence, encompassed by dim but ever 
present Memories of a Destiny more vast — very distant in the bygone time, and infinitely 
awful. 

We live out a Youth peculiarly haunted by such dreams; yet never mistaking them for 
dreams. As Memories we know them. During our Youth the distinction is too clear to 
deceive us even for a moment. 

So long as this Youth endures, the feeling that we exist, is the most natural of all feelings. 
We understand it thoroughly. That there was a period at which we did not exist —or, that 
it might so have happened that we never had existed at all —are the considerations, 
indeed, which during this youth, we find difficulty in understanding. Why we should not 
exist, is, up to the epoch of Manhood, of all queries the most unanswerable. Existence — 



self-existence — existence from all Time and to all Eternity — seems, up to the epoch of 
Manhood, a normal and unquestionable condition: — seems, because it is. 

But now comes the period at which a conventional World-Reason awakens us from the 
truth of our dream. Doubt, Surprise and Incomprehensibility arrive at the same moment. 
They say: — "You live and the time was when you lived not. You have been created. An 
Intelligence exists greater than your own; and it is only through this Intelligence you live 
at all." These things we struggle to comprehend and cannot: —cannot, because these 
things, being untrue, are thus, of necessity, incomprehensible. 

No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life of thought, has not felt 
himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts at understanding, or believing, that anything 
exists greater than his own soul. The utter impossibility of any one's soul feeling itself 
inferior to another; the intense, overwhelming dissatisfaction and rebellion at the thought; 
—these, with the omniprevalent aspirations at perfection, are but the spiritual, coincident 
with the material, struggles towards the original Unity —are, to my mind at least, a 
species of proof far surpassing what Man terms demonstration, that no one soul is inferior 
to another —that nothing is, or can be, superior to any one soul —that each soul is, in part, 
its own God —its own Creator: —in a word, that God —the material and spiritual God - 
now exists solely in the diffused Matter and Spirit of the Universe; and that the 
regathering of this diffused Matter and Spirit will be but the re-constitution of the purely 
Spiritual and Individual God. 

In this view, and in this view alone, we comprehend the riddles of Divine Injustice — of 
Inexorable Fate. In this view alone the existence of Evil becomes intelligible; but in this 
view it becomes more —it becomes endurable. Our souls no longer rebel at a Sorrow 
which we ourselves have imposed upon ourselves, in furtherance of our own purposes — 
with a view — if even with a futile view —to the extension of our own Joy. 

I have spoken of Memories that haunt us during our youth. They sometimes pursue us 
even in our Manhood: —assume gradually less and less indefinite shapes: —now and then 
speak to us with low voices, saying: 

"There was an epoch in the Night of Time, when a still-existent Being existed — one of an 
absolutely infinite number of similar Beings that people the absolutely infinite domains 
of the absolutely infinite space. * 

* See previous paragraph, 'I reply that the "right," in a case such as this...' 

It was not and is not in the power of this Being —any more than it is in your own —to 
extend, by actual increase, the joy of his Existence; but just as it is in your power to 
expand or to concentrate your pleasures (the absolute amount of happiness remaining 
always the same) so did and does a similar capability appertain to this Divine Being, who 
thus passes his Eternity in perpetual variation of Concentrated Self and almost Infinite 
Self-Diffusion. What you call The Universe is but his present expansive existence. He 
now feels his life through an infinity of imperfect pleasures —the partial and pain- 



intertangled pleasures of those inconceivably numerous things which you designate as his 
creatures, but which are really but infinite individualizations of Himself. All these 
creatures - those which you term animate, as well as those to whom you deny life for no 
better reason than that you do not behold it in operation - these creatures have, in a 
greater or less degree, a capacity for pleasure and for pain: —but the general sum of their 
sensations is precisely that amount of Happiness which appertains by right to the Divine 
Being when concentrated within Himself. These creatures are all too, more or less 
conscious Intelligences; conscious, first, of a proper identity; conscious, secondly and by 
faint indeterminate glimpses, of an identity with the Divine Being of whom we speak — 
of an identity with God. Of the two classes of consciousness, fancy that the former will 
grow weaker, the latter stronger, during the long succession of ages which must elapse 
before these myriads of individual Intelligences become blended — when the bright stars 
become blended — into One. Think that the sense of individual identity will be gradually 
merged in the general consciousness — that Man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to 
feel himself Man, will at length attain that awfully triumphant epoch when he shall 
recognize his existence as that of Jehovah. In the meantime bear in mind that all is Life — 
Life — Life within Life —the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit Divine. 

THE END 



EVENING STAR 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



'Twas noontide of summer, 

And mid-time of night; 

And stars, in their orbits. 

Shone pale, thro' the light 

Of the brighter, cold moon, 

'Mid planets her slaves. 

Herself in the Heavens, 

Her beam on the waves. 

I gazed awhile 

On her cold smile; 

Too cold-too cold for me- 

There pass'd, as a shroud, 

A fleecy cloud. 

And I turned away to thee. 

Proud Evening Star, 

In thy glory afar. 

And dearer thy beam shall be; 

For joy to my heart 

Is the proud part 

Thou bearest in Heaven at night. 

And more I admire 

Thy distant fire. 

Than that colder, lowly light. 

THE END 



FAIRY-LAND 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1829 



Dim vales-and shadowy floods- 
And cloudy-looking woods, 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that drip all over! 
Huge moons there wax and wane- 
Again-again-again- 
Every moment of the night- 
Forever changing places- 
And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial, 
One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial. 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down-still down-and down. 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain's eminence. 
While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, over halls. 
Wherever they may be- 
O'er the strange woods-o'er the sea- 
Over spirits on the wing- 
Over every drowsy thing- 
And buries them up quite 
In a labyrinth of light- 
And then, how deep!-0, deep! 
Is the passion of their sleep. 
In the morning they arise. 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies. 
With the tempests as they toss. 
Like-almost anything- 
Or a yellow Albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before- 
Videlicet, a tent- 
Which I think extravagant: 



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

THE END 



FOR ANNIE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1849 



Thank Heaven! the crisis- 

The danger is past, 

And the lingering illness 

Is over at last- 

And the fever called "Living" 

Is conquered at last. 

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

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

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

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

And oh! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 
Has abated-the terrible 



Torture of thirst 
For the naphthahne river 
Of Passion accurst: - 
I have drunk of a water 
That quenches all thirst: - 

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

And ah! let it never 

Be foolishly said 

That my room it is gloomy 

And narrow my bed; 

For man never slept 

In a different bed- 

And, to sleep, you must slumber 

In just such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes. 
Forgetting, or never 
Regretting its roses- 
Its old agitations 
Of myrtles and roses: 

For now, while so quietly 
Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 
About it, of pansies- 
A rosemary odor. 
Commingled with pansies- 
With rue and the beautiful 
Puritan pansies. 

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



She tenderly kissed me, 
She fondly caressed, 
And then I fell gently 
To sleep on her breast- 
Deeply to sleep 
From the heaven of her breast. 

When the light was extinguished. 
She covered me warm. 
And she prayed to the angels 
To keep me from harm- 
To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 

And I lie so composedly, 
Now, in my bed, 
(Knowing her love) 
That you fancy me dead- 
And I rest so contentedly. 
Now, in my bed, 
(With her love at my breast) 
That you fancy me dead- 
That you shudder to look at me. 
Thinking me dead. 

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

THE END 



FOUR BEASTS IN ONE-THE HOMO 
CAMELEOPARD 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Chacun a ses vertus. 
CREBILLON'S Xerxes. 

ANTIOCHUS EPIPHANES is very generally looked upon as the Gog of the prophet 
Ezekiel. This honor is, however, more properly attributable to Cambyses, the son of 
Cyrus. And, indeed, the character of the Syrian monarch does by no means stand in need 
of any adventitious embellishment. His accession to the throne, or rather his usurpation of 
the sovereignty, a hundred and seventy-one years before the coming of Christ; his attempt 
to plunder the temple of Diana at Ephesus; his implacable hostility to the Jews; his 
pollution of the Holy of Holies; and his miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign 
of eleven years, are circumstances of a prominent kind, and therefore more generally 
noticed by the historians of his time than the impious, dastardly, cruel, silly, and 
whimsical achievements which make up the sum total of his private life and reputation. 

Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the year of the world three thousand eight 
hundred and thirty, and let us, for a few minutes, imagine ourselves at that most 
grotesque habitation of man, the remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were, in 
Syria and other countries, sixteen cities of that appellation, besides the one to which I 
more particularly allude. But ours is that which went by the name of Antiochia 
Epidaphne, from its vicinity to the little village of Daphne, where stood a temple to that 
divinity. It was built (although about this matter there is some dispute) by Seleucus 
Nicanor, the first king of the country after Alexander the Great, in memory of his father 
Antiochus, and became immediately the residence of the Syrian monarchy. In the 
flourishing times of the Roman Empire, it was the ordinary station of the prefect of the 
eastern provinces; and many of the emperors of the queen city (among whom may be 
mentioned, especially, Verus and Valens) spent here the greater part of their time. But I 
perceive we have arrived at the city itself. Let us ascend this battlement, and throw our 
eyes upon the town and neighboring country. 

"What broad and rapid river is that which forces its way, with innumerable falls, through 
the mountainous wilderness, and finally through the wilderness of buildings?" 

That is the Orontes, and it is the only water in sight, with the exception of the 
Mediterranean, which stretches, like a broad mirror, about twelve miles off to the 
southward. Every one has seen the Mediterranean; but let me tell you, there are few who 
have had a peep at Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, like you and me, have had, at the 



same time, the advantages of a modern education. Therefore cease to regard that sea, and 
give your whole attention to the mass of houses that lie beneath us. You will remember 
that it is now the year of the world three thousand eight hundred and thirty. Were it later- 
for example, were it the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five, we should be 
deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the nineteenth century Antioch is-that is to 
say, Antioch will be- in a lamentable state of decay. It will have been, by that time, 
totally destroyed, at three different periods, by three successive earthquakes. Indeed, to 
say the truth, what little of its former self may then remain, will be found in so desolate 
and ruinous a state that the patriarch shall have removed his residence to Damascus. This 
is well. I see you profit by my advice, and are making the most of your time in inspecting 
the premises-in 

-satisfying your eyes 

With the memorials and the things of fame 

That most renown this city.- 

I beg pardon; I had forgotten that Shakespeare will not flourish for seventeen hundred 
and fifty years to come. But does not the appearance of Epidaphne justify me in calling it 
grotesque? 

"It is well fortified; and in this respect is as much indebted to nature as to art." 

Very true. 

"There are a prodigious number of stately palaces." 

There are. 

"And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent, may bear comparison with the 
most lauded of antiquity." 

All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an infinity of mud huts, and abominable hovels. 
We cannot help perceiving abundance of filth in every kennel, and, were it not for the 
over-powering fumes of idolatrous incense, I have no doubt we should find a most 
intolerable stench. Did you ever behold streets so insufferably narrow, or houses so 
miraculously tall? What gloom their shadows cast upon the ground! It is well the 
swinging lamps in those endless colonnades are kept burning throughout the day; we 
should otherwise have the darkness of Egypt in the time of her desolation. 

"It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning of yonder singular building? See! it 
towers above all others, and lies to the eastward of what I take to be the royal palace." 

That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored in Syria under the title of Elah 
Gabalah. Hereafter a very notorious Roman Emperor will institute this worship in Rome, 
and thence derive a cognomen, Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like to take a peep at 
the divinity of the temple. You need not look up at the heavens; his Sunship is not there- 



at least not the Sunship adored by the Syrians. That deity will be found in the interior of 
yonder building. He is worshipped under the figure of a large stone pillar terminating at 
the summit in a cone or pyramid, whereby is denoted Fire. 

"Hark-behold!-who can those ridiculous beings be, half naked, with their faces painted, 
shouting and gesticulating to the rabble?" 

Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong to the race of philosophers. 
The greatest portion, however-those especially who belabor the populace with clubs-are 
the principal courtiers of the palace, executing as in duty bound, some laudable 
comicality of the king's. 

"But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming with wild beasts! How terrible a 
spectacle !-how dangerous a peculiarity!" 

Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous. Each animal if you will take 
the pains to observe, is following, very quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be 
sure, are led with a rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the lesser or timid species. 
The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are entirely without restraint. They have been trained 
without difficulty to their present profession, and attend upon their respective owners in 
the capacity of valets-de-chambre. It is true, there are occasions when Nature asserts her 
violated dominions;-but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the throttling of a 
consecrated bull, is a circumstance of too little moment to be more than hinted at in 
Epidaphne. 

"But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a loud noise even for Antioch! It 
argues some commotion of unusual interest." 

Yes-undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle-some gladiatorial 
exhibition at the hippodrome-or perhaps the massacre of the Scythian prisoners-or the 
conflagration of his new palace- or the tearing down of a handsome temple-or, indeed, a 
bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter ascend the skies. The air 
becomes dissonant with wind instruments, and horrible with clamor of a million throats. 
Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is going on! This way-be careful! Here 
we are in the principal street, which is called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is 
coming this way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They are pouring 
through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly from the palace ;-therefore the king 
is most probably among the rioters. Yes;-I hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his 
approach in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall have a glimpse of his person 
as he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves in the vestibule of the 
sanctuary; he will be here anon. In the meantime let us survey this image. What is it? Oh! 
it is the god Ashimah in proper person. You perceive, however, that he is neither a lamb, 
nor a goat, nor a satyr, neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet 
all these appearances have been given-I beg pardon-will be given-by the learned of 
future ages, to the Ashimah of the Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. 
What is it? 



"Bless me! it is an ape!" 

True-a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a derivation of the Greek 
Simia-what great fools are antiquarians! But see!-see!-yonder scampers a ragged little 
urchin. Where is he going? What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says the 
king is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that he has just finished putting to 
death, with his own hand, a thousand chained Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the 
ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies. Hark! here comes a troop of a similar description. 
They have made a Latin hymn upon the valor of the king, and are singing it as they go: 

Mille, mille, mille, 

Mille, mille, mille, 

DecoUavimus, unus homo! 

Mille, mille, mille, mille, decoUavimus! 

Mille, mille, mille, 

Vivat qui mille mille occidit! 

Tantum vini habet nemo 

Quantum sanguinis effudit!* 

Which may be thus paraphrased: 

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, 

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand. 

We, with one warrior, have slain! 

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand. 

Sing a thousand over again! 

Soho!-let us sing 

Long life to our king. 

Who knocked over a thousand so fine! 

Soho!-letusroar, 

He has given us more 

Red gallons of gore 

Than all Syria can furnish of wine! 

* Flavins Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was sung by the rabble upon the 
occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred 
and fifty of the enemy. 

"Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?" 

Yes: the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with admiration, and lift up their eyes 
to the heavens in reverence. He comes;-he is coming;-there he is! 

"Who?-where?-the king?-do not behold him-cannot say that I perceive him." 

Then you must be blind. 



"Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of idiots and madmen, who are 
busy in prostrating themselves before a gigantic cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain 
a kiss of the animal's hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the rabble over- 
and another-and another-and another. Indeed, I cannot help admiring the animal for the 
excellent use he is making of his feet." 

Rabble, indeed !-why these are the noble and free citizens of Epidaphne! Beasts, did you 
say?-take care that you are not overheard. Do you not perceive that the animal has the 
visage of a man? Why, my dear sir, that cameleopard is no other than Antiochus 
Epiphanes, Antiochus the Illustrious, King of Syria, and the most potent of all the 
autocrats of the East! It is true, that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus Epimanes- 
Antiochus the madman-but that is because all people have not the capacity to appreciate 
his merits. It is also certain that he is at present ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is 
doing his best to play the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better sustaining 
his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of gigantic stature, and the dress is therefore 
neither unbecoming nor over large. We may, however, presume he would not have 
adopted it but for some occasion of especial state. Such, you will allow, is the massacre 
of a thousand Jews. With how superior a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours! 
His tail, you perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines, EUine and Argelais; 
and his whole appearance would be infinitely prepossessing, were it not for the 
protuberance of his eyes, which will certainly start out of his head, and the queer color of 
his face, which has become nondescript from the quantity of wine he has swallowed. Let 
us follow him to the hippodrome, whither he is proceeding, and listen to the song of 
triumph which he is commencing: 

Who is king but Epiphanes? 

Say-do you know? 

Who is king but Epiphanes? 

Bravo !-bravo! 

There is none but Epiphanes, 

No-there is none: 

So tear down the temples. 

And put out the sun! 

Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him 'Prince of Poets,' as well as 
'Glory of the East,' 'Delight of the Universe,' and 'Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.' 
They have encored his effusion, and do you hear?-he is singing it over again. When he 
arrives at the hippodrome, he will be crowned with the poetic wreath, in anticipation of 
his victory at the approaching Olympics. 

"But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?" 

Behind us, did you say?-oh! ah!-I perceive. My friend, it is well that you spoke in time. 
Let us get into a place of safety as soon as possible. Here!-let us conceal ourselves in the 
arch of this aqueduct, and I will inform you presently of the origin of the commotion. It 
has turned out as I have been anticipating. The singular appearance of the cameleopard 



and the head of a man, has, it seems, given offence to the notions of propriety entertained, 
in general, by the wild animals domesticated in the city. A mutiny has been the result; 
and, as is usual upon such occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling the 
mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the general voice of the 
four-footed patriots seems to be for eating up the cameleopard. 'The Prince of Poets,' 
therefore, is upon his hinder legs, running for his life. His courtiers have left him in the 
lurch, and his concubines have followed so excellent an example. 'Delight of the 
Universe,' thou art in a sad predicament! 'Glory of the East,' thou art in danger of 
mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail; it will undoubtedly be draggled 
in the mud, and for this there is no help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable 
degradation; but take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the hippodrome! 
Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus the Illustrious !-also 'Prince of 
Poets,' 'Glory of the East,' 'Delight of the Universe,' and 'Most Remarkable of 
Cameleopards!' Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! What a capacity for 
leg-bail thou art developing! Run, Prince !-Bravo, Epiphanes! Well done, Cameleopard !- 
Glorious Antiochus !-He runs!-he leaps !-he flies! Like an arrow from a catapult he 
approaches the hippodrome! He leaps !-he shrieks !-he is there! This is well; for hadst 
thou, 'Glory of the East,' been half a second longer in reaching the gates of the 
Amphitheatre, there is not a bear's cub in Epidaphne that would not have had a nibble at 
thy carcase. Let us be off-let us take our departure !-for we shall find our delicate modem 
ears unable to endure the vast uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the 
king's escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!-the whole town is topsy-turvy. 

"Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a wilderness of people! what a 
jumble of all ranks and ages! what a multiplicity of sects and nations! what a variety of 
costumes! what a Babel of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a tinkling of 
instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!" 

Come let us be off. 

"Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is the meaning of it, I 
beseech you?" 

That?-oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne being, as they declare, well 
satisfied of the faith, valor, wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, 
been eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more than their duty to 
invest his brows (in addition to the poetic crown) with the wreath of victory in the 
footrace-a wreath which it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next 
Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance. 

THE END 



HANS PHAALL 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



There is, strictly speaking, but little similarity between this sketchy trifle and the very 
celebrated and very beautiful "Moon-story" of Mr. Locke-but as both have the character 
of hoaxes, (although one is in the tone of banter, the other of downright earnest) and as 
both hoaxes are on the same subject, the moon-the author of "Hans Phaall" thinks it 
necessary to say, in self-defence, that his own jeu-d'esprit was published, in the Southern 
Literary Messenger, about three weeks previously to the appearance of Mr. L's in the 
New York "Sun." Fancying a similarity which does not really exist, some of the New 
York papers copied "Hans Phaall," and collated it with the Hoax- with the view of 
detecting the writer of the one in the writer of the other. 

By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical 
excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a nature so completely 
unexpected-so entirely novel-so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions-as to 
leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in a 
ferment, all reason and astronomy together by the ears, date), a vast crowd of people, for 
purposes not specifically mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange 
in the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was warm-unusually so for the 
season-there was hardly a breath of air stirring; and the multitude were in no bad humor 
at being now and then besprinkled with friendly showers of momentary duration, that fell 
from large white masses of cloud which chequered in a fitful manner the blue vault of the 
firmament. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation became apparent 
in the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues succeeded; and, in an instant 
afterward, ten thousand faces were upturned toward the heavens, ten thousand pipes 
descended simultaneously from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which 
could be compared to nothing but the roaring of Niagara, resounded long, loudly, and 
furiously, through all the environs of Rotterdam. 

The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From behind the huge bulk 
of one of those sharply-defined masses of cloud already mentioned, was seen slowly to 
emerge into an open area of blue space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid 
substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsically put together, as not to be in any manner 
comprehended, and never to be sufficiently admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who 
stood open-mouthed below. What could it be? In the name of all the vrows and devils in 
Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one knew, no one could imagine; no one- 
not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk-had the slightest clew by 
which to unravel the mystery; so, as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one to 
a man replaced his pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth, and cocking up his right eye 



towards the phenomenon, puffed, paused, waddled about, and grunted significantly- then 
waddled back, grunted, paused, and finally-puffed again. 

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward the goodly city, came the object 
of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived 
near enough to be accurately discerned. It appeared to be-yes! it was undoubtedly a 
species of balloon; but surely no such balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam before. 
For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon manufactured entirely of dirty newspapers? 
No man in Holland certainly; yet here, under the very noses of the people, or rather at 
some distance above their noses was the identical thing in question, and composed, I have 
it on the best authority, of the precise material which no one had ever before known to be 
used for a similar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the good sense of the burghers of 
Rotterdam. As to the shape of the phenomenon, it was even still more reprehensible. 
Being little or nothing better than a huge foolscap turned upside down. And this 
similitude was regarded as by no means lessened when, upon nearer inspection, there was 
perceived a large tassel depending from its apex, and, around the upper rim or base of the 
cone, a circle of little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a continual 
tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse. Suspended by blue ribbons to the end 
of this fantastic machine, there hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver bat, with a 
brim superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a silver 
buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable that many citizens of Rotterdam swore to 
having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed the whole assembly seemed to 
regard it with eyes of familiarity; while the vrow Grettel Phaall, upon sight of it, uttered 
an exclamation of joyful surprise, and declared it to be the identical hat of her good man 
himself. Now this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Phaall, with three 
companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about five years before, in a very 
sudden and unaccountable manner, and up to the date of this narrative all attempts had 
failed of obtaining any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. To be sure, some bones 
which were thought to be human, mixed up with a quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had 
been lately discovered in a retired situation to the east of Rotterdam, and some people 
went so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been committed, and that the 
sufferers were in all probability Hans Phaall and his associates. But to return. 

The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended to within a hundred feet of the 
earth, allowing the crowd below a sufficiently distinct view of the person of its occupant. 
This was in truth a very droll little somebody. He could not have been more than two feet 
in height; but this altitude, little as it was, would have been sufficient to destroy his 
equilibrium, and tilt him over the edge of his tiny car, but for the intervention of a 
circular rim reaching as high as the breast, and rigged on to the cords of the balloon. The 
body of the little man was more than proportionately broad, giving to his entire figure a 
rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen at all, although a horny 
substance of suspicious nature was occasionally protruded through a rent in the bottom of 
the car, or to speak more properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were enormously large. 
His hair was extremely gray, and collected in a cue behind. His nose was prodigiously 
long, crooked, and inflammatory; his eyes full, brilliant, and acute; his chin and cheeks, 
although wrinkled with age, were broad, puffy, and double; but of ears of any kind or 



character there was not a semblance to be discovered upon any portion of his head. This 
odd little gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout of sky-blue satin, with tight breeches 
to match, fastened with silver buckles at the knees. His vest was of some bright yellow 
material; a white taffety cap was set jauntily on one side of his head; and, to complete his 
equipment, a blood-red silk handkerchief enveloped his throat, and fell down, in a dainty 
manner, upon his bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions. 

Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet from the surface of the 
earth, the little old gentleman was suddenly seized with a fit of trepidation, and appeared 
disinclined to make any nearer approach to terra firma. Throwing out, therefore, a 
quantity of sand from a canvas bag, which, he lifted with great difficulty, he became 
stationary in an instant. He then proceeded, in a hurried and agitated manner, to extract 
from a side-pocket in his surtout a large morocco pocket-book. This he poised 
suspiciously in his hand, then eyed it with an air of extreme surprise, and was evidently 
astonished at its weight. He at length opened it, and drawing there from a huge letter 
sealed with red sealing-wax and tied carefully with red tape, let it fall precisely at the feet 
of the burgomaster, Superbus Von Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it up. But 
the aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no farther business to 
detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment to make busy preparations for departure; 
and it being necessary to discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the half 
dozen bags which he threw out, one after another, without taking the trouble to empty 
their contents, tumbled, every one of them, most unfortunately upon the back of the 
burgomaster, and rolled him over and over no less than one-and-twenty times, in the face 
of every man in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed, however, that the great Underduk 
suffered this impertinence on the part of the little old man to pass off with impunity. It is 
said, on the contrary, that during each and every one of his one-and twenty 
circumvolutions he emitted no less than one-and-twenty distinct and furious whiffs from 
his pipe, to which he held fast the whole time with all his might, and to which he intends 
holding fast until the day of his death. 

In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far away above the city, at 
length drifted quietly behind a cloud similar to that from which it had so oddly emerged, 
and was thus lost forever to the wondering eyes of the good citiezns of Rotterdam. All 
attention was now directed to the letter, the descent of which, and the consequences 
attending thereupon, had proved so fatally subversive of both person and personal dignity 
to his Excellency, the illustrious Burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk. That 
functionary, however, had not failed, during his circumgyratory movements, to bestow a 
thought upon the important subject of securing the packet in question, which was seen, 
upon inspection, to have f Allan into the most proper hands, being actually addressed to 
himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, in their official capacities of President and Vice- 
President of the Rotterdam College of Astronomy. It was accordingly opened by those 
dignitaries upon the spot, and found to contain the following extraordinary, and indeed 
very serious, communications. 

To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, President and Vice-President of the 
States' College of Astronomers, in the city of Rotterdam. 



Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble artizan, by name Hans 
Phaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows, who, with three others, disappeared from 
Rotterdam, about five years ago, in a manner which must have been considered by all 
parties at once sudden, and extremely unaccountable. If, however, it so please your 
Excellencies, I, the writer of this communication, am the identical Hans Phaall himself. It 
is well known to most of my fellow citizens, that for the period of forty years I continued 
to occupy the little square brick building, at the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, in 
which I resided at the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have also resided therein 
time out of mind-they, as well as myself, steadily following the respectable and indeed 
lucrative profession of mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late years, that 
the heads of all the people have been set agog with politics, no better business than my 
own could an honest citizen of Rotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good, 
employment was never wanting, and on all hands there was no lack of either money or 
good-will. But, as I was saying, we soon began to feel the effects of liberty and long 
speeches, and radicalism, and all that sort of thing. People who were formerly, the very 
best customers in the world, had now not a moment of time to think of us at all. They 
had, so they said, as much as they could do to read about the revolutions, and keep up 
with the march of intellect and the spirit of the age. If a fire wanted fanning, it could 
readily be fanned with a newspaper, and as the government grew weaker, I have no doubt 
that leather and iron acquired durability in proportion, for, in a very short time, there was 
not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need of a stitch or required the 
assistance of a hammer. This was a state of things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor 
as a rat, and, having a wife and children to provide for, my burdens at length became 
intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting upon the most convenient method of 
putting an end to my life. Duns, in the meantime, left me little leisure for contemplation. 
My house was literally besieged from morning till night, so that I began to rave, and 
foam, and fret like a caged tiger against the bars of his enclosure. There were three 
fellows in particular who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about 
my door, and threatening me with the law. Upon these three I internally vowed the 
bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so happy as to get them within my clutches; and I 
believe nothing in the world but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from 
putting my plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing my brains out with a 
blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to dissemble my wrath, and to treat them with 
promises and fair words, until, by some good turn of fate, an opportunity of vengeance 
should be afforded me. 

One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling more than usually dejected, I 
continued for a long time to wander about the most obscure streets without object 
whatever, until at length I chanced to stumble against the corner of a bookseller's stall. 
Seeing a chair close at hand, for the use of customers, I threw myself doggedly into it, 
and, hardly knowing why, opened the pages of the first volume which came within my 
reach. It proved to be a small pamphlet treatise on Speculative Astronomy, written either 
by Professor Encke of Berlin or by a Frenchman of somewhat similar name. I had some 
little tincture of information on matters of this nature, and soon became more and more 
absorbed in the contents of the book, reading it actually through twice before I awoke to a 
recollection of what was passing around me. By this time it began to grow dark, and I 



directed my steps toward home. But the treatise had made an indelible impression on my 
mind, and, as I sauntered along the dusky streets, I revolved carefully over in my memory 
the wild and sometimes unintelligible reasonings of the writer. There are some particular 
passages which affected my imagination in a powerful and extraordinary manner. The 
longer I meditated upon these the more intense grew the interest which had been excited 
within me. The limited nature of my education in general, and more especially my 
ignorance on subjects connected with natural philosophy, so far from rendering me 
diffident of my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or inducing me to mistrust 
the many vague notions which had arisen in consequence, merely served as a farther 
stimulus to imagination; and I was vain enough, or perhaps reasonable enough, to doubt 
whether those crude ideas which, arising in ill-regulated minds, have all the appearance, 
may not often in effect possess all the force, the reality, and other inherent properties, of 
instinct or intuition; whether, to proceed a step farther, profundity itself might not, in 
matters of a purely speculative nature, be detected as a legitimate source of falsity and 
error. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own 
essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we 
seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found. Nature herself seemed 
to afford me corroboration of these ideas. In the contemplation of the heavenly bodies it 
struck me forcibly that I could not distinguish a star with nearly as much precision, when 
I gazed on it with earnest, direct and undeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye 
only to glance in its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that time aware that this 
apparent paradox was occasioned by the center of the visual area being less susceptible of 
feeble impressions of light than the exterior portions of the retina. This knowledge, and 
some of another kind, came afterwards in the course of an eventful five years, during 
which I have dropped the prejudices of my former humble situation in life, and forgotten 
the bellows-mender in far different occupations. But at the epoch of which I speak, the 
analogy which a casual observation of a star offered to the conclusions I had already 
drawn, struck me with the force of positive conformation, and I then finally made up my 
mind to the course which I afterwards pursued. 

It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed. My mind, however, was 
too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the whole night buried in meditation. Arising early 
in the morning, and contriving again to escape the vigilance of my creditors, I repaired 
eagerly to the bookseller's stall, and laid out what little ready money I possessed, in the 
purchase of some volumes of Mechanics and Practical Astronomy. Having arrived at 
home safely with these, I devoted every spare moment to their perusal, and soon made 
such proficiency in studies of this nature as I thought sufficient for the execution of my 
plan. In the intervals of this period, I made every endeavor to conciliate the three 
creditors who had given me so much annoyance. In this I finally succeeded-partly by 
selling enough of my household furniture to satisfy a moiety of their claim, and partly by 
a promise of paying the balance upon completion of a little project which I told them I 
had in view, and for assistance in which I solicited their services. By these means-for 
they were ignorant men-I found little difficulty in gaining them over to my purpose. 

Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife and with the greatest 
secrecy and caution, to dispose of what property I had remaining, and to borrow, in small 



sums, under various pretences, and without paying any attention to my future means of 
repayment, no inconsiderable quantity of ready money. With the means thus accruing I 
proceeded to procure at intervals, cambric muslin, very fine, in pieces of twelve yards 
each; twine; a lot of the varnish of caoutchouc; a large and deep basket of wicker-work, 
made to order; and several other articles necessary in the construction and equipment of a 
balloon of extraordinary dimensions. This I directed my wife to make up as soon as 
possible, and gave her all requisite information as to the particular method of proceeding. 
In the meantime I worked up the twine into a net- work of sufficient dimensions; rigged it 
with a hoop and the necessary cords; bought a quadrant, a compass, a spy-glass, a 
common barometer with some important modifications, and two astronomical 
instruments not so generally known. I then took opportunities of conveying by night, to a 
retired situation east of Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty gallons 
each, and one of a larger size; six tinned ware tubes, three inches in diameter, properly 
shaped, and ten feet in length; a quantity of a particular metallic substance, or semi-metal, 
which I shall not name, and a dozen demijohns of a very common acid. The gas to be 
formed from these latter materials is a gas never yet generated by any other person than 
myself-or at least never applied to any similar purpose. The secret I would make no 
difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right belongs to a citizen of Nantz, in France, by 
whom it was conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual submitted to 
me, without being at all aware of my intentions, a method of constructing balloons from 
the membrane of a certain animal, through which substance any escape of gas was nearly 
an impossibility. I found it, however, altogether too expensive, and was not sure, upon 
the whole, whether cambric muslin with a coating of gum caoutchouc, was not equally as 
good. I mention this circumstance, because I think it probable that hereafter the 
individual in question may attempt a balloon ascension with the novel gas and material I 
have spoken of, and I do not wish to deprive him of the honor of a very singular 
invention. 

On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy respectively during the 
inflation of the balloon, I privately dug a hole two feet deep; the holes forming in this 
manner a circle twenty-five feet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being the station 
designed for the large cask, I also dug a hole three feet in depth. In each of the five 
smaller holes, I deposited a canister containing fifty pounds, and in the larger one a keg 
holding one hundred and fifty pounds, of cannon powder. These-the keg and canisters-I 
connected in a proper manner with covered trains; and having let into one of the canisters 
the end of about four feet of slow match, I covered up the hole, and placed the cask over 
it, leaving the other end of the match protruding about an inch, and barely visible beyond 
the cask. I then filled up the remaining holes, and placed the barrels over them in their 
destined situation. 

Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot, and there secreted, one of 
M. Grimm's improvements upon the apparatus for condensation of the atmospheric air. I 
found this machine, however, to require considerable alteration before it could be adapted 
to the purposes to which I intended making it applicable. But, with severe labor and 
unremitting perseverance, I at length met with entire success in all my preparations. My 
balloon was soon completed. It would contain more than forty thousand cubic feet of gas; 



would take me up easily, I calculated, with all my implements, and, if I managed rightly, 
with one hundred and seventy-five pounds of ballast into the bargain. It had received 
three coats of varnish, and I found the cambric muslin to answer all the purposes of silk 
itself, quite as strong and a good deal less expensive. 

Everything being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of secrecy in relation to all 
my actions from the day of my first visit to the bookseller's stall; and promising, on my 
part, to return as soon as circumstances would permit, I gave her what little money I had 
left, and bade her farewell. Indeed I had no fear on her account. She was what people call 
a notable woman, and could manage matters in the world without my assistance. I 
believe, to tell the truth, she always looked upon me as an idle boy, a mere make-weight, 
good for nothing but building castles in the air, and was rather glad to get rid of me. It 
was a dark night when I bade her good-bye, and taking with me, as aides-de-camp, the 
three creditors who had given me so much trouble, we carried the balloon, with the car 
and accoutrements, by a roundabout way, to the station where the other articles were 
deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I proceeded immediately to business. 

It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was dark; there was not a star to be 
seen; and a drizzling rain, falling at intervals, rendered us very uncomfortable. But my 
chief anxiety was concerning the balloon, which, in spite of the varnish with which it was 
defended, began to grow rather heavy with the moisture; the powder also was liable to 
damage. I therefore kept my three duns working with great diligence, pounding down ice 
around the central cask, and stirring the acid in the others. They did not cease, however, 
importuning me with questions as to what I intended to do with all this apparatus, and 
expressed much dissatisfaction at the terrible labor I made them undergo. They could not 
perceive, so they said, what good was likely to result from their getting wet to the skin, 
merely to take a part in such horrible incantations. I began to get uneasy, and worked 
away with all my might, for I verily believe the idiots supposed that I had entered into a 
compact with the devil, and that, in short, what I was now doing was nothing better than 
it should be. I was, therefore, in great fear of their leaving me altogether. I contrived, 
however, to pacify them by promises of payment of all scores in full, as soon as I could 
bring the present business to a termination. To these speeches they gave, of course, their 
own interpretation; fancying, no doubt, that at all events I should come into possession of 
vast quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed, and a trifle more, in 
consideration of their services, I dare say they cared very little what became of either my 
soul or my carcass. 

In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently inflated. I attached the car, 
therefore, and put all my implements in it-not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a 
copious supply of water, and a large quantity of provisions, such as pemmican, in which 
much nutriment is contained in comparatively little bulk. I also secured in the car a pair 
of pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it high time to take my 
departure. Dropping a lighted cigar on the ground, as if by accident, I took the 
opportunity, in stooping to pick it up, of igniting privately the piece of slow match, whose 
end, as I said before, protruded a very little beyond the lower rim of one of the smaller 
casks. This manoeuvre was totally unperceived on the part of the three duns; and. 



jumping into the car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me to the earth, and 
was pleased to find that I shot upward, carrying with all ease one hundred and seventy- 
five pounds of leaden ballast, and able to have carried up as many more. 

Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when, roaring and rumbling up 
after me in the most horrible and tumultuous manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, 
and smoke, and sulphur, and legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and blazing 
metal, that my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down in the bottom of the car, 
trembling with unmitigated terror. Indeed, I now perceived that I had entirely overdone 
the business, and that the main consequences of the shock were yet to be experienced. 
Accordingly, in less than a second, I felt all the blood in my body rushing to my temples, 
and immediately thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst abruptly 
through the night and seemed to rip the very firmament asunder. When I afterward had 
time for reflection, I did not fail to attribute the extreme violence of the explosion, as 
regarded myself, to its proper cause-my situation directly above it, and in the hne of its 
greatest power. But at the time, I thought only of preserving my life. The balloon at first 
collapsed, then furiously expanded, then whirled round and round with horrible velocity, 
and finally, reeling and staggering like a drunken man, hurled me with great force over 
the rim of the car, and left me dangling, at a terrific height, with my head downward, and 
my face outwards, by a piece of slender cord about three feet in length, which hung 
accidentally through a crevice near the bottom of the wicker-work, and in which, as I fell, 
my left foot became most providentially entangled. It is impossible-utterly impossible-to 
form any adequate idea of the horror of my situation. I gasped convulsively for breath-a 
shudder resembling a fit of the ague agitated every nerve and muscle of my frame-I felt 
my eyes starting from their sockets-a horrible nausea overwhelmed me-and at length I 
fainted away. 

How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. It must, however, have been no 
inconsiderable time, for when I partially recovered the sense of existence, I found the day 
breaking, the balloon at a prodigious height over a wilderness of ocean, and not a trace of 
land to be discovered far and wide within the limits of the vast horizon. My sensations, 
however, upon thus recovering, were by no means so rife with agony as might have been 
anticipated. Indeed, there was much of incipient madness in the calm survey which I 
began to take of my situation. I drew up to my eyes each of my hands, one after the other, 
and wondered what occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of the veins, and the 
horrible blackness of the fingemails. I afterward carefully examined my head, shaking it 
repeatedly, and feeling it with minute attention, until I succeeded in satisfying myself that 
it was not, as I had more than half suspected, larger than my balloon. Then, in a knowing 
manner, I felt in both my breeches pockets, and, missing therefrom a set of tablets and a 
toothpick case, endeavored to account for their disappearance, and not being able to do 
so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now occurred to me that I suffered great uneasiness in 
the joint of my left ankle, and a dim consciousness of my situation began to glimmer 
through my mind. But, strange to say! I was neither astonished nor horror-stricken. If I 
felt any emotion at all, it was a kind of chuckling satisfaction at the cleverness I was 
about to display in extricating myself from this dilemma; and I never, for a moment, 
looked upon my ultimate safety as a question susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I 



remained wrapped in the profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of 
frequently compressing my lips, putting my forefinger to the side of my nose, and making 
use of other gesticulations and grimaces common to men who, at ease in their arm-chairs, 
meditate upon matters of intricacy or importance. Having, as I thought, sufficiently 
collected my ideas, I now, with great caution and deliberation, put my hands behind my 
back, and unfastened the large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my 
inexpressibles. This buckle had three teeth, which, being somewhat rusty, turned with 
great difficulty on their axis. I brought them, however, after some trouble, at right angles 
to the body of the buckle, and was glad to find them remain firm in that position. Holding 
the instrument thus obtained within my teeth, I now proceeded to untie the knot of my 
cravat. I had to rest several times before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, but it was at 
length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made fast the buckle, and the other 
end I tied, for greater security, tightly around my wrist. Drawing now my body upwards, 
with a prodigious exertion of muscular force, I succeeded, at the very first trial, in 
throwing the buckle over the car, and entangling it, as I had anticipated, in the circular 
rim of the wicker-work. 

My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an angle of about forty-five 
degrees; but it must not be understood that I was therefore only forty-five degrees below 
the perpendicular. So far from it, I still lay nearly level with the plane of the horizon; for 
the change of situation which I had acquired, had forced the bottom of the car 
considerably outwards from my position, which was accordingly one of the most 
imminent and deadly peril. It should be remembered, however, that when I fell in the first 
instance, from the car, if I had f Allan with my face turned toward the balloon, instead of 
turned outwardly from it, as it actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by which I 
was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge, instead of through a crevice 
near the bottom of the car,-I say it may be readily conceived that, in either of these 
supposed cases, I should have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now 
accomplished, and the wonderful adventures of Hans Phaall would have been utterly lost 
to posterity, I had therefore every reason to be grateful; although, in point of fact, I was 
still too stupid to be anything at all, and hung for, perhaps, a quarter of an hour in that 
extraordinary manner, without making the slightest farther exertion whatsoever, and in a 
singularly tranquil state of idiotic enjoyment. But this feeling did not fail to die rapidly 
away, and thereunto succeeded horror, and dismay, and a chilling sense of utter 
helplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood so long accumulating in the vessels of my head 
and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up my spirits with madness and delirium, had 
now begun to retire within their proper channels, and the distinctness which was thus 
added to my perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the self-possession 
and courage to encounter it. But this weakness was, luckily for me, of no very long 
duration. In good time came to my rescue the spirit of despair, and, with frantic cries and 
struggles, I jerked my way bodily upwards, till at length, clutching with a vise-like grip 
the long-desired rim, I writhed my person over it, and fell headlong and shuddering 
within the car. 

It was not until some time afterward that I recovered myself sufficiently to attend to the 
ordinary cares of the balloon. I then, however, examined it with attention, and found it, to 



my great relief, uninjured. My implements were all safe, and, fortunately, I had lost 
neither ballast nor provisions. Indeed, I had so well secured them in their places, that such 
an accident was entirely out of the question. Looking at my watch, I found it six o'clock. I 
was still rapidly ascending, and my barometer gave a present altitude of three and three- 
quarter miles. Immediately beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black object, slightly 
oblong in shape, seemingly about the size, and in every way bearing a great resemblance 
to one of those childish toys called a domino. Bringing my telescope to bear upon it, I 
plainly discerned it to be a British ninety four-gun ship, close-hauled, and pitching 
heavily in the sea with her head to the W.S.W. Besides this ship, I saw nothing but the 
ocean and the sky, and the sun, which had long arisen. 

It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies the object of my perilous 
voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in mind that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam 
had at length driven me to the resolution of committing suicide. It was not, however, that 
to life itself I had any, positive disgust, but that I was harassed beyond endurance by the 
adventitious miseries attending my situation. In this state of mind, wishing to live, yet 
wearied with life, the treatise at the stall of the bookseller opened a resource to my 
imagination. I then finally made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live-to leave the 
world, yet continue to exist-in short, to drop enigmas, I resolved, let what would ensue, 
to force a passage, if I could, to the moon. Now, lest I should be supposed more of a 
madman than I actually am, I will detail, as well as I am able, the considerations which 
led me to believe that an achievement of this nature, although without doubt difficult, and 
incontestably full of danger, was not absolutely, to a bold spirit, beyond the confines of 
the possible. 

The moon's actual distance from the earth was the first thing to be attended to. Now, the 
mean or average interval between the centres of the two planets is 59.9643 of the earth's 
equatorial radii, or only about 237,000 miles. I say the mean or average interval. But it 
must be borne in mind that the form of the moon's orbit being an ellipse of eccentricity 
amounting to no less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis of the ellipse itself, and the 
earth's centre being situated in its focus, if I could, in any manner, contrive to meet the 
moon, as it were, in its perigee, the above mentioned distance would be materially 
diminished. But, to say nothing at present of this possibility, it was very certain that, at all 
events, from the 237,000 miles I would have to deduct the radius of the earth, say 4,000, 
and the radius of the moon, say 1080, in all 5,080, leaving an actual interval to be 
traversed, under average circumstances, of 231,920 miles. Now this, I reflected, was no 
very extraordinary distance. Travelling on land has been repeatedly accomplished at the 
rate of thirty miles per hour, and indeed a much greater speed may be anticipated. But 
even at this velocity, it would take me no more than 322 days to reach the surface of the 
moon. There were, however, many particulars inducing me to believe that my average 
rate of travelling might possibly very much exceed that of thirty miles per hour, and, as 
these considerations did not fail to make a deep impression upon my mind, I will mention 
them more fully hereafter. 

The next point to be regarded was a matter of far greater importance. From indications 
afforded by the barometer, we find that, in ascensions from the surface of the earth we 



have, at the height of 1,000 feet, left below us about one-thirtieth of the entire mass of 
atmospheric air, that at 10,600 we have ascended through nearly one-third; and that at 
18,000, which is not far from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmounted one-half the 
material, or, at all events, one-half the ponderable, body of air incumbent upon our globe. 
It is also calculated that at an altitude not exceeding the hundredth part of the earth's 
diameter-that is, not exceeding eighty miles-the rarefaction would be so excessive that 
animal life could in no manner be sustained, and, moreover, that the most delicate means 
we possess of ascertaining the presence of the atmosphere would be inadequate to assure 
us of its existence. But I did not fail to perceive that these latter calculations are founded 
altogether on our experimental knowledge of the properties of air, and the mechanical 
laws regulating its dilation and compression, in what may be called, comparatively 
speaking, the immediate vicinity of the earth itself; and, at the same time, it is taken for 
granted that animal life is and must be essentially incapable of modification at any given 
unattainable distance from the surface. Now, all such reasoning and from such data must, 
of course, be simply analogical. The greatest height ever reached by man was that of 
25,000 feet, attained in the aeronautic expedition of Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot. This 
is a moderate altitude, even when compared with the eighty miles in question; and I could 
not help thinking that the subject admitted room for doubt and great latitude for 
speculation. 

But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any given altitude, the ponderable 
quantity of air surmounted in any farther ascension is by no means in proportion to the 
additional height ascended (as may be plainly seen from what has been stated before), but 
in a ratio constantly decreasing. It is therefore evident that, ascend as high as we may, we 
cannot, literally speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which no atmosphere is to be found. It 
must exist, I argued; although it may exist in a state of infinite rarefaction. 

On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been wanting to prove the 
existence of a real and definite limit to the atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely 
no air whatsoever. But a circumstance which has been left out of view by those who 
contend for such a limit seemed to me, although no positive refutation of their creed, still 
a point worthy very serious investigation. On comparing the intervals between the 
successive arrivals of Encke's comet at its perihelion, after giving credit, in the most 
exact manner, for all the disturbances due to the attractions of the planets, it appears that 
the periods are gradually diminishing; that is to say, the major axis of the comet's ellipse 
is growing shorter, in a slow but perfectly regular decrease. Now, this is precisely what 
ought to be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced from the comet from an 
extremely rare ethereal medium pervading the regions of its orbit. For it is evident that 
such a medium must, in retarding the comet's velocity, increase its centripetal, by 
weakening its centrifugal force. In other words, the sun's attraction would be constantly 
attaining greater power, and the comet would be drawn nearer at every revolution. 
Indeed, there is no other way of accounting for the variation in question. But again. The 
real diameter of the same comet's nebulosity is observed to contract rapidly as it 
approaches the sun, and dilate with equal rapidity in its departure towards its aphelion. 
Was I not justifiable in supposing with M. Valz, that this apparent condensation of 
volume has its origin in the compression of the same ethereal medium I have spoken of 



before, and which is only denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? The lenticular- shaped 
phenomenon, also called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of attention. This 
radiance, so apparent in the tropics, and which cannot be mistaken for any meteoric 
lustre, extends from the horizon obliquely upward, and follows generally the direction of 
the sun's equator. It appeared to me evidently in the nature of a rare atmosphere extending 
from the sun outward, beyond the orbit of Venus at least, and I believed indefinitely 
farther.* Indeed, this medium I could not suppose confined to the path of the comet's 
ellipse, or to the immediate neighborhood of the sun. It was easy, on the contrary, to 
imagine it pervading the entire regions of our planetary system, condensed into what we 
call atmosphere at the planets themselves, and perhaps at some of them modified by 
considerations, so to speak, purely geological. 

*The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called Trabes. Emicant Trabes quos 
docos vocant.-Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26. 

Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little further hesitation. Granting that on 
my passage I should meet with atmosphere essentially the same as at the surface of the 
earth, I conceived that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm, I should 
readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient quantity for the purposes of respiration. 
This would remove the chief obstacle in a journey to the moon. I had indeed spent some 
money and great labor in adapting the apparatus to the object intended, and confidently 
looked forward to its successful application, if I could manage to complete the voyage 
within any reasonable period. This brings me back to the rate at which it might be 
possible to travel. 

It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions from the earth, are known to 
rise with a velocity comparatively moderate. Now, the power of elevation lies altogether 
in the superior lightness of the gas in the balloon compared with the atmospheric air; and, 
at first sight, it does not appear probable that, as the balloon acquires altitude, and 
consequently arrives successively in atmospheric strata of densities rapidly diminishing-I 
say, it does not appear at all reasonable that, in this its progress upwards, the original 
velocity should be accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any recorded 
ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute rate of ascent; although such should 
have been the case, if on account of nothing else, on account of the escape of gas through 
balloons ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material than the ordinary varnish. 
It seemed, therefore, that the effect of such escape was only sufficient to counterbalance 
the effect of some accelerating power. I now considered that, provided in my passage I 
found the medium I had imagined, and provided that it should prove to be actually and 
essentially what we denominate atmospheric air, it could make comparatively little 
difference at what extreme state of rarefaction I should discover it-that is to say, in regard 
to my power of ascending-for the gas in the balloon would not only be itself subject to 
rarefaction partially similar (in proportion to the occurrence of which, I could suffer an 
escape of so much as would be requisite to prevent explosion), but, being what it was, 
would, at all events, continue specifically lighter than any compound whatever of mere 
nitrogen and oxygen. In the meantime, the force of gravitation would be constantly 
diminishing, in proportion to the squares of the distances, and thus, with a velocity 



prodigiously accelerating, I should at length arrive in those distant regions where the 
force of the earth's attraction would be superseded by that of the moon. In accordance 
with these ideas, I did not think it worth while to encumber myself with more provisions 
than would be sufficient for a period of forty days. 

There was still, however, another difficulty, which occasioned me some little disquietude. 
It has been observed, that, in balloon ascensions to any considerable height, besides the 
pain attending respiration, great uneasiness is experienced about the head and body, often 
accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and other symptoms of an alarming kind, and 
growing more and more inconvenient in proportion to the altitude attained.* This was a 
reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable that these symptoms would 
increase indefinitely, or at least until terminated by death itself? I finally thought not. 
Their origin was to be looked for in the progressive removal of the customary 
atmospheric pressure upon the surface of the body, and consequent distention of the 
superficial blood- vessels-not in any positive disorganization of the animal system, as in 
the case of difficulty in breathing, where the atmospheric density is chemically 
insufficient for the due renovation of blood in a ventricle of the heart. Unless for default 
of this renovation, I could see no reason, therefore, why life could not be sustained even 
in a vacuum; for the expansion and compression of chest, commonly called breathing, is 
action purely muscular, and the cause, not the effect, of respiration. In a word, I 
conceived that, as the body should become habituated to the want of atmospheric 
pressure, the sensations of pain would gradually diminish-and to endure them while they 
continued, I relied with confidence upon the iron hardihood of my constitution. 

* Since the original publication of Hans Phaall, I find that Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon 
notoriety, and other late aeronauts, deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and 
speak of a decreasing inconvenience,-precisely in accordance with the theory here urged 
in a mere spirit of banter. 

Thus, may it please your Excellencies, I have detailed some, though by no means all, the 
considerations which led me to form the project of a lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to 
lay before you the result of an attempt so apparently audacious in conception, and, at all 
events, so utterly unparalleled in the annals of mankind. 

Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say three miles and three- 
quarters, I threw out from the car a quantity of feathers, and found that I still ascended 
with sufficient rapidity; there was, therefore, no necessity for discharging any ballast. I 
was glad of this, for I wished to retain with me as much weight as I could carry, for 
reasons which will be explained in the sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily inconvenience, 
breathing with great freedom, and feeling no pain whatever in the head. The cat was lying 
very demurely upon my coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing the pigeons with an air of 
nonchalance. These latter being tied by the leg, to prevent their escape, were busily 
employed in picking up some grains of rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car. 

At twenty minutes past six o'clock, the barometer showed an elevation of 26,400 feet, or 
five miles to a fraction. The prospect seemed unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily 



calculated by means of spherical geometry, what a great extent of the earth's area I 
beheld. The convex surface of any segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the 
sphere itself, as the versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. Now, in my 
case, the versed sine-that is to say, the thickness of the segment beneath me-was about 
equal to my elevation, or the elevation of the point of sight above the surface. "As five 
miles, then, to eight thousand," would express the proportion of the earth's area seen by 
me. In other words, I beheld as much as a sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of 
the globe. The sea appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the spy-glass, I 
could perceive it to be in a state of violent agitation. The ship was no longer visible, 
having drifted away, apparently to the eastward. I now began to experience, at intervals, 
severe pain in the head, especially about the ears-still, however, breathing with tolerable 
freedom. The cat and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience whatsoever. 

At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered a long series of dense cloud, which 
put me to great trouble, by damaging my condensing apparatus and wetting me to the 
skin. This was, to be sure, a singular recontre, for I had not believed it possible that a 
cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an elevation. I thought it best, however, 
to throw out two five-pound pieces of ballast, reserving still a weight of one hundred and 
sixty-five pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above the difficulty, and perceived 
immediately, that I had obtained a great increase in my rate of ascent. In a few seconds 
after my leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid lightning shot from one end of it to the other, 
and caused it to kindle up, throughout its vast extent, like a mass of ignited and glowing 
charcoal. This, it must be remembered, was in the broad light of day. No fancy may 
picture the sublimity which might have been exhibited by a similar phenomenon taking 
place amid the darkness of the night. Hell itself might have been found a fitting image. 
Even as it was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the yawning 
abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and stalk about in the strange vaulted 
halls, and ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly chasms of the hideous and unfathomable fire. I had 
indeed made a narrow escape. Had the balloon remained a very short while longer within 
the cloud-that is to say-had not the inconvenience of getting wet, determined me to 
discharge the ballast, inevitable ruin would have been the consequence. Such perils, 
although little considered, are perhaps the greatest which must be encountered in 
balloons. I had by this time, however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer 
uneasy on this head. 

I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o'clock the barometer indicated an altitude of no 
less than nine miles and a half. I began to find great difficulty in drawing my breath. My 
head, too, was excessively painful; and, having felt for some time a moisture about my 
cheeks, I at length discovered it to be blood, which was oozing quite fast from the drums 
of my ears. My eyes, also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon passing the hand over them 
they seemed to have protruded from their sockets in no inconsiderable degree; and all 
objects in the car, and even the balloon itself, appeared distorted to my vision. These 
symptoms were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm. At this 
juncture, very imprudently, and without consideration, I threw out from the car three five- 
pound pieces of ballast. The accelerated rate of ascent thus obtained, carried me too 
rapidly, and without sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum of the atmosphere. 



and the result had nearly proved fatal to my expedition and to myself. I was suddenly 
seized with a spasm which lasted for more than five minutes, and even when this, in a 
measure, ceased, I could catch my breath only at long intervals, and in a gasping manner- 
bleeding all the while copiously at the nose and ears, and even slightly at the eyes. The 
pigeons appeared distressed in the extreme, and struggled to escape; while the cat mewed 
piteously, and, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the car 
as if under the influence of poison. I now too late discovered the great rashness of which I 
had been guilty in discharging the ballast, and my agitation was excessive. I anticipated 
nothing less than death, and death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent 
contributed also to render me nearly incapable of making any exertion for the 
preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little power of reflection left, and the violence of 
the pain in my head seemed to be greatly on the increase. Thus I found that my senses 
would shortly give way altogether, and I had already clutched one of the valve ropes with 
the view of attempting a descent, when the recollection of the trick I had played the three 
creditors, and the possible consequences to myself, should I return, operated to deter me 
for the moment. I lay down in the bottom of the car, and endeavored to collect my 
faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the experiment of losing blood. 
Having no lancet, however, I was constrained to perform the operation in the best manner 
I was able, and finally succeeded in opening a vein in my right arm, with the blade of my 
penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I experienced a sensible relief, 
and by the time I had lost about half a moderate basin full, most of the worst symptoms 
had abandoned me entirely. I nevertheless did not think it expedient to attempt getting on 
my feet immediately; but, having tied up my arm as well as I could, I lay still for about a 
quarter of an hour. At the end of this time I arose, and found myself freer from absolute 
pain of any kind than I had been during the last hour and a quarter of my ascension. The 
difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished in a very slight degree, and I found that 
it would soon be positively necessary to make use of my condenser. In the meantime, 
looking toward the cat, who was again snugly stowed away upon my coat, I discovered to 
my infinite surprise, that she had taken the opportunity of my indisposition to bring into 
light a litter of three little kittens. This was an addition to the number of passengers on 
my part altogether unexpected; but I was pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a 
chance of bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more than anything else, 
had influenced me in attempting this ascension. I had imagined that the habitual 
endurance of the atmospheric pressure at the surface of the earth was the cause, or nearly 
so, of the pain attending animal existence at a distance above the surface. Should the 
kittens be found to suffer uneasiness in an equal degree with their mother, I must consider 
my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I should look upon as a strong confirmation of 
my idea. 

By eight o'clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen miles above the surface 
of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident that my rate of ascent was not only on the 
increase, but that the progression would have been apparent in a slight degree even had I 
not discharged the ballast which I did. The pains in my head and ears returned, at 
intervals, with violence, and I still continued to bleed occasionally at the nose; but, upon 
the whole, I suffered much less than might have been expected. I breathed, however, at 
every moment, with more and more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended with a 



troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the condensing apparatus, 
and got it ready for immediate use. 

The view of the earth, at this period of my ascension, was beautiful indeed. To the 
westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I could see, lay a boundless sheet 
of apparently unruffled ocean, which every moment gained a deeper and a deeper tint of 
blue and began already to assume a slight appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to 
the eastward, although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of Great Britain, the 
entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a small portion of the northern part of the 
continent of Africa. Of individual edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the 
proudest cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the face of the earth. From the 
rock of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim speck, the dark Mediterranean sea, dotted 
with shining islands as the heaven is dotted with stars, spread itself out to the eastward as 
far as my vision extended, until its entire mass of waters seemed at length to tumble 
headlong over the abyss of the horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the 
echoes of the mighty cataract. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and the stars were 
brilliantly visible. 

The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I determined upon 
giving them their liberty. I first untied one of them, a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon, and 
placed him upon the rim of the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking 
anxiously around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud cooing noise, but could 
not be persuaded to trust himself from off the car. I took him up at last, and threw him to 
about half a dozen yards from the balloon. He made, however, no attempt to descend as I 
had expected, but struggled with great vehemence to get back, uttering at the same time 
very shrill and piercing cries. He at length succeeded in regaining his former station on 
the rim, but had hardly done so when his head dropped upon his breast, and be fell dead 
within the car. The other one did not prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the 
example of his companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him downward with all 
my force, and was pleased to find him continue his descent, with great velocity, making 
use of his wings with ease, and in a perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was 
out of sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who seemed in a great 
measure recovered from her illness, now made a hearty meal of the dead bird and then 
went to sleep with much apparent satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far 
evinced not the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever. 

At a quarter-past eight, being no longer able to draw breath without the most intolerable 
pain, I proceeded forthwith to adjust around the car the apparatus belonging to the 
condenser. This apparatus will require some little explanation, and your Excellencies will 
please to bear in mind that my object, in the first place, was to surround myself and cat 
entirely with a barricade against the highly rarefied atmosphere in which I was existing, 
with the intention of introducing within this barricade, by means of my condenser, a 
quantity of this same atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the purposes of respiration. 
With this object in view I had prepared a very strong perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum- 
elastic bag. In this bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a 
manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the whole bottom of the car, up 



its sides, and so on, along the outside of the ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the 
net-work is attached. Having pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a complete 
enclosure on all sides, and at botttom, it was now necessary to fasten up its top or mouth, 
by passing its material over the hoop of the net- work-in other words, between the net- 
work and the hoop. But if the net- work were separated from the hoop to admit this 
passage, what was to sustain the car in the meantime? Now the net- work was not 
permanently fastened to the hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I 
therefore undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving the car suspended by the 
remainder. Having thus inserted a portion of the cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I 
refastened the loops-not to the hoop, for that would have been impossible, since the cloth 
now intervened-but to a series of large buttons, affixed to the cloth itself, about three feet 
below the mouth of the bag, the intervals between the buttons having been made to 
correspond to the intervals between the loops. This done, a few more of the loops were 
unfastened from the rim, a farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the disengaged 
loops then connected with their proper buttons. In this way it was possible to insert the 
whole upper part of the bag between the net- work and the hoop. It is evident that the 
hoop would now drop down within the car, while the whole weight of the car itself, with 
all its contents, would be held up merely by the strength of the buttons. This, at first sight, 
would seem an inadequate dependence; but it was by no means so, for the buttons were 
not only very strong in themselves, but so close together that a very slight portion of the 
whole weight was supported by any one of them. Indeed, had the car and contents been 
three times heavier than they were, I should not have been at all uneasy. I now raised up 
the hoop again within the covering of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its former 
height by means of three light poles prepared for the occasion. This was done, of course, 
to keep the bag distended at the top, and to preserve the lower part of the net-work in its 
proper situation. All that now remained was to fasten up the mouth of the enclosure; and 
this was readily accomplished by gathering the folds of the material together, and 
twisting them up very tightly on the inside by means of a kind of stationary tourniquet. 

In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had been inserted three circular 
panes of thick but clear glass, through which I could see without difficulty around me in 
every horizontal direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the bottom, was likewise, a 
fourth window, of the same kind, and corresponding with a small aperture in the floor of 
the car itself. This enabled me to see perpendicularly down, but having found it 
impossible to place any similar contrivance overhead, on account of the peculiar manner 
of closing up the opening there, and the consequent wrinkles in the cloth, I could expect 
to see no objects situated directly in my zenith. This, of course, was a matter of little 
consequence; for had I even been able to place a window at top, the balloon itself would 
have prevented my making any use of it. 

About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening, eight inches in 
diameter, and fitted with a brass rim adapted in its inner edge to the windings of a screw. 
In this rim was screwed the large tube of the condenser, the body of the machine being, 
of course, within the chamber of gum-elastic. Through this tube a quantity of the rare 
atmosphere circumjacent being drawn by means of a vacuum created in the body of the 
machine, was thence discharged, in a state of condensation, to mingle with the thin air 



already in the chamber. This operation being repeated several times, at length filled the 
chamber with atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration. But in so confined a 
space it would, in a short time, necessarily become foul, and unfit for use from frequent 
contact with the lungs. It was then ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car-the 
dense air readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To avoid the inconvenience 
of making a total vacuum at any moment within the chamber, this purification was never 
accomplished all at once, but in a gradual manner-the valve being opened only for a few 
seconds, then closed again, until one or two strokes from the pump of the condenser had 
supplied the place of the atmosphere ejected. For the sake of experiment I had put the cat 
and kittens in a small basket, and suspended it outside the car to a button at the bottom, 
close by the valve, through which I could feed them at any moment when necessary. I did 
this at some little risk, and before closing the mouth of the chamber, by reaching under 
the car with one of the poles before mentioned to which a hook had been attached. 

By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled the chamber as 
explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o'clock. During the whole period of my 
being thus employed, I endured the most terrible distress from difficulty of respiration, 
and bitterly did I repent the negligence or rather fool-hardiness, of which I had been 
guilty, of putting off to the last moment a matter of so much importance. But having at 
length accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my invention. Once again I 
breathed with perfect freedom and ease-and indeed why should I not? I was also 
agreeably surprised to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the violent pains 
which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headache, accompanied with a sensation of 
fulness or distention about the wrists, the ankles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I 
had now to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of the uneasiness 
attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had actually worn off, as I had expected, 
and that much of the pain endured for the last two hours should have been attributed 
altogether to the effects of a deficient respiration. 

At twenty minutes before nine o'clock-that is to say, a short time prior to my closing up 
the mouth of the chamber, the mercury attained its limit, or ran down, in the barometer, 
which, as I mentioned before, was one of an extended construction. It then indicated an 
altitude on my part of 132,000 feet, or five-and-twenty miles, and I consequently 
surveyed at that time an extent of the earth's area amounting to no less than the three 
hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire superficies. At nine o'clock I had again lost sight 
of land to the eastward, but not before I became aware that the balloon was drifting 
rapidly to the N. N. W. The convexity of the ocean beneath me was very evident indeed, 
although my view was often interrupted by the masses of cloud which floated to and fro. 
I observed now that even the lightest vapors never rose to more than ten miles above the 
level of the sea. 

At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of feathers through the 
valve. They did not float as I had expected; but dropped down perpendicularly, like a 
bullet, en masse, and with the greatest velocity-being out of sight in a very few seconds. I 
did not at first know what to make of this extraordinary phenomenon; not being able to 
believe that my rate of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so prodigious an acceleration. 



But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere was now far too rare to sustain even the 
feathers; that they actually fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had 
been surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my own elevation. 

By ten o'clock I found that I had very little to occupy my immediate attention. Affairs 
went swimmingly, and I believed the balloon to be going upward witb a speed increasing 
momently although I had no longer any means of ascertaining the progression of the 
increase. I suffered no pain or uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed better spirits than I 
had at any period since my departure from Rotterdam, busying myself now in examining 
the state of my various apparatus, and now in regenerating the atmosphere within the 
chamber. This latter point I determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes, 
more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so frequent a renovation 
being absolutely necessary. In the meanwhile I could not help making anticipations. 
Fancy revelled in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling herself 
for once unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and 
unstable land. Now there were boary and time-honored forests, and craggy precipices, 
and waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without a bottom. Then I came 
suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where 
vast meadows of poppies, and slender, lily- looking flowers spread themselves out a 
weary distance, all silent and motionless forever. Then again I journeyed far down away 
into another country where it was all one dim and vague lake, with a boundary line of 
clouds. And out of this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like a 
wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that the shadows of the trees which fell upon 
the lake remained not on the surface where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, 
and commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees other shadows were 
continually coming out, and taking the place of their brothers thus entombed. "This then," 
I said thoughtfully, "is the very reason why the waters of this lake grow blacker with age, 
and more melancholy as the hours run on." But fancies such as these were not the sole 
possessors of my brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would too 
frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the innermost depths of my soul 
with the bare supposition of their possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any 
length of time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the real and 
palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my undivided attention. 

At five o'clock, p.m., being engaged in regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber, I 
took that opportunity of observing the cat and kittens through the valve. The cat herself 
appeared to suffer again very much, and I had no hesitation in attributing her uneasiness 
chiefly to a difficulty in breathing; but my experiment with the kittens had resulted very 
strangely. I had expected, of course, to see them betray a sense of pain, although in a less 
degree than their mother, and this would have been sufficient to confirm my opinion 
concerning the habitual endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I was not prepared to 
find them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying a high degree of health, breathing 
with the greatest ease and perfect regularity, and evincing not the slightest sign of any 
uneasiness whatever. I could only account for all this by extending my theory, and 
supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might perhaps not be, as I had 
taken for granted, chemically insufficient for the purposes of life, and that a person born 



in such a medium might, possibly, be unaware of any inconvenience attending its 
inhalation, while, upon removal to the denser strata near the earth, he might endure 
tortures of a similar nature to those I had so lately experienced. It has since been to me a 
matter of deep regret that an awkward accident, at this time, occasioned me the loss of 
my little family of cats, and deprived me of the insight into this matter which a continued 
experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through the valve, with a cup of 
water for the old puss, the sleeves of my shirt became entangled in the loop which 
sustained the basket, and thus, in a moment, loosened it from the bottom. Had the whole 
actually vanished into air, it could not have shot from my sight in a more abrupt and 
instantaneous manner. Positively, there could not have intervened the tenth part of a 
second between the disengagement of the basket and its absolute and total disappearance 
with all that it contained. My good wishes followed it to the earth, but of course, I had no 
hope that either cat or kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their misfortune. 

At six o'clock, I perceived a great portion of the earth's visible area to the eastward 
involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance with great rapidity, until, at five 
minutes before seven, the whole surface in view was enveloped in the darkness of night. 
It was not, however, until long after this time that the rays of the setting sun ceased to 
illumine the balloon; and this circumstance, although of course fully anticipated, did not 
fail to give me an infinite deal of pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I should 
behold the rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of Rotterdam, in spite 
of their situation so much farther to the eastward, and thus, day after day, in proportion to 
the height ascended, would I enjoy the light of the sun for a longer and a longer period. I 
now determined to keep a journal of my passage, reckoning the days from one to twenty- 
four hours continuously, without taking into consideration the intervals of darkness. 

At ten o'clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest of the night; but here a 
difficulty presented itself, which, obvious as it may appear, had escaped my attention up 
to the very moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I proposed, how 
could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated in the interim? To breathe it for 
more than an hour, at the farthest, would be a matter of impossibility, or, if even this term 
could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous consequences might ensue. 
The consideration of this dilemma gave me no little disquietude; and it will hardly be 
believed, that, after the dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this business in so 
serious a light, as to give up all hope of accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally 
make up my mind to the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only momentary. I 
reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom, and that many points in the routine of his 
existence are deemed essentially important, which are only so at all by his having 
rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do without sleep; but I might 
easily bring myself to feel no inconvenience from being awakened at intervals of an hour 
during the whole period of my repose. It would require but five minutes at most to 
regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner, and the only real difficulty was to 
contrive a method of arousing myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a 
question which, I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble in its solution. To 
be sure, I had heard of the student who, to prevent his falling asleep over his books, held 
in one hand a ball of copper, the din of whose descent into a basin of the same metal on 



the floor beside his chair, served effectually to startle him up, if, at any moment, he 
should be overcome with drowsiness. My own case, however, was very different indeed, 
and left me no room for any similar idea; for I did not wish to keep awake, but to be 
aroused from slumber at regular intervals of time. I at length hit upon the following 
expedient, which, simple as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the moment of discovery, 
as an invention fully equal to that of the telescope, the steam-engine, or the art of printing 
itself. 

It is necessary to premise, that the balloon, at the elevation now attained, continued its 
course upward with an even and undeviating ascent, and the car consequently followed 
with a steadiness so perfect that it would have been impossible to detect in it the slightest 
vacillation whatever. This circumstance favored me greatly in the project I now 
determined to adopt. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs containing five 
gallons each, and ranged very securely around the interior of the car. I unfastened one of 
these, and taking two ropes tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from one 
side to the other; placing them about a foot apart and parallel so as to form a kind of 
shelf, upon which I placed the keg, and steadied it in a horizontal position. About eight 
inches immediately below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of the car I fastened 
another shelf-but made of thin plank, being the only similar piece of wood I had. Upon 
this latter shelf, and exactly beneath one of the rims of the keg, a small earthem pitcher 
was deposited. I now bored a hole in the end of the keg over the pitcher, and fitted in a 
plug of soft wood, cut in a tapering or conical shape. This plug I pushed in or pulled out, 
as might happen, until, after a few experiments, it arrived at that exact degree of 
tightness, at which the water, oozing from the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, 
would fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of course, was a 
matter briefly and easily ascertained, by noticing the proportion of the pitcher filled in 
any given time. Having arranged all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so 
contrived upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in lying down, immediately 
below the mouth of the pitcher. It was evident, that, at the expiration of an hour, the 
pitcher, getting full, would be forced to run over, and to run over at the mouth, which was 
somewhat lower than the rim. It was also evident, that the water thus falling from a height 
of more than four feet, could not do otherwise than fall upon my face, and that the sure 
consequences would be, to waken me up instantaneously, even from the soundest 
slumber in the world. 

It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements, and I immediately 
betook myself to bed, with full confidence in the efficiency of my invention. Nor in this 
matter was I disappointed. Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused by my trusty 
chronometer, when, having emptied the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg, and 
performed the duties of the condenser, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions 
to my slumber caused me even less discomfort than I had anticipated; and when I finally 
arose for the day, it was seven o'clock, and the sun had attained many degrees above the 
line of my horizon. 

April 3d. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the earth's apparent 
convexity increased in a material degree. Below me in the ocean lay a cluster of black 



specks, which undoubtedly were islands. Far away to the northward I perceived a thin, 
white, and exceedingly brilliant line, or streak, on the edge of the horizon, and I had no 
hesitation in supposing it to be the southern disk of the ices of the Polar Sea. My curiosity 
was greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on much farther to the north, and might 
possibly, at some period, find myself placed directly above the Pole itself. I now 
lamented that my great elevation would, in this case, prevent my taking as accurate a 
survey as I could wish. Much, however, might be ascertained. Nothing else of an 
extraordinary nature occurred during the day. My apparatus all continued in good order, 
and the balloon still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The cold was intense, 
and obliged me to wrap up closely in an overcoat. When darkness came over the earth, I 
betook myself to bed, although it was for many hours afterward broad daylight all around 
my immediate situation. The water-clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept until next 
morning soundly, with the exception of the periodical interruption. 

April 4th. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at the singular change 
which had taken place in the appearance of the sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the 
deep tint of blue it had hitherto worn, being now of a grayish- white, and of a lustre 
dazzling to the eye. The islands were no longer visible; whether they had passed down 
the horizon to the southeast, or whether my increasing elevation had left them out of 
sight, it is impossible to say. I was inclined, however, to the latter opinion. The rim of ice 
to the northward was growing more and more apparent. Cold by no means so intense. 
Nothing of importance occurred, and I passed the day in reading, having taken care to 
supply myself with books. 

April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while nearly the whole 
visible surface of the earth continued to be involved in darkness. In time, however, the 
light spread itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now 
very distinct, and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was 
evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again distinguish a strip 
of land to the eastward, and one also to the westward, but could not be certain. Weather 
moderate. Nothing of any consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed. 

April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very moderate distance, and an 
immense field of the same material stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was 
evident that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive above the Frozen 
Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the Pole. During the whole of the 
day I continued to near the ice. Toward night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and 
materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth's form being that of an oblate 
spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle. 
When darkness at length overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over 
the object of so much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it. 

April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what there could be no 
hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It was there, beyond a doubt, and 
immediately beneath my feet; but, alas! I had now ascended to so vast a distance, that 
nothing could with accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the 



numbers indicating my various altitudes, respectively, at different periods, between six 
A.M. on the second of April, and twenty minutes before nine A.M. of the same day (at 
which time the barometer ran down), it might be fairly inferred that the balloon had now, 
at four o'clock in the morning of April the seventh, reached a height of not less, certainly, 
than 7,254 miles above the surface of the sea. This elevation may appear immense, but 
the estimate upon which it is calculated gave a result in all probability far inferior to the 
truth. At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth's major diameter; the 
entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a chart orthographically projected: and 
the great circle of the equator itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your 
Excellencies may, however, readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored 
within the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath me, and therefore 
seen without any appearance of being foreshortened, were still, in themselves, 
comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a distance from the point of sight, to admit 
of any very accurate examination. Nevertheless, what could be seen was of a nature 
singular and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and which, with 
slight qualification, may be called the limit of human discovery in these regions, one 
unbroken, or nearly unbroken, sheet of ice continues to extend. In the first few degrees of 
this its progress, its surface is very sensibly flattened, farther on depressed into a plane, 
and finally, becoming not a little concave, it terminates, at the Pole itself, in a circular 
centre, sharply defined, wbose apparent diameter subtended at the balloon an angle of 
about sixty-five seconds, and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at all times, 
darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and occasionally deepened into 
the most absolute and impenetrable blackness. Farther than this, little could be 
ascertained. By twelve o'clock the circular centre had materially decreased in 
circumference, and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely; the balloon passing over the 
western limb of the ice, and floating away rapidly in the direction of the equator. 

April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth's apparent diameter, besides a material 
alteration in its general color and appearance. The whole visible area partook in different 
degrees of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy even 
painful to the eye. My view downward was also considerably impeded by the dense 
atmosphere in the vicinity of the surface being loaded with clouds, between whose 
masses I could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This difficulty of 
direct vision had troubled me more or less for the last forty-eight hours; but my present 
enormous elevation brought closer together, as it were, the floating bodies of vapor, and 
the inconvenience became, of course, more and more palpable in proportion to my ascent. 
Nevertheless, I could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of 
great lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a course, due south, 
which would bring me to the tropics. This circumstance did not fail to give me the most 
heartful satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed, the 
direction I had hitherto taken, had filled me with uneasiness; for it was evident that, had I 
continued it much longer, there would have been no possibility of my arriving at the 
moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at only the small angle of 5 degrees 8' 
48". 



April 9th. To-day the earth's diameter was greatly diminished, and the color of the 
surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her course to 
the southward, and arrived, at nine P.M., over the northern edge of the Mexican Gulf. 

April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o'clock this morning, by a 
loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I could in no manner account. It was of very 
brief duration, but, while it lasted resembled nothing in the world of which I had any 
previous experience. It is needless to say that I became excessively alarmed, having, in 
the first instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined all my 
apparatus, however, with great attention, and could discover nothing out of order. Spent a 
great part of the day in meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but could find no 
means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied, and in a state of great 
anxiety and agitation. 

April 1 1th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of the earth, and a 
considerable increase, now observable for the first time, in that of the moon itself, which 
wanted only a few days of being full. It now required long and excessive labor to 
condense within the chamber sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of life. 

April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the direction of the balloon, and 
although fully anticipated, afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in 
its former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off suddenly, 
at an acute angle, to the eastward, and thus proceeded throughout the day, keeping nearly, 
if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar elipse. What was worthy of remark, a 
very perceptible vacillation in the car was a consequence of this change of route-a 
vacillation which prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours. 

April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the loud, crackling noise 
which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon the subject, but was unable to form 
any satisfactory conclusion. Great decrease in the earth's apparent diameter, which now 
subtended from the balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The 
moon could not be seen at all, 

THE END 



HOP-FROG OR THE EIGHT CHAINED OURANG- 

OUTANGS 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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

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

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

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

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

I believe the name 'Hop-Frog' was not that given to the dwarf by his sponsors at baptism, 
but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of the several ministers, on account of 
his inability to walk as other men do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of 
interjectional gait-something between a leap and a wriggle-a movement that afforded 



illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king, for (notwithstanding the 
protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional swelling of the head) the king, by his 
whole court, was accounted a capital figure. 

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

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

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

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

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

When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they found him sitting at his 
wine with the seven members of his cabinet council; but the monarch appeared to be in a 
very ill humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was not fond of wine, for it excited the poor 



cripple almost to madness; and madness is no comfortable feeling. But the king loved his 
practical jokes, and took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it) 
'to be merry.' 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hop-Frog also laughed although feebly and somewhat vacantly. 

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

"What-what-what are you making that noise for?" demanded the king, turning furiously 
to the dwarf. 

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

"I-I? How could it have been me?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

"Capital!" roared in chorus the monarch and his ministry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grand saloon in which the masquerade was to take place, was a circular room, very 
lofty, and receiving the light of the sun only through a single window at top. At night (the 
season for which the apartment was especially designed) it was illuminated principally by 
a large chandelier, depending by a chain from the centre of the sky-light, and lowered, or 



elevated, by means of a counter-balance as usual; but (in order not to look unsightly) this 
latter passed outside the cupola and over the roof. 

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I now see distinctly." he said, "what manner of people these maskers are. They are a 
great king and his seven privy-councillors,-a king who does not scruple to strike a 



defenceless girl and his seven councillors who abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I 
am simply Hop-Frog, the jester-and this is my last jest." 

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

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

THE END 



HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



"In the name of the prophets-figs! ! " 
Cry of 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-puU 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 hke 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 
"CuUey'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 
common-place 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 Vemunft,' 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 every thing-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-espritism, 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, Aoede-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 recherche. 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! 

'II 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 mosaiques. 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 recherche 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. 

Anerh 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'U 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. 

THE END 



HYMN 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1835 



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

THE END 



IMITATION 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



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

THE END 



ISRAFEL 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1831 



In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

"Whose heart-strings are a lute"; 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 

Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 
In her highest noon. 
The enamored moon 
Blushes with love. 
While, to listen, the red levin 
(With the rapid Pleiads, even. 
Which were seven,) 
Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 

And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings- 

The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod. 
Where deep thoughts are a duty- 
Where Love's a grown-up God- 
Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 

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



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

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours; 
Our flowers are merely-flowers. 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 

Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 

He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody. 

While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 

THE END 



KING PEST 

A Tale Containing an Allegory 
by Edgar Allan Poe 

1835 



The gods do bear and will allow in kings 
The things which they abhor in rascal routes. 
Buckhurst's Tragedy of F err ex and Porrex. 

ABOUT twelve o'clock, one night in the month of October, and during the chivalrous 
reign of the third Edward, two seamen belonging to the crew of the "Free and Easy," a 
trading schooner plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that river, 
were much astonished to find themselves seated in the tap-room of an ale-house in the 
parish of St. Andrews, London —which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a "Jolly 
Tar." 

The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched, and in every other 
respect agreeing with the general character of such places at the period —was, 
nevertheless, in the opinion of the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it, 
sufficiently well adapted to its purpose. 

Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most interesting, if not the most 
conspicuous. 

The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion addressed by the 
characteristic appellation of "Legs," was at the same time much the taller of the two. He 
might have measured six feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed to 
have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous.— Superfluities in height 
were, however, more than accounted for by deficiencies in other respects. He was 
exceedingly thin; and might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for a 
pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a jib-boom. But these jests, and 
others of a similar nature, had evidently produced, at no time, any effect upon the 
cachinnatory muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose, retreating 
chin, f Allan under-jaw, and huge protruding white eyes, the expression of his 
countenance, although tinged with a species of dogged indifference to matters and things 
in general, was not the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts at imitation or 
description. 

The younger seaman was, in all outward appearance, the converse of his companion. His 
stature could not have exceeded four feet. A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, 
unwieldy figure, while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists at their 



extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like the fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of 
no particular color, twinkled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the mass 
of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face; and his thick upper-lip rested 
upon the still thicker one beneath with an air of complacent self-satisfaction, much 
heightened by the owner's habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently regarded his 
tall shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous, half-quizzical; and stared up occasionally in 
his face as the red setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis. 

Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the worthy couple in and 
about the different tap-houses of the neighbourhood during the earlier hours of the night. 
Funds even the most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with empty pockets 
our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie. 

At the precise period, then, when this history properly commences. Legs, and his fellow 
Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with both elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the 
middle of the floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing, from behind a 
huge flagon of unpaid-for "humming-stuff," the portentous words, "No Chalk," which to 
their indignation and astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very 
mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the gift of decyphering written 
characters —a gift among the commonalty of that day considered little less cabalistical 
than the art of inditing —could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge of either 
disciple of the sea; but there was, to say the truth, a certain twist in the formation of the 
letters —an indescribable lee-lurch about the whole —which foreboded, in the opinion of 
both seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at once, in the allegorical 
words of Legs himself, to "pump ship, clew up all sail, and scud before the wind." 

Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and looped up the points of 
their short doublets, they finally made a bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled 
twice into the fire-place, mistaking it for the door, yet their escape was at length happily 
effected —and half after twelve o'clock found our heroes ripe for mischief, and running 
for life down a dark alley in the direction of St. Andrew's Stair, hotly pursued by the 
landlady of the "Jolly Tar." 

At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many years before and after, all 
England, but more especially the metropolis, resounded with the fearful cry of "Plague!" 
The city was in a great measure depopulated —and in those horrible regions, in the 
vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and filthy lanes and alleys, the 
Demon of Disease was supposed to have had his nativity. Awe, Terror, and Superstition 
were alone to be found stalking abroad. 

By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban, and all persons forbidden, 
under pain of death, to intrude upon their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the 
monarch, nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets, nor the prospect of 
that loathsome death which, with almost absolute certainty, overwhelmed the wretch 
whom no peril could deter from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and untenanted 



dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly rapine, of every article, such as 
iron, brass, or lead- work, which could in any manner be turned to a profitable account. 

Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening of the barriers, that 
locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had proved but slender protection to those rich stores of 
wines and liquors which, in consideration of the risk and trouble of removal, many of the 
numerous dealers having shops in the neighbourhood had consented to trust, during the 
period of exile, to so insufficient a security. 

But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who attributed these doings to the 
agency of human hands. Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular 
imps of mischief; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told, that the whole mass of 
forbidden buildings was, at length, enveloped in terror as in a shroud, and the plunderer 
himself was often scared away by the horrors his own depreciations had created; leaving 
the entire vast circuit of prohibited district to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death. 

It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and which indicated the region 
beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that, in scrambling down an alley. Legs and the worthy 
Hugh Tarpaulin found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the 
question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were close upon their heels. With 
thorough-bred seamen to clamber up the roughly fashioned plank- work was a trifle; and, 
maddened with the twofold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped unhesitatingly 
down within the enclosure, and holding on their drunken course with shouts and yellings, 
were soon bewildered in its noisome and intricate recesses. 

Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, their reeling footsteps must 
have been palsied by the horrors of their situation. The air was cold and misty. The 
paving-stones, loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall, rank grass, 
which sprang up around the feet and ankles. FAUan houses choked up the streets. The 
most fetid and poisonous smells everywhere prevailed; -and by the aid of that ghastly 
light which, even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapory and pestilential at 
atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths and alleys, or rotting in the 
windowless habitations, the carcass of many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by the hand of 
the plague in the very perpetration of his robbery. 

-But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or impediments such as these, to 
stay the course of men who, naturally brave, and at that time especially, brimful of 
courage and of "humming-stuff!" would have reeled, as straight as their condition might 
have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of Death. Onward —still onward stalked 
the grim Legs, making the desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific 
war-whoop of the Indian: and onward, still onward rolled the dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging 
on to the doublet of his more active companion, and far surpassing the latter's most 
strenuous exertions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings in basso, from the 
profundity of his stentorian lungs. 



They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pestilence. Their way at every step 
or plunge grew more noisome and more horrible —the paths more narrow and more 
intricate. Huge stones and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above them, 
gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast height of the surrounding 
houses; and while actual exertion became necessary to force a passage through frequent 
heaps of rubbish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a skeleton or rested 
upon a more fleshly corpse. 

Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a tall and ghastly-looking 
building, a yell more than usually shrill from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to 
from within, in a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish shrieks. Nothing 
daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at such a time, and in such a place, might have 
curdled the very blood in hearts less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple rushed 
headlong against the door, burst it open, and staggered into the midst of things with a 
volley of curses. 

The room within which they found themselves proved to be the shop of an undertaker; 
but an open trap-door, in a comer of the floor near the entrance, looked down upon a long 
range of wine-cellars, whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles proclaimed 
to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the middle of the room stood a table - 
-in the centre of which again arose a huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of 
various wines and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every shape and 
quality, were scattered profusely upon the board. Around it, upon coffin-tressels, was 
seated a company of six. This company I will endeavor to delineate one by one. 

Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his companions, sat a personage who 
appeared to be the president of the table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was 
confounded to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself. His face was as 
yellow as saffron -but no feature excepting one alone, was sufficiently marked to merit a 
particular description. This one consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously lofty, 
as to have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh superadded upon the natural 
head. His mouth was puckered and dimpled into an expression of ghastly affability, and 
his eyes, as indeed the eyes of all at table, were glazed over with the fumes of 
intoxication. This gentleman was clothed from head to foot in a richly-embroidered black 
silk- velvet pall, wrapped negligently around his form after the fashion of a Spanish cloak. 
-His head was stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which he nodded to and fro with a 
jaunty and knowing air; and, in his right hand, he held a huge human thigh-bone, with 
which he appeared to have been just knocking down some member of the company for a 
song. 

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no whit the less extraordinary 
character. Although quite as tall as the person just described, she had no right to complain 
of his unnatural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a dropsy; and her 
figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon of October beer which stood, with the 
head driven in, close by her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly 
round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of peculiarity, attached itself 



to her countenance, which I before mentioned in the case of the president —that is to say, 
only one feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a separate 
characterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately observed that the same remark 
might have applied to each individual person of the party; every one of whom seemed to 
possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy. With the lady in 
question this portion proved to be the mouth. Commencing at the right ear, it swept with 
a terrific chasm to the left —the short pendants which she wore in either auricle 
continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every exertion to keep her 
mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress consisting of a newly starched and ironed 
shroud coming up close under her chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin. 

At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared to patronise. This 
delicate little creature, in the trembling of her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, 
and in the slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion, gave evident 
indications of a galloping consumption. An air of gave extreme haut ton, however, 
pervaded her whole appearance; she wore in a graceful and degage manner, a large and 
beautiful winding-sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets over her neck; a 
soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose, extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible 
and pimpled, hung down far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in 
which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her tongue, gave to her 
countenance a somewhat equivocal expression. 

Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was seated a little puffy, 
wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, 
like two huge bladders of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg 
deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to some consideration. He 
evidently prided himself much upon every inch of his personal appearance, but took more 
especial delight in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say the truth, 
must have cost him no little money, and was made to fit him exceedingly well —being 
fashioned from one of the curiously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those 
glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are customarily hung up, in some 
conspicuous place, upon the dwellings of departed aristocracy. 

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a gentleman in long white hose 
and cotton drawers. His frame shook, in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin 
called "the horrors." His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly tied up by a 
bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in a similar way at the wrists, 1 1 
prevented him from helping himself too freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution 
rendered necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and wine-bibbing 
cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears, nevertheless, which it was no doubt found 
impossible to confine, towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were 
occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing of a cork. 

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly stiff-looking personage, who, 
being afflicted with paralysis, must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his 
unaccommodating habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely, in a new and 



handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece pressed upon the skull of the wearer, 
and extended over it in the fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of 
indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for the sake not more of 
elegance than of convenience; but the dress, nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from 
sitting as erect as his associates; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at an angle of 
forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle eyes rolled up their awful whites towards the 
celling in absolute amazement at their own enormity. 

Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was used as a drinking cup. 
Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by means of a rope tied round one of the legs 
and fastened to a ring in the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck off 
from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and rattling frame to dangle and 
twirl about at the caprice of every occasional puff of wind which found its way into the 
apartment. In the cranium of this hideous thing lay quantity of ignited charcoal, which 
threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire scene; while coffins, and other wares 
appertaining to the shop of an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and 
against the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street. 

At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more extraordinary 
paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct themselves with that degree of decorum 
which might have been expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened 
to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and spread open his eyes to 
their fullest extent: while Hugh Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a 
level with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst into a long, loud, 
and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and immoderate laughter. 

Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively rude, the tall president 
smiled very graciously upon the intruders -nodded to them in a dignified manner with 
his head of sable plumes -and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a seat which 
some others of the company had placed in the meantime for his accommodation. Legs to 
all this offered not the slightest resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while tile 
gallant Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head of the table, to the 
vicinity of the little consumptive lady in the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in 
high glee, and pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better acquaintance. But 
at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and 
serious consequences might have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table 
with his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the following speech: 

"It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion"— 

"Avast there!" interrupted Legs, looking very serious, "avast there a bit, I say, and tell us 
who the devil ye all are, and what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, 
and swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my honest shipmate. Will 
Wimble the undertaker!" 



At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original company half started to their 
feet, and uttered the same rapid succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before 
caught the attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to recover his 
composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great dignity, recommenced: 

"Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the part of guests so 
illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then that in these dominions I am monarch, 
and here rule with undivided empire under the title of 'King Pest the First.' 

"This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of Will Wimble 
the undertaker -a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian appellation has never 
before this night thwarted our royal ears —this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of 
our Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty 
purposes. 

"The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene Consort. The other exalted 
personages whom you behold are all of our family, and wear the insignia of the blood 
royal under the respective titles of 'His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous' —'His Grace 
the Duke Pest-Ilential' —'His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest' —and 'Her Serene Highness the 
Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.' 

"As regards," continued he, "your demand of the business upon which we sit here in 
council, we might be pardoned for replying that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own 
private and regal interest, and is in no manner important to any other than ourself. But in 
consideration of those rights to which as guests and strangers you may feel yourselves 
entitled, we will furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep 
research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and thoroughly determine the 
indefinable spirit —the incomprehensible qualities and nature —of those inestimable 
treasures of the palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis: by so 
doing to advance not more our own designs than the true welfare of that unearthly 
sovereign whose reign is over us all, whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is 
'Death.' 

"Whose name is Davy Jones!" ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the lady by his side to a skull 
of liqueur, and pouring out a second for himself. 

"Profane varlet!" said the president, now turning his attention to the worthy Hugh, 
"profane and execrable wretch! —we have said, that in consideration of those rights 
which, even in thy filthy person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended 
to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We nevertheless, for your 
unhallowed intrusion upon our councils, believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy 
companion in each a gallon of Black Strap —having imbibed which to the prosperity of 
our kingdom —at a single draught -and upon your bended knees -ye shall be forthwith 
free either to proceed upon your way, or remain and be admitted to the privileges of our 
table, according to your respective and individual pleasures." 



"It would be a matter of utter impossibility," replied Legs, whom the assumptions and 
dignity of King Pest the First had evidently inspired some feelings of respect, and who 
arose and steadied himself by the table as he spoke —"It would, please your majesty, be a 
matter of utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even one-fourth part of the same 
liquor which your majesty has just mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on 
board in the forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales and liqueurs 
shipped this evening at different sea-ports, I have, at present, a full cargo of 'humming 
stuff taken in and duly paid for at the sign of the 'Jolly Tar.' You will, therefore, please 
your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the deed -for by no manner of means 
either can I or will I swallow another drop —least of all a drop of that villainous bilge- 
water that answers to the hall of 'Black Strap.'" 

"Belay that!" interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the length of his companion's 
speech than at the nature of his refusal —"Belay that you tubber! —and I say. Legs, none 
of your palaver! My hull is still light, although I confess you yourself seem to be a little 
top-heavy; and as for the matter of your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall 
I would find stowageroom for it myself, but" — 

"This proceeding," interposed the president, "is by no means in accordance with the terms 
of the mulct or sentence, which is in its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. 
The conditions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and that without a 
moment's hesitation —in failure of which fulfilment we decree that you do here be tied 
neck and heels together, and duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer!" 

"A sentence! —a sentence! —a righteous and just sentence! —a glorious decree! -a most 
worthy and upright, and holy condemnation!" shouted the Pest family altogether. The 
king elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little old man puffed like 
a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman 
in the cotton drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a dying fish; and 
he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his eyes. 

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!" chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general excitation, "ugh! ugh! 
ugh! -ugh! ugh! ugh! —ugh! ugh! ugh! —I was saying," said he, "I was saying when Mr. 
King Pest poked in his marlin- spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more or 
less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like myself not overstowed —but 
when it comes to drinking the health of the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down 
upon my marrow bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I know 
myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but Tim Hurlygurly the stage- 
player —why! it's quite another guess sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my 
comprehension." 

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the name Tim Hurlygurly the 
whole assembly leaped from their name seats. 

"Treason!" shouted his Majesty King Pest the First. 



"Treason!" said the little man with the gout. 

"Treason!" screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. 

"Treason!" muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up. 

"Treason!" growled he of the coffin. 

"Treason! treason!" shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and, seizing by the hinder part of 
his breeches the unfortunate Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself 
a skull of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall without ceremony into 
the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale. Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like 
an apple in a bowl of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool of foam 
which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles easily succeeded in creating. 

Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture of his companion. 
Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the valiant Legs slammed the door down upon 
him with an oath, and strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the 
skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so much energy and good 
will, that, as the last glimpses of light died away within the apartment, he succeeded in 
knocking out the brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with all his 
force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over 
and over in an instant. Out burst a deluge of liquor so fierce —so impetuous —so 
overwhelming -that the room was flooded from wall to wall -the loaded table was 
overturned —the tressels were thrown upon their backs —the tub of punch into the fire- 
place -and the ladies into hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs, 
pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the melee, and wicker flagons 
encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The man with the horrors was drowned 
upon the spot-the little stiff gentleman floated off in his coffin —and the victorious Legs, 
seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with her into the street, and 
made a bee-line for the "Free and Easy," followed under easy sail by the redoubtable 
Hugh Tarpaulin, who, having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him 
with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. 

THE END 



LANDOR'S COTTAGE 

A Pendant to "The Domain of Amheim" 
by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



DURING A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the river counties of New 
York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat embarrassed about the road I was 
pursuing. The land undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had wound 
about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the valleys, that I no longer knew in 
what direction lay the sweet village of B-, where I had determined to stop for the night. 
The sun had scarcely shone-strictly speaking-during the day, which nevertheless, had 
been unpleasantly warm. A smoky mist, resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped 
all things, and of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much about the matter. 
If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or even before dark, it was more than 
possible that a little Dutch farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its 
appearance-although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on account of being more 
picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for 
a pillow, and my hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the thing which 
would have amused me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite at ease-Ponto taking charge of 
my gun-until at length, just as I had begun to consider whether the numerous little glades 
that led hither and thither, were intended to be paths at all, I was conducted by one of 
them into an unquestionable carriage track. There could be no mistaking it. The traces of 
light wheels were evident; and although the tall shrubberies and overgrown undergrowth 
met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever below, even to the passage of a 
Virginian mountain wagon-the most aspiring vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The road, 
however, except in being open through the wood-if wood be not too weighty a name for 
such an assemblage of light trees-and except in the particulars of evident wheel-tracks- 
bore no resemblance to any road I had before seen. The tracks of which I speak were but 
faintly perceptible-having been impressed upon the firm, yet pleasantly moist surface of- 
what looked more like green Genoese velvet than any thing else. It was grass, clearly-but 
grass such as we seldom see out of England-so short, so thick, so even, and so vivid in 
color. Not a single impediment lay in the wheel-route-not even a chip or dead twig. The 
stones that once obstructed the way had been carefully placed-not thrown-along the sides 
of the lane, so as to define its boundaries at bottom with a kind of half -precise, half- 
negligent, and wholly picturesque definition. Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere, 
luxuriantly, in the interspaces. 

What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art undoubtedly-that did not 
surprise me-all roads, in the ordinary sense, are works of art; nor can I say that there was 
much to wonder at in the mere excess of art manifested; all that seemed to have been 
done, might have been done here-with such natural "capabilities" (as they have it in the 



books on Landscape Gardening)-with very little labor and expense. No; it was not the 
amount but the character of the art which caused me to take a seat on one of the blossomy 
stones and gaze up and down this fairy-like avenue for half an hour or more in 
bewildered admiration. One thing became more and more evident the longer I gazed: an 
artist, and one with a most scrupulous eye for form, had superintended all these 
arrangements. The greatest care had been taken to preserve a due medium between the 
neat and graceful on the one hand, and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the Italian 
term, on the other. There were few straight, and no long uninterrupted lines. The same 
effect of curvature or of color appeared twice, usually, but not oftener, at any one point of 
view. Everywhere was variety in uniformity. It was a piece of "composition," in which 
the most fastidiously critical taste could scarcely have suggested an emendation. 

I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now, arising, I continued in the same 
direction. The path was so serpentine, that at no moment could I trace its course for more 
than two or three paces in advance. Its character did not undergo any material change. 

Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear-and in a few moments afterward, 
as I turned with the road somewhat more abruptly than hitherto, I became aware that a 
building of some kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before me. I could see 
nothing distinctly on account of the mist which occupied all the little valley below. A 
gentle breeze, however, now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I 
remained standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became dissipated into 
wreaths, and so floated over the scene. 

As it came fully into view-thus gradually as I describe it-piece by piece, here a tree, 
there a glimpse of water, and here again the summit of a chimney, I could scarcely help 
fancying that the whole was one of the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited under the 
name of "vanishing pictures." 

By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared, the sun had made its way 
down behind the gentle hills, and thence, as it with a slight chassez to the south, had 
come again fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a chasm that entered 
the valley from the west. Suddenly, therefore-and as if by the hand of magic- this whole 
valley and every thing in it became brilliantly visible. 

The first coup d'oeil, as the sun slid into the position described, impressed me very much 
as I have been impressed, when a boy, by the concluding scene of some well-arranged 
theatrical spectacle or melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was wanting; for the 
sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all orange and purple; while the vivid green 
of the grass in the valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from the curtain of 
vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its total departure from a scene so 
enchantingly beautiful. 

The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog canopy could not have 
been more than four hundred yards long; while in breadth it varied from fifty to one 
hundred and fifty or perhaps two hundred. It was most narrow at its northern extremity. 



opening out as it tended southwardly, but with no very precise regularity. The widest 
portion was within eighty yards of the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed 
the vale could not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face. Here a precipitous 
ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley 
at this point was not more than fifty feet wide; but as the visiter proceeded southwardly 
from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his left, declivities at once less high, less 
precipitous, and less rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to the south; and yet the 
whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less high, except at two points. One of 
these I have already spoken of. It lay considerably to the north of west, and was where 
the setting sun made its way, as I have before described, into the amphitheatre, through a 
cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards 
wide at its widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead up, up like a 
natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored mountains and forests. The other 
opening was directly at the southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were 
nothing more than gentle inclinations, extending from east to west about one hundred and 
fifty yards. In the middle of this extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of 
the valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every thing else, the scene 
softened and sloped to the south. To the north-on the craggy precipice-a few paces from 
the verge-up sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black walnuts, and 
chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak, and the strong lateral branches thrown out by 
the walnuts especially, spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly, the 
explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees, but less and less lofty and Salvatorish in 
character; then he saw the gentler elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust-these again 
by the softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple-these yet again by still more graceful 
and more modest varieties. The whole face of the southern declivity was covered with 
wild shrubbery alone-an occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom 
of the valley itself-(for it must be borne in mind that the vegetation hitherto mentioned 
grew only on the cliffs or hillsides)-were to be seen three insulated trees. One was an elm 
of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern gate of the vale. Another 
was a hickory, much larger than the elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both 
were exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the northwestern entrance, 
springing from a group of rocks in the very jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful 
body, at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of the 
amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood, however, the pride of the valley, 
and beyond all question the most magnificent tree I have ever seen, unless, perhaps, 
among the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a triple-stemmed tulip-tree-the 
Liriodendron Tulipiferum-one of the natural order of magnolias. Its three trunks 
separated from the parent at about three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and 
gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where the largest stem shot out 
into foliage: this was at an elevation of about eighty feet. The whole height of the 
principal division was one hundred and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty the 
form, or the glossy, vivid green of the leaves of the tulip-tree. In the present instance they 
were fully eight inches wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by the gorgeous 
splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, closely congregated, a million of the largest 
and most resplendent tulips! Only thus can the reader get any idea of the picture I would 
convey. And then the stately grace of the clean, delicately-granulated columnar stems. 



the largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from the ground. The innumerable blossoms, 
mingling with those of other trees scarcely less beautiful, although infinitely less 
majestic, filled the valley with more than Arabian perfumes. 

The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same character as that I had found 
in the road; if anything, more deliciously soft, thick, velvety, and miraculously green. It 
was hard to conceive how all this beauty had been attained. 

I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the northwest issued a 
rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and slightly foaming, down the ravine, until it 
dashed against the group of rocks out of which sprang the insulated hickory. Here, after 
encircling the tree, it passed on a little to the north of east, leaving the tulip tree some 
twenty feet to the south, and making no decided alteration in its course until it came near 
the midway between the eastern and western boundaries of the valley. At this point, after 
a series of sweeps, it turned off at right angles and pursued a generally southern direction 
meandering as it went-until it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure (although 
roughly oval), that lay gleaming near the lower extremity of the vale. This lakelet was, 
perhaps, a hundred yards in diameter at its widest part. No crystal could be clearer than 
its waters. Its bottom, which could be distinctly seen, consisted altogether, of pebbles 
brilliantly white. Its banks, of the emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than 
sloped, off into the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so perfectly, at 
times, did it reflect all objects above it, that where the true bank ended and where the 
mimic one commenced, it was a point of no little difficulty to determine. The trout, and 
some other varieties of fish, with which this pond seemed to be almost inconveniently 
crowded, had all the appearance of veritable flying-fish. It was almost impossible to 
believe that they were not absolutely suspended in the air. A light birch canoe that lay 
placidly on the water, was reflected in its minutest fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed by 
the most exquisitely polished mirror. A small island, fairly laughing with flowers in full 
bloom, and affording little more space than just enough for a picturesque little building, 
seemingly a fowl-house-arose from the lake not far from its northern shore-to which it 
was connected by means of an inconceivably light-looking and yet very primitive bridge. 
It was formed of a single, broad and thick plank of the tulip wood. This was forty feet 
long, and spanned the interval between shore and shore with a slight but very perceptible 
arch, preventing all oscillation. From the southern extreme of the lake issued a 
continuation of the rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty yards, finally 
passed through the "depression" (already described) in the middle of the southern 
declivity, and tumbling down a sheer precipice of a hundred feet, made its devious and 
unnoticed way to the Hudson. 

The lake was deep-at some points thirty feet-but the rivulet seldom exceeded three, 
while its greatest width was about eight. Its bottom and banks were as those of the pond- 
if a defect could have been attributed, in point of picturesqueness, it was that of excessive 
neatness. 

The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an occasional showy shrub, 
such as the hydrangea, or the common snowball, or the aromatic seringa; or, more 



frequently, by a clump of geraniums blossoming gorgeously in great varieties. These 
latter grew in pots which were carefully buried in the soil, so as to give the plants the 
appearance of being indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn's velvet was exquisitely 
spotted with sheep-a considerable flock of which roamed about the vale, in company 
with three tamed deer, and a vast number of brilliantly-plumed ducks. A very large 
mastiff seemed to be in vigilant attendance upon these animals, each and all. 

Along the eastern and western cliffs-where, toward the upper portion of the 
amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less precipitous-grew ivy in great profusion- 
so that only here and there could even a glimpse of the naked rock be obtained. The 
northern precipice, in like manner, was almost entirely clothed by grape-vines of rare 
luxuriance; some springing from the soil at the base of the cliff, and others from ledges 
on its face. 

The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this little domain, was crowned 
by a neat stone wall, of sufficient height to prevent the escape of the deer. Nothing of the 
fence kind was observable elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial enclosure 
needed:-any stray sheep, for example, which should attempt to make its way out of the 
vale by means of the ravine, would find its progress arrested, after a few yards' advance, 
by the precipitous ledge of rock over which tumbled the cascade that had arrested my 
attention as I first drew near the domain. In short, the only ingress or egress was through 
a gate occupying a rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I stopped 
to reconnoitre the scene. 

I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through the whole of its 
course. Its two general directions, as I have said, were first from west to east, and then 
from north to south. At the turn, the stream, sweeping backward, made an almost circular 
loop, so as to form a peninsula which was very nearly an island, and which included 
about the sixteenth of an acre. On this peninsula stood a dwelling-house-and when I say 
that this house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek, "etait d'une architecture inconnue 
dans les annales de la terre," I mean, merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the 
keenest sense of combined novelty and propriety-in a word, of poetry-(for, than in the 
words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in the abstract, a more rigorous 
definition)-and I do not mean that merely outre was perceptible in any respect. 

In fact nothing could well be more simple-more utterly unpretending than this cottage. Its 
marvellous effect lay altogether in its artistic arrangement as a picture. I could have 
fancied, while I looked at it, that some eminent landscape-painter had built it with his 
brush. 

The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not altogether, although it was 
nearly, the best point from which to survey the house. I will therefore describe it as I 
afterwards saw it- from a position on the stone wall at the southern extreme of the 
amphitheatre. 



The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen broad- certainly not more. 
Its total height, from the ground to the apex of the roof, could not have exceeded eighteen 
feet. To the west end of this structure was attached one about a third smaller in all its 
proportions:-the line of its front standing back about two yards from that of the larger 
house, and the line of its roof, of course, being considerably depressed below that of the 
roof adjoining. At right angles to these buildings, and from the rear of the main one-not 
exactly in the middle-extended a third compartment, very small- being, in general, one- 
third less than the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were very steep-sweeping 
down from the ridge-beam with a long concave curve, and extending at least four feet 
beyond the walls in front, so as to form the roofs of two piazzas. These latter roofs, of 
course, needed no support; but as they had the air of needing it, slight and perfectly plain 
pillars were inserted at the corners alone. The roof of the northern wing was merely an 
extension of a portion of the main roof. Between the chief building and western wing 
arose a very tall and rather slender square chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alternately black 
and red:-a slight cornice of projecting bricks at the top. Over the gables the roofs also 
projected very much:-in the main building about four feet to the east and two to the west. 
The principal door was not exactly in the main division, being a little to the east-while 
the two windows were to the west. These latter did not extend to the floor, but were much 
longer and narrower than usual-they had single shutters like doors- the panes were of 
lozenge form, but quite large. The door itself had its upper half of glass, also in lozenge 
panes-a movable shutter secured it at night. The door to the west wing was in its gable, 
and quite simple-a single window looked out to the south. There was no external door to 
the north wing, and it also had only one window to the east. 

The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with a balustrade) running 
diagonally across it-the ascent being from the south. Under cover of the widely 
projecting eave these steps gave access to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft-for it 
was lighted only by a single window to the north, and seemed to have been intended as a 
store-room. 

The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors, as is usual; but at the 
doors and at each window, large, flat irregular slabs of granite lay imbedded in the 
delicious turf, affording comfortable footing in all weather. Excellent paths of the same 
material-not nicely adapted, but with the velvety sod filling frequent intervals between 
the stones, led hither and thither from the house, to a crystal spring about five paces off, 
to the road, or to one or two out-houses that lay to the north, beyond the brook, and were 
thoroughly concealed by a few locusts and catalpas. 

Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood the dead trunk of a 
fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to foot in the gorgeous bignonia blossoms that 
one required no little scrutiny to determine what manner of sweet thing it could be. From 
various arms of this tree hung cages of different kinds. In one, a large wicker cylinder 
with a ring at top, revelled a mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a third the impudent 
bobolink-while three or four more delicate prisons were loudly vocal with canaries. 



The pillars of the piazza were en wreathed in jasmine and sweet honeysuckle; while from 
the angle formed by the main structure and its west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of 
unexampled luxuriance. Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the lower roof- 
then to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter it continued to writhe on, throwing 
out tendrils to the right and left, until at length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell 
trailing over the stairs. 

The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the old-fashioned Dutch shingles- 
broad, and with unrounded corners. It is a peculiarity of this material to give houses built 
of it the appearance of being wider at bottom than at top-after the manner of Egyptian 
architecture; and in the present instance, this exceedingly picturesque effect was aided by 
numerous pots of gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the base of the buildings. 

The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with which this neutral tint 
melted into the vivid green of the tulip tree leaves that partially overshadowed the 
cottage, can readily be conceived by an artist. 

From the position near the stone wall, as described, the buildings were seen at great 
advantage-for the southeastern angle was thrown forward-so that the eye took in at once 
the whole of the two fronts, with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the same time 
obtained just a sufficient glimpse of the northern wing, with parts of a pretty roof to the 
spring-house, and nearly half of a light bridge that spanned the brook in the near vicinity 
of the main buildings. 

I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long enough to make a 
thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was clear that I had wandered from the road to 
the village, and I had thus good traveller's excuse to open the gate before me, and inquire 
my way, at all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded. 

The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural ledge, sloping gradually 
down along the face of the north-eastern cliffs. It led me on to the foot of the northern 
precipice, and thence over the bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front door. In this 
progress, I took notice that no sight of the out-houses could be obtained. 

As I turned the comer of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards me in stern silence, but 
with the eye and the whole air of a tiger. I held him out my hand, however, in token of 
amity-and I never yet knew the dog who was proof against such an appeal to his 
courtesy. He not only shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but absolutely offered me his 
paw-afterward extending his civilities to Ponto. 

As no bell was discemible, I rapped with my stick against the door, which stood half 
open. Instantly a figure advanced to the threshold- that of a young woman about twenty- 
eight years of age-slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium height. As 
she approached, with a certain modest decision of step altogether indescribable. I said to 
myself, "Surely here I have found the perfection of natural, in contradistinction from 
artificial grace." The second impression which she made on me, but by far the more vivid 



of the two, was that of enthusiasm. So intense an expression of romance, perhaps I should 
call it, or of unworldliness, as that which gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had never so 
sunk into my heart of hearts before. I know not how it is, but this peculiar expression of 
the eye, wreathing itself occasionally into the lips, is the most powerful, if not absolutely 
the sole spell, which rivets my interest in woman. "Romance, provided my readers fully 
comprehended what I would here imply by the word-"romance" and "womanliness" 
seem to me convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman, is simply 
her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from the interior call her "Annie, 
darling!") were "spiritual grey;" her hair, a light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe 
of her. 

At her most courteous of invitations, I entered-passing first into a tolerably wide 
vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I took notice that to my right as I stepped in, 
was a window, such as those in front of the house; to the left, a door leading into the 
principal room; while, opposite me, an open door enabled me to see a small apartment, 
just the size of the vestibule, arranged as a study, and having a large bow window looking 
out to the north. 

Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor-for this, I afterwards found, was 
his name. He was civil, even cordial in his manner, but just then, I was more intent on 
observing the arrangements of the dwelling which had so much interested me, than the 
personal appearance of the tenant. 

The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened into the parlor. West of 
this door was a single window, looking toward the brook. At the west end of the parlor, 
were a fireplace, and a door leading into the west wing-probably a kitchen. 

Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the parlor. On the floor 
was an ingrain carpet, of excellent texture-a white ground, spotted with small circular 
green figures. At the windows were curtains of snowy white jaconet muslin: they were 
tolerably full, and hung decisively, perhaps rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits to the 
floor-just to the floor. The walls were prepared with a French paper of great delicacy, a 
silver ground, with a faint green cord running zig-zag throughout. Its expanse was 
relieved merely by three of Julien's exquisite lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the 
wall without frames. One of these drawings was a scene of Oriental luxury, or rather 
voluptuousness; another was a "carnival piece," spirited beyond compare; the third was a 
Greek female head-a face so divinely beautiful, and yet of an expression so provokingly 
indeterminate, never before arrested my attention. 

The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few chairs (including a large 
rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather "settee;" its material was plain maple painted a 
creamy white, slightly interstriped with green; the seat of cane. The chairs and table were 
"to match," but the forms of all had evidently been designed by the same brain which 
planned "the grounds;" it is impossible to conceive anything more graceful. 



On the table were a few books, a large, square, crystal bottle of some novel perfume, a 
plain ground-glass astral (not solar) lamp with an Italian shade, and a large vase of 
resplendently-blooming flowers. Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous colours and delicate odour 
formed the sole mere decoration of the apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with a 
vase of brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the room stood also a 
similar vase, varied only as to its lovely contents. One or two smaller bouquets adorned 
the mantel, and late violets clustered about the open windows. 

It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in detail, a picture of Mr. Landor's 
residence-as I found it. How he made it what it was-and why-with some particulars of 
Mr. Landor himself- may, possibly form the subject of another article. 

THE END 



LENORE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1831 



Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! 
Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; 
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore! 
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! 
Come! let the burial rite be read-the funeral song be sung!- 
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young- 
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. 

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride. 
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her-that she died! 
How shall the ritual, then, be read?-the requiem how be sung 
By you-by yours, the evil eye,-by yours, the slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" 

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

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

The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside. 

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

bride. 

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies. 

The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes 

The life still there, upon her hair-the death upon her eyes. 

"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven- 
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven- 
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of 
Heaven! 

Let no bell toll, then,-lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth. 
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth! 
And I!-to-night my heart is light!-no dirge will I upraise. 
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!" 

THE END 



LIGEIA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1838 



And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its 
vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man 
doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the 
weakness of his feeble will. 
Joseph Glanvill 

I CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became 
acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble 
through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in 
truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of 
beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made 
their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive that they have 
been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in 
some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family —I have surely heard her 
speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! in studies 
of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by 
that sweet word alone —by Ligeia —that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of 
her who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have 
never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who 
became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful 
charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should 
institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own —a wildly 
romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion? I but indistinctly recall 
the fact itself —what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which 
originated or attended it? And, indeed, if ever she, the wan and the misty- winged 
Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then 
most surely she presided over mine. 

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory falls me not. It is the person of 
Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. 
I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanor, or the 
incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She came and departed as a 
shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study save by the dear 
music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty 
of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream —an airy and 
spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered vision about 
the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not of that regular 
mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the 



heathen. "There is no exquisite beauty," says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all 
the forms and genera of beauty, without some strangeness in the proportion." Yet, 
although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity —although I 
perceived that her loveliness was indeed "exquisite," and felt that there was much of 
"strangeness" pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace 
home my own perception of "the strange." I examined the contour of the lofty and pale 
forehead —it was faultless —how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so 
divine! —the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle 
prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the 
luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, 
"hyacinthine!" I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose —and nowhere but in the 
graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection. There were the 
same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the 
aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the 
sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly —the magnificent turn 
of the short upper lip -the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under —the dimples which 
sported, and the color which spoke —the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost 
startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet 
most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation of the chin —and here, 
too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fullness and the 
spirituality, of the Greek -the contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to 
Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eves of Ligeia. 
For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have been, too, that in these 
eves of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes. They were, I must 
believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes of our own race. They were even fuller than the 
fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. Yet it was only at 
intervals —in moments of intense excitement —that this peculiarity became more than 
slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty -in my heated fancy 
thus it appeared perhaps -the beauty of beings either above or apart from the earth —the 
beauty of the fabulous Houri of the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of 
black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly irregular 
in outline, had the same tint. The "strangeness," however, which I found in the eyes, was 
of a nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and 
must, after all, be referred to the expression. Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast 
latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual. The 
expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours have I pondered upon it! How have 
I, through the whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it —that 
something more profound than the well of Democritus —which lay far within the pupils 
of my beloved? What was it? I was possessed with a passion to discover. Those eyes! 
those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I 
to them devoutest of astrologers. 

There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, 
more thrillingly exciting than the fact —never, I believe, noticed in the schools —that, in 
our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves 
upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. And 
thus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes, have I felt approaching the 



full knowledge of their expression —felt it approaching —yet not quite be mine —and so at 
length entirely depart! And (strange, oh strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the 
commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to theat expression. I mean to 
say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia's beauty passed into my spirit, there 
dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a 
sentiment such as I felt always aroused within me by her large and luminous orbs. Yet 
not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I 
recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly-growing vine —in the 
contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have felt it 
in the ocean; in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged 
people. And there are one or two stars in heaven —(one especially, a star of the sixth 
magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra) in a telescopic 
scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feeling. I have been filled with it by 
certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books. 
Among innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph 
Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness —who shall say?) never failed to 
inspire me with the sentiment; —"And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who 
knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all 
things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death 
utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." 

Length of years, and subsequent reflection, have enabled me to trace, indeed, some 
remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the 
character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a 
result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, 
failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women 
whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most 
violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stem passion. And of such passion I could 
form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so 
delighted and appalled me —by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness and 
placidity of her very low voice —and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by 
contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered. 
I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense —such as I have never known in 
woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own 
acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known 
her at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, because simply the most 
abstruse of the boasted erudition of the academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault? How 
singularly —how thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at 
this late period only, upon my attention! I said her knowledge was such as I have never 
known in woman —but where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all 
the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science? I saw not then what I now 
clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was 
sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a child-like 
confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at 
which I was most busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage. With how vast 
a triumph -with how vivid a delight —with how much of all that is ethereal in hope —did 
I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought —but less known —that delicious 



vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all 
untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely 
precious not to be forbidden! 

How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my 
well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and fly away! Without Ligeia I was 
but as a child groping benighted. Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly 
luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed. 
Wanting the radiant lustre of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than 
Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over 
which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too —too glorious effulgence; 
the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave, and the blue veins 
upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the gentle 
emotion. I saw that she must die —and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim 
Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more 
energetic than my own. There had been much in her stem nature to impress me with the 
belief that, to her, death would have come without its terrors; —but not so. Words are 
impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled 
with the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle, would have soothed —I 
would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life, —for life —but for 
life -solace and reason were the uttermost folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the 
most convulsive writhing s of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her 
demeanor. Her voice grew more gentle —grew more low —yet I would not wish to dwell 
upon the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened 
entranced, to a melody more than mortal -to assumptions and aspirations which 
mortality had never before known. 

That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been easily aware that, in 
a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only, 
was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my 
hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than 
passionate devotion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such 
confessions? —how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the 
hour of her making them. But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, 
that in Ligeia's more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas! all unmerited, all 
unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the principle of her longing with so wildly 
earnest a desire for the life which was now fleeing so rapidly away. It is this wild longing 
—it is this eager vehemence of desire for life —but for life —that I have no power to 
portray —no utterance capable of expressing. 

At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me, peremptorily, to her side, 
she bade me repeat certain verses composed by herself not many days before. I obeyed 
her. —They were these: 

Lo! 'tis a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years! 

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 



In veils, and drowned in tears, 
Sit in a theatre, to see 
A play of hopes and fears. 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high. 
Mutter and mumble low. 
And hither and thither fly — 
Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 
That shift the scenery to and fro. 
Flapping from out their Condor wings 
Invisible Wo! 

That motley drama! -oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot! 

With its Phantom chased forever more. 

By a crowd that seize it not. 

Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self-same spot. 

And much of Madness and more of Sin 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see, amid the mimic rout, 

A crawling shape intrude! 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude! 

It writhes! -it writhes! —with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food. 

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out -out are the lights -out all! 

And over each quivering form. 

The curtain, a funeral pall. 

Comes down with the rush of a storm. 

And the angels, all pallid and wan. 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 

That the play is the tragedy, "Man," 

And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 

"O God!" half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending her arms aloft with a 
spasmodic movement, as I made an end of these lines — "O God! O Divine Father! -shall 
these things be undeviatingly so? —shall this Conqueror be not once conquered? Are we 
not part and parcel in Thee? Who —who knoweth the mysteries of the will with its vigor? 



Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the 
weakness of his feeble will." 

And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms to fall, and returned 
solemnly to her bed of death. And as she breathed her last sighs, there came mingled with 
them a low murmur from her lips. I bent to them my ear and distinguished, again, the 
concluding words of the passage in Glanvill -"Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor 
unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." 
She died; -and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no longer endure the 
lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decaying city by the Rhine. I had no lack 
of what the world calls wealth. Ligeia had brought me far more, very far more than 
ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. After a few months, therefore, of weary and aimless 
wandering, I purchased, and put in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, in one 
of the wildest and least frequented portions of fair England. The gloomy and dreary 
grandeur of the building, the almost savage aspect of the domain, the many melancholy 
and time-honored memories connected with both, had much in unison with the feelings of 
utter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and unsocial region of the 
country. Yet although the external abbey, with its verdant decay hanging about it, 
suffered but little alteration, I gave way, with a child-like perversity, and perchance with 
a faint hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence 
within. —For such follies, even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste and now they came 
back to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of incipient madness 
might have been discovered in the gorgeous and fantastic draperies, in the solemn 
carvings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the 
carpets of tufted gold! I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and my 
labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my dreams. But these absurdities must 
not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that one chamber, ever accursed, whither in a 
moment of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my bride —as the successor of the 
unforgotten Ligeia —the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine. 
There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration of that bridal chamber 
which is not now visibly before me. Where were the souls of the haughty family of the 
bride, when, through thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the threshold of an apartment 
so bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so beloved? I have said that I minutely remember 
the details of the chamber —yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment —and here 
there was no system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the memory. 
The room lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of 
capacious size. Occupying the whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole window 
—an immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice —a single pane, and tinted of a leaden 
hue, so that the rays of either the sun or moon, passing through it, fell with a ghastly 
lustre on the objects within. Over the upper portion of this huge window, extended the 
trellice-work of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret. The 
ceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted 
with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi-Gothic, semi-Druidical device. 
From out the most central recess of this melancholy vaulting, depended, by a single chain 
of gold with long links, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and with 



many perforations so contrived that there writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a 
serpent vitality, a continual succession of parti-colored fires. 

Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were in various stations 
about —and there was the couch, too —bridal couch -of an Indian model, and low, and 
sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy above. In each of the angles of the 
chamber stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the 
kings over against Luxor, with their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in the 
draping of the apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in 
height —even unproportionably so —were hung from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a 
heavy and massive-looking tapestry —tapestry of a material which was found alike as a 
carpet on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and the ebony bed, as a canopy for the 
bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of the curtains which partially shaded the window. The 
material was the richest cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with 
arabesque figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the 
most jetty black. But these figures partook of the true character of the arabesque only 
when regarded from a single point of view. By a contrivance now common, and indeed 
traceable to a very remote period of antiquity, they were made changeable in aspect. To 
one entering the room, they bore the appearance of simple monstrosities; but upon a 
farther advance, this appearance gradually departed; and step by step, as the visitor 
moved his station in the chamber, he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of 
the ghastly forms which belong to the superstition of the Norman, or arise in the guilty 
slumbers of the monk. The phantasmagoric effect was vastly heightened by the artificial 
introduction of a strong continual current of wind behind the draperies —giving a hideous 
and uneasy animation to the whole. 

In halls such as these —in a bridal chamber such as this —I passed, with the Lady of 
Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of our marriage —passed them with 
but little disquietude. That my wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my temper —that she 
shunned me and loved me but little —I could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather 
pleasure than otherwise. I loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than to 
man. My memory flew back, (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, 
the august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in recollections of her purity, of her 
wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love. Now, 
then, did my spirit fully and freely burn with more than all the fires of her own. In the 
excitement of my opium dreams (for I was habitually fettered in the shackles of the drug) 
I would call aloud upon her name, during the silence of the night, or among the sheltered 
recesses of the glens by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn passion, the 
consuming ardor of my longing for the departed, I could restore her to the pathway she 
had abandoned —ah, could it be forever? -upon the earth. 

About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the Lady Rowena was 
attacked with sudden illness, from which her recovery was slow. The fever which 
consumed her rendered her nights uneasy; and in her perturbed state of half-slumber, she 
spoke of sounds, and of motions, in and about the chamber of the turret, which I 
concluded had no origin save in the distemper of her fancy, or perhaps in the 
phantasmagoric influences of the chamber itself. She became at length convalescent — 
finally well. Yet but a brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent disorder again 
threw her upon a bed of suffering; and from this attack her frame, at all times feeble. 



never altogether recovered. Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming character, 
and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the knowledge and the great exertions of 
her physicians. With the increase of the chronic disease which had thus, apparently, taken 
too sure hold upon her constitution to be eradicated by human means, I could not fall to 
observe a similar increase in the nervous irritation of her temperament, and in her 
excitability by trivial causes of fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently and 
pertinaciously, of the sounds -of the slight sounds —and of the unusual motions among 
the tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded. 

One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed this distressing subject with 
more than usual emphasis upon my attention. She had just awakened from an unquiet 
slumber, and I had been watching, with feelings half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the 
workings of her emaciated countenance. I sat by the side of her ebony bed, upon one of 
the ottomans of India. She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of sounds 
which she then heard, but which I could not hear —of motions which she then saw, but 
which I could not perceive. The wind was rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries, and I 
wished to show her (what, let me confess it, I could not all believe) that those almost 
inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations of the figures upon the wall, were 
but the natural effects of that customary rushing of the wind. But a deadly pallor, 
overspreading her face, had proved to me that my exertions to reassure her would be 
fruitless. She appeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within call. I remembered 
where was deposited a decanter of light wine which had been ordered by her physicians, 
and hastened across the chamber to procure it. But, as I stepped beneath the light of the 
censer, two circumstances of a startling nature attracted my attention. I had felt that some 
palpable although invisible object had passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there 
lay upon the golden carpet, in the very middle of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a 
shadow -a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect —such as might be fancied for the 
shadow of a shade. But I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate dose of opium, 
and heeded these things but little, nor spoke of them to Rowena. Having found the wine, I 
recrossed the chamber, and poured out a gobletful, which I held to the lips of the fainting 
lady. She had now partially recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sank 
upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person. It was then that I 
became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon the carpet, and near the couch; and in a 
second thereafter, as Rowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may 
have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some invisible spring in the 
atmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby colored fluid. If 
this I saw -not so Rowena. She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I forbore to 
speak to her of a circumstance which must, after all, I considered, have been but the 
suggestion of a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by 
the opium, and by the hour. 

Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immediately subsequent to the fall 
of the ruby-drops, a rapid change for the worse took place in the disorder of my wife; so 
that, on the third subsequent night, the hands of her menials prepared her for the tomb, 
and on the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which 
had received her as my bride. -Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, 
before me. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room, upon 
the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the parti-colored fires in the 



censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former 
night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer where I had seen the faint traces of the 
shadow. It was there, however, no longer; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned 
my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Then rushed upon me a thousand 
memories of Ligeia —and then came back upon my heart, with the turbulent violence of a 
flood, the whole of that unutterable wo with which I had regarded her thus enshrouded. 
The night waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the one only and 
supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena. 
It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no note of time, 
when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery. —I felt that it came 
from the bed of ebony —the bed of death. I listened in an agony of superstitious terror — 
but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my vision to detect any motion in the 
corpse —but there was not the slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have been deceived. I 
had heard the noise, however faint, and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutely 
and perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. Many minutes elapsed before 
any circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery. At length it became 
evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely noticeable tinge of color had flushed up 
within the cheeks, and along the sunken small veins of the eyelids. Through a species of 
unutterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality has no sufficiently 
energetic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a 
sense of duty finally operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer doubt that 
we had been precipitate in our preparations —that Rowena still lived. It was necessary 
that some immediate exertion be made; yet turret was altogether apart from the portion of 
the abbey tenanted by the servants —there were none within call —I had no means of 
summoning them to my aid without leaving the room for many minutes -and this I could 
not venture to do. I therefore struggled alone in my endeavors to call back the spirit ill 
hovering. In a short period it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place; the 
color disappeared from both eyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of 
marble; the lips became doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the ghastly expression of 
death; a repulsive clamminess and coldness overspread rapidly the surface of the body; 
and all the usual rigorous illness immediately supervened. I fell back with a shudder upon 
the couch from which I had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to 
passionate waking visions of Ligeia. 

An hour thus elapsed when (could it be possible?) I was a second time aware of some 
vague sound issuing from the region of the bed. I listened —in extremity of horror. The 
sound came again —it was a sigh. Rushing to the corpse, I saw —distinctly saw -a tremor 
upon the lips. In a minute afterward they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearly 
teeth. Amazement now struggled in my bosom with the profound awe which had hitherto 
reigned there alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered; and it was 
only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the task which 
duty thus once more had pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead 
and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame; there was 
even a slight pulsation at the heart. The lady lived; and with redoubled ardor I betook 
myself to the task of restoration. I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and used 
every exertion which experience, and no little, medical reading, could suggest. But in 
vain. Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the 



dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the 
livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities of 
that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb. 

And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia —and again, (what marvel that I shudder while I 
write,) again there reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony bed. But why 
shall I minutely detail the unspeakable horrors of that night? Why shall I pause to relate 
how, time after time, until near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous drama of 
revivification was repeated; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and 
apparently more irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with 
some invisible foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild 
change in the personal appearance of the corpse? Let me hurry to a conclusion. 
The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead, once 
again stirred —and now more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from a 
dissolution more appalling in its utter hopelessness than any. I had long ceased to 
struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a helpless prey to a 
whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least 
consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before. The hues 
of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the countenance —the limbs relaxed —and, 
save that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and 
draperies of the grave still imparted their chamel character to the figure, I might have 
dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death. But if this idea 
was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when, arising 
from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of one 
bewildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced boldly and palpably into 
the middle of the apartment. 

I trembled not —I stirred not —for a crowd of unutterable fancies connected with the air, 
the stature, the demeanor of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed 
—had chilled me into stone. I stirred not —but gazed upon the apparition. There was a mad 
disorder in my thoughts —a tumult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena 
who confronted me? Could it indeed be Rowena at all —the fair-haired, the blue-eyed 
Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, why should I doubt it? The bandage lay 
heavily about the mouth —but then might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady of 
Tremaine? And the cheeks-there were the roses as in her noon of life —yes, these might 
indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, 
as in health, might it not be hers? —but had she then grown taller since her malady? What 
inexpressible madness seized me with that thought? One bound, and I had reached her 
feet! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly 
cerements which had confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of 
the chamber, huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; it was blacker than the raven 
wings of the midnight! And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before 
me. "Here then, at least," I shrieked aloud, "can I never —can I never be mistaken —these 
are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes -of my lost love -of the lady —of the 
LADY LIGEIA." 

THE END 



LIONIZING 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



-all people went 

Upon their ten toes in wild wondemment. 

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," he said, 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 
excresence-that- " 

"Will do, Robert," interupted the old gentleman. "I am thunderstruck at the extent of your 
information-! 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 down 
stairs 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 manoeuvre. 

'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 are all lions and recherches. 



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

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De 
Stael, and the "Ambitious Student in 111- Health." 

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

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

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

There was Fricassee from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of red tongue; 
cauliflowers with veloute sauce; veal a la St. Menehoult; marinade a la St. Florentin; and 
orange jellies en mosaiques. 

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

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimabue, 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 the 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 Aeschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isaeus; 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 ApoUonius; 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 aeriforms, fluidiforms, and solidforms; about quartz and marl; 



about schist and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and 
horn-blende; about micaslate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite; about 
haematite 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. 



"Bete!" 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." 

THE END 



LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. 

LATE EDITOR OF THE "GOOSETHERUMFOODLE" 
BY HIMSELF 



by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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 father, (I had been christened Thingum after a wealthy 
relative so sumamed,) "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 the 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 
drawback 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 Dantes 
"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 enacted 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 dispatched 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,' 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 Gooses 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, firstborn.' 

"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 'off-spring'?-which latter term (if we understand anything 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 unparalled 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 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." 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 line 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 anything 
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 on "The Oil-of-Bob." We 
need say nothing of their sublimity, or of 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:-! acknowledge 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. Fly, 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 hinds 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:-! 
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 1," 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 dehcious 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 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 1." 

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"- 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 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. They seemed to me to be 
deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononces (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 "LoUypop" 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 everything 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 Nouvellette, 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-bye, 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 1. 

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 graceful, 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 pre-eminence is forever put to rest, and hereafter it will be preposterous in the 
'Hum-Drum,' the 'Rowdy-Dow,' or the 'Goosetherumfoodle' to make any further 
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 chAUanged 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. Sep. 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 to 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 scholar." Gentleman indeed! I made up my mind at once either to get 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 "Daddy"ship, 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." 

Toward 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 
"LoUypop." 

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 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 curry-comb, 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 foolscap 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 upside-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 Clarkes 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 afterward, 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 toward 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 in 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 afterward, 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 
Thigum 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 I'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 Thigum 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 tete baissee (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. 

THE END 



LOSS OF BREATH 

A Tale Neither In nor Out of "Blackwood" 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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 constemation-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-a la philosophie veritable. 

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree the occurence 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 possesion 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 dehvery 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, 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, 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 (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 AUbreath were his favorite writers,-his 
favorite artist. Phiz. He died gloriously while inhaling gas-levique flatu corrupitur, like 
the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus.* He was indubitably a"- 

*Tenera res in feminis fama pudicitiae, et quasi flos pulcherrimus, cito ad levem 
marcessit auram, levique flatu corrumpitur, maxime, &c .-Hieronymus ad Salvinam. 

"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 my self-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 elses!-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 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?-! 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 Laertius relates, in his second book, of that philosopher, advised the 
erection of a shrine and temple "to the proper God." 

LYTTLETON BARRY. 

THE END 



MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1833 



Qui n 'a plus qu 'un moment a vivre 
N'aplus rien a dissimuler. 
—Quinault —Atys. 

OF my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have 
driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me 
an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to 
methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. —Beyond all things, 
the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised 
admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid 
thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity 
of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the 
Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish 
for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this 
age —I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such 
reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable 
than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of 
superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to 
tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive 
experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity. 

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from the port of 
Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the 
Sunda islands. I went as passenger —having no other inducement than a kind of nervous 
restlessness which haunted me as a fiend. 

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at 
Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton- wool and oil, from the 
Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few 
cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank. 

We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern 
coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the 
occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were 
bound. 

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular, isolated cloud, to the 
N.W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since 



our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at 
once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, 
and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the 
dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was 
undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent. 
Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in 
fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral 
exhalations similar to those arising from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of 
wind died away, an more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle 
burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between 
the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as 
the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in 
bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set, 
and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon 
deck. I went below —not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every appearance 
warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain my fears; but he paid no 
attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness, 
however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. -As I 
placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, 
humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and before I 
could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a 
wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, 
swept the entire decks from stem to stem. 

The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship. 
Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose, 
after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure 
of the tempest, finally righted. 

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of 
the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. 
With great difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at first, struck 
with the idea of our being among breakers; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, 
was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. 
After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment 
of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling 
aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with 
the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; -the captain and mates must have 
perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we 
could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first 
paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted 
like pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been 
instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the 
water made clear breaches over us. The frame- work of our stern was shattered 
excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but to our 
extreme Joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of 



our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little 
danger from the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total cessation with 
dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the 
tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no 
means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights —during which our only 
subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the 
forecastle -the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws 
of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were still more 
terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, 
with trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and we must have run down the coast of New 
Holland. -On the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round 
a point more to the northward. —The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and clambered 
a very few degrees above the horizon —emitting no decisive light. —There were no clouds 
apparent, yet the wind was upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. 
About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the 
appearance of the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow 
without reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before sinking within the turgid 
sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some 
unaccountable power. It was a dim, sliver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the 
unfathomable ocean. 

We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day —that day to me has not arrived —to the 
Swede, never did arrive. Thenceforward we were enshrouded in patchy darkness, so that 
we could not have seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued 
to envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea-brilliancy to which we had been 
accustomed in the tropics. We observed too, that, although the tempest continued to rage 
with unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the usual appearance of 
surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All around were horror, and thick gloom, 
and a black sweltering desert of ebony. -Superstitious terror crept by degrees into the 
spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent wonder. We neglected 
all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and securing ourselves, as well as possible, to 
the stump of the mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no 
means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our situation. We were, 
however, well aware of having made farther to the southward than any previous 
navigators, and felt great amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In 
the meantime every moment threatened to be our last —every mountainous billow hurried 
to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed anything I had imagined possible, and that we 
were not instantly buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our cargo, 
and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship; but I could not help feeling the 
utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I 
thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot of way the ship made, 
the swelling of the black stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we 
gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the albatross -at times became dizzy with the 
velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew stagnant, and no sound 
disturbed the slumbers of the kraken. 



We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream from my companion 
broke fearfully upon the night. "See! see!" cried he, shrieking in my ears, "Almighty 
God! see! see!" As he spoke, I became aware of a dull, sullen glare of red light which 
streamed down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful brilliancy 
upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards, I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of 
my blood. At a terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the 
precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of, perhaps, four thousand tons. Although 
upreared upon the summit of a wave more than a hundred times her own altitude, her 
apparent size exceeded that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman in existence. Her 
huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the customary carvings of a 
ship. A single row of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and dashed from their 
polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, which swung to and fro about 
her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with horror and astonishment, was that she bore 
up under a press of sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that ungovernable 
hurricane. When we first discovered her, her bows were alone to be seen, as she rose 
slowly from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror she 
paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own sublimity, then 
trembled and tottered, and —came down. 

At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my spirit. Staggering 
as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel 
was at length ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The shock 
of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame which was 
already under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence, 
upon the rigging of the stranger. 

As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the confusion ensuing I attributed 
my escape from the notice of the crew. With little difficulty I made my way unperceived 
to the main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an opportunity of 
secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, 
which at first sight of the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps 
the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself with a race of people 
who had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken, so many points of vague novelty, 
doubt, and apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a hiding-place in the hold. 
This I did by removing a small portion of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to 
afford me a convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship. 

I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced me to make use of 
it. A man passed by my place of concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not 
see his face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance. There was about 
it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a load of years, and 
his entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low broken 
tone, some words of a language which I could not understand, and groped in a comer 
among a pile of singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation. His 
manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second childhood, and the solemn 
dignity of a God. He at length went on deck, and I saw him no more. 



A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul —a sensation which 
will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of bygone times are inadequate, and for 
which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own, the 
latter consideration is an evil. I shall never —I know that I shall never —be satisfied with 
regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are 
indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense —a new 
entity is added to my soul. 

It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays of my destiny are, I 
think, gathering to a focus. Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind 
which I cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly on my part, 
for the people will not see. It was but just now that I passed directly before the eyes of the 
mate —it was no long while ago that I ventured into the captain's own private cabin, and 
took thence the materials with which I write, and have written. I shall from time to time 
continue this Journal. It is true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the 
world, but I will not fall to make the endeavour. At the last moment I will enclose the 
MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the sea. 

An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. Are such things 
the operation of ungovemed Chance? I had ventured upon deck and thrown myself down, 
without attracting any notice, among a pile of ratlin- stuff and old sails in the bottom of 
the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a tar- 
brush the edges of a neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The 
studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of the brush are 
spread out into the word DISCOVERY. 

I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the vessel. Although well 
armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all 
negative a supposition of this kind. What she is not, I can easily perceive -what she is I 
fear it is impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and 
singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvas, her severely simple 
bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of 
familiar things, and there is always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of 
recollection, an unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago. I 
have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a material to which I am a 
stranger. There is a peculiar character about the wood which strikes me as rendering it 
unfit for the purpose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme porousness, 
considered independently by the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of 
navigation in these seas, and apart from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear 
perhaps an observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood would have every, 
characteristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by any unnatural means. 

In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old weather-beaten Dutch 
navigator comes full upon my recollection. "It is as sure," he was wont to say, when any 
doubt was entertained of his veracity, "as sure as there is a sea where the ship itself will 
grow in bulk like the living body of the seaman." 



About an hour ago, I made bold to thrast myself among a group of the crew. They paid 
me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very midst of them all, seemed 
utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold, they all 
bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity; their 
shoulders were bent double with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind; 
their voices were low, tremulous and broken; their eyes glistened with the rheum of 
years; and their gray hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them, on every part of 
the deck, lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and obsolete 
construction. 

I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From that period the ship, 
being thrown dead off the wind, has continued her terrific course due south, with every 
rag of canvas packed upon her, from her trucks to her lower studding-sail booms, and 
rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water 
which it can enter into the mind of a man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where I 
find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to experience little 
inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of miracles that our enormous bulk is not 
swallowed up at once and forever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the 
brink of Eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand 
times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of the 
arrowy sea-gull; and the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the 
deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and forbidden to destroy. I am led to 
attribute these frequent escapes to the only natural cause which can account for such 
effect. —I must suppose the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or 
impetuous under-tow. 

I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin —but, as I expected, he paid me 
no attention. Although in his appearance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which 
might bespeak him more or less than man-still a feeling of irrepressible reverence and 
awe mingled with the sensation of wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he is 
nearly my own height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a well-knit and 
compact frame of body, neither robust nor remarkably otherwise. But it is the singularity 
of the expression which reigns upon the face —it is the intense, the wonderful, the 
thrilling evidence of old age, so utter, so extreme, which excites within my spirit a sense - 
-a sentiment ineffable. His forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the 
stamp of a myriad of years. —His gray hairs are records of the past, and his grayer eyes 
are Sybils of the future. The cabin floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped 
folios, and mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten charts. His 
head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored, with a fiery unquiet eye, over a 
paper which I took to be a commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a 
monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman whom I saw in the hold, some 
low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue, and although the speaker was close at my 
elbow, his voice seemed to reach my ears from the distance of a mile. 

The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the 
ghosts of buried centuries; their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning; and when their 



fingers fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never 
felt before, although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the 
shadows of f Allan columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my very soul 
has become a ruin. 

When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions. If I trembled at the 
blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and 
ocean, to convey any idea of which the words tornado and simoom are trivial and 
ineffective? All in the immediate vicinity of the ship is the blackness of eternal night, and 
a chaos of foamless water; but, about a league on either side of us, may be seen, 
indistinctly and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into the desolate 
sky, and looking like the walls of the universe. 

As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current; if that appellation can properly be given 
to a tide which, howling and shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward 
with a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract. 

To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible; yet a curiosity 
to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions, predominates even over my despair, 
and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we are 
hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge —some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose 
attainment is destruction. Perhaps this current leads us to the southern pole itself. It must 
be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every probability in its favor. 

The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there is upon their 
countenances an expression more of the eagerness of hope than of the apathy of despair. 

In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a crowd of canvas, the ship 
is at times lifted bodily from out the sea —Oh, horror upon horror! the ice opens suddenly 
to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense concentric circles, 
round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost 
in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny 
-the circles rapidly grow small -we are plunging madly within the grasp of the 
whirlpool -and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and thundering of ocean and of tempest, 
the ship is quivering, oh God! and -going down. 

NOTE.-The "MS. Found in a Bottle," was originally published in 1831 [1833], and it 
was not until many years afterwards that I became acquainted with the maps of Mercator, 
in which the ocean is represented as rushing, by four mouths, into the (northern) Polar 
Gulf, to be absorbed into the bowels of the earth; the Pole itself being represented by a 
black rock, towering to a prodigious height. 

THE END 



MARGINALIA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1844-49 



DEMOCRATIC REVIEW, November, 1844 

In getting my books, I have been always solicitous of an ample margin; this not so much 
through any love of the thing in itself, however agreeable, as for the facility it affords me 
of pencilling suggested thoughts, agreements, and differences of opinion, or brief critical 
comments in general. Where what I have to note is too much to be included within the 
narrow limits of a margin, I commit it to a slip of paper, and deposit it between the 
leaves; taking care to secure it by an imperceptible portion of gum tragacanth paste. 

All this may be whim; it may be not only a very hackneyed, but a very idle practice;-yet I 
persist in it still; and it affords me pleasure; which is profit, in despite of Mr. Bentham, 
with Mr. Mill on his back. 

This making of notes, however, is by no means the making of mere memorandum-a 
custom which has its disadvantages, beyond doubt "Ce que je mets sur papier," says 
Bernadine de St. Pierre, "je remets de ma memoire et par consequence je roublie;"-and, 
in fact, if you wish to forget anything upon the spot, make a note that this thing is to be 
remembered. 

But the purely marginal jottings, done with no eye to the Memorandum Book, have a 
distinct complexion, and not only a distinct purpose, but none at all; this it is which 
imparts to them a value. They have a rank somewhat above the chance and desultory 
comments of literary chit-chat-for these latter are not unfrequently "talk for talk's sake," 
hurried out of the mouth; while the marginalia are deliberately pencilled, because the 
mind of the reader wishes to unburthen itself of a thought;-however flippant-however 
silly-however trivial-still a thought indeed, not merely a thing that might have been a 
thought in time, and under more favorable circumstances. In the marginalia, too, we talk 
only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly-boldly- originally-with abandonnement- 
without conceit-much after the fashion of Jeremy Taylor, and Sir Thomas Browne, and 
Sir William Temple, and the anatomical Burton, and that most logical analogist, Butler, 
and some other people of the old day, who were too full of their matter to have any room 
for their manner, which, being thus left out of question, was a capital manner, indeed,-a 
model of manners, with a richly marginalic air. 

The circumscription of space, too, in these pencillings, has in it something more of 
advantage than of inconvenience. It compels us (whatever diffuseness of idea we may 
clandestinely entertain), into Montesquieu-ism, into Tacitus-ism (here I leave out of view 
the concluding portion of the "Annals")-or even into Carlyle-ism-a thing which, I have 



been told, is not to be confounded with your ordinary affectation and bad grammar. I say 
"bad grammar," through sheer obstinacy, because the grammarians (who should know 
better) insist upon it that I should not. But then grammar is not what these grammarians 
will have it; and, being merely the analysis of language, with the result of this analysis, 
must be good or bad just as the analyst is sage or silly-just as he is Home Tooke or a 
Cobbett. 

But to our sheep. During a rainy afternoon, not long ago, being in a mood too listless for 
continuous study, I sought relief from ennui in dipping here and there, at random, among 
the volumes of my library- no very large one, certainly, but sufficiently miscellaneous; 
and, I flatter myself, not a little recherche. 

Perhaps it was what the Germans call the "brain- scattering" humor of the moment; but, 
while the picturesqueness of the numerous pencil- scratches arrested my attention, their 
helter- skelter- iness of commentary amused me. I found myself at length forming a wish 
that it had been some other hand than my own which had so bedevilled the books, and 
fancying that, in such case, I might have derived no inconsiderable pleasure from turning 
them over. From this the transition-thought (as Mr. Lyell, or Mr. Murchison, or Mr. 
Featherstonhaugh would have it) was natural enough:-there might be something even in 
my scribblings which, for the mere sake of scribblings would have interest for others. 

The main difficulty respected the mode of transferring the notes from the volumes-the 
context from the text-without detriment to that exceedingly frail fabric of intelligibility in 
which the context was imbedded. With all appliances to boot, with the printed pages at 
their back, the commentaries were too often like Dodona's oracles-or those of Lycophron 
Tenebrosus-or the essays of the pedant's pupils, in Quintilian, which were "necessarily 
excellent, since even he (the pedant) found it impossible to comprehend them":-what, 
then, would become of it-this context-if transferred?-if translated? Would it not rather 
be traduit (traduced) which is the French synonym, or overzezet (turned topsy-turvy) 
which is the Dutch one? 

I concluded, at length, to put extensive faith in the acumen and imagination of the 
reader:-this as a general rule. But, in some instances, where even faith would not remove 
mountains, there seemed no safer plan than so to re-model the note as to convey at least 
the ghost of a conception as to what it was all about. Where, for such conception, the text 
itself was absolutely necessary, I could quote it, where the title of the book commented 
upon was indispensable, I could name it. In short, like a novel-hero dilemma'd, I made up 
my mind "to be guided by circumstances," in default of more satisfactory rules of 
conduct. 

As for the multitudinous opinion expressed in the subjoined farrago- as for my present 
assent to all, or dissent from any portion of it-as to the possibility of my having, in some 
instances, altered my mind- or as to the impossibility of my not having altered it often- 
these are points upon which I say nothing, because upon these there can be nothing 
cleverly said. It may be as well to observe, however, that just as the goodness of your true 



pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability, so is nonsense the essential sense of the 
Marginal Note. 

I have seen many computations respecting the greatest amount of erudition attainable by 
an individual in his life-time, but these computations are falsely based, and fall infinitely 
beneath the truth. It is true that, in general we retain, we remember to available purpose, 
scarcely one-hundredth part of what we read; yet there are minds which not only retain 
all receipts, but keep them at compound interest forever. Again:-were every man 
supposed to read out, he could read, of course, very little, even in half a century; for, in 
such case, each individual word must be dwelt upon in some degree. But, in reading to 
ourselves, at the ordinary rate of what is called "light reading," we scarcely touch one 
word in ten. And, even physically considered, knowledge breeds knowledge, as gold 
gold; for he who reads really much, finds his capacity to read increase in geometrical 
ratio. The helluo librorum will but glance at the page which detains the ordinary reader 
some minutes; and the difference in the absolute reading (its uses considered), will be in 
favor of the helluo, who will have winnowed the matter of which the tyro mumbled both 
the seeds and the chaff. A deep-rooted and strictly continuous habit of reading will, with 
certain classes of intellect, result in an instinctive and seemingly magnetic appreciation of 
a thing written; and now the student reads by pages just as other men by words. Long 
years to come, with a careful analysis of the mental process, may even render this species 
of appreciation a common thing. It may be taught in the schools of our descendants of the 
tenth or twentieth generation. It may become the method of the mob of the eleventh or 
twenty-first. And should these matters come to pass-as they will- there will be in them no 
more legitimate cause for wonder than there is, to-day, in the marvel that, syllable by 
syllable, men comprehend what, letter by letter, I now trace upon this page. 

Is it not a law that need has a tendency to engender the thing needed? 

Moore has been noted for the number of appositeness, as well as novelty of his similes; 
and the renown thus acquired is indicial of his deficiency in that noble merit-the noblest 
of all. No poet thus distinguished was ever richly ideal. Pope and Cowper are instances. 
Direct similes are of too palpably artificial a character to be artistical. An artist will 
always contrive to weave his illustrations into the metaphorical form. 

Moore has a peculiar facility in prosaically telling a poetical story. By this I mean that he 
preserves the tone and method of arrangement of a prose relation, and thus obtains great 
advantage, in important points, over his more stilted compeers. His is no poetical style 
(such as the French have-a distinct style for a distinct purpose) but an easy and ordinary 
prose manner, which rejects the licenses because it does not require them, and is merely 
ornamented into poetry. By means of this manner he is enabled to encounter, effectually, 
details which would baffle any other versifier of the day; and at which Lamartine would 
stand aghast. In "Alciphron" we see this exemplified. Here the minute and perplexed 
incidents of the descent into the pyramid, are detailed, in verse, with quite as much 
precision and intelligibility as could be attained even by the coolest prose of Mr. Jeremy 
Bentham. 



Moore has vivacity; verbal and constructive dexterity; a musical ear not sufficiently 
cultivated; a vivid fancy; an epigrammatic spirit; and a fine taste-as far as it goes. 

Democratic Review, December, 1844 

I am not sure that Tennyson is not the greatest of poets. The uncertainty attending the 
public conception of the term "poet" alone prevents me from demonstrating that he is. 
Other bards produce effects which are, now and then, otherwise produced than by what 
we call poems; but Tennyson an effect which only a poem does. His alone are 
idiosyncratic poems. By the enjoyment or non-enjoyment of the "Morte D'Arthur" or of 
the "Oenone," I would test any one's ideal sense. 

There are passages in his works which rivet a conviction I had long entertained, that the 
indefinite is an element in the true poiesis. Why do some persons fatigue themselves in 
attempts to unravel such fantasy -pieces as the "Lady of Shalott"? As well unweave the 
"ventum textilem." If the author did not deliberately propose to himself a suggestive 
indefinitiveness of meaning with the view of bringing about a definitiveness of vague and 
therefore of spiritual effect-this, at least, arose from the silent analytical promptings of 
that poetic genius which, in its supreme development, embodies all orders of intellectual 
capacity. 

I know that indefinitiveness is an element of the true music-I mean of the true musical 
expression. Give to it any undue decision-imbue it with any very determinate tone-and 
you deprive it at once of its ethereal, its ideal, its intrinsic and essential character. You 
dispel its luxury of dream. You dissolve the atmosphere of the mystic upon which it 
floats. You exhaust it of its breath of fiery. It now becomes a tangible and easily 
appreciable idea-a thing of the earth, earthy. It has not, indeed, lost its power to please, 
but all which I consider the distinctiveness of that power. And to the uncultivated talent, 
or to the unimaginative apprehension, this deprivation of its most delicate air will be, not 
unfrequently, a recommendation. A determinateness of expression is sought-and often by 
composers who should know better-is sought as a beauty rather than rejected as a 
blemish. Thus we have, even from high authorities, attempts at absolute imitation in 
music. Who can forget the silliness of the "Battle of Prague"? What man of taste but must 
laugh at the interminable drums, trumpets, blunderbusses, and thunder? "Vocal music," 
says L'Abbate Gravina, who would have said the same thing of instrumental, "ought to 
imitate the natural language of the human feelings and passions, rather than the warblings 
of canary birds, which our singers, now-a-days, affect so vastly to mimic with their 
quaverings and boasted cadences." This is true only so far as the "rather" is concerned. If 
any music must imitate anything, it were assuredly better to limit the imitation as Gravina 
suggests. 

Tennyson's shorter pieces abound in minute rhythmical lapses sufficient to asure me that- 
in common with all poets living or dead-he has neglected to make precise investigation 
of the principles of metre; but, on the other hand, so perfect is his rhythmical instinct in 
general that, like the present Viscount Canterbury, he seems to see with his ear. 



Godey's Lady's Book, September, 1845 

The increase, within a few years, of the magazine literature, is by no means to be 
regarded as indicating what some critics would suppose it to indicate-a downward 
tendency in American taste or in American letters. It is but a sign of the times, an 
indication of an era in which men are forced upon the curt, the condensed, the well- 
digested in place of the voluminous-in a word, upon journalism in lieu of dissertation. 
We need now the light artillery rather than the peace-makers of the intellect. I will not be 
sure that men at present think more profoundly than half a century ago, but beyond 
question they think with more rapidity, with more skill, with more tact, with more of 
method and less of excrescence in the thought. Besides all this, they have a vast increase 
in the thinking material; they have more facts, more to think about. For this reason, they 
are disposed to put the greatest amount of thought in the smallest compass and disperse it 
with the utmost attainable rapidity. Hence the journalism of the age; hence, in especial, 
magazines. Too many we cannot have, as a general proposition; but we demand that they 
have sufficient merit to render them noticeable in the beginning, and that they continue in 
existence sufficiently long to permit us a fair estimation of their value. 

Broadway Journal, Oct. 4, 1845 

Much has been said, of late, about the necessity of maintaining a proper nationality in 
American Letters; but what this nationality is, or what is to be gained by it, has never 
been distinctly understood. That an American should confine himself to American 
themes, or even prefer them, is rather a political than a literary idea-and at best is a 
questionable point. We would do well to bear in mind that "distance lends enchantment to 
the view." Ceteris paribus, a foreign theme is, in a strictly literary sense, to be preferred. 
After all, the world at large is the only legitimate stage for the autorial histrio. 

But of the need of that nationality which defends our own literature, sustains our own 
men of letters, upholds our own dignity, and depends upon our own resources, there can 
not be the shadow of a doubt. Yet here is the very point at which we are most supine. We 
complain of our want of International Copyright on the ground that this want justifies our 
publishers in inundating us with British opinion in British books; and yet when these very 
publishers, at their own obvious risk, and even obvious loss, do publish an American 
book, we turn up our noses at it with supreme contempt (this is a general thing) until it 
(the American book) has been dubbed "readable" by some literate Cockney critic. Is it too 
much to say that, with us, the opinion of Washington Irving-of Prescott- of Bryant-is a 
mere nullity in comparison with that of any anonymous sub- sub-editor of the Spectator, 
the Athenaeum, or the London Punch? It is not saying too much to say this. It is a 
solemn- an absolutely awful fact. Every publisher in the country will admit it to be a fact. 
There is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun than our subserviency to British 
criticism. It is disgusting, first because it is truckling, servile, pusilanimous-secondly, 
because of its gross irrationality. We know the British to bear us little but ill will-we 
know that, in no case, do they utter unbiased opinions of American books-we know that 
in the few instances in which our writers have been treated with common decency in 
England, these writers have either openly paid homage to English institutions, or have 



had lurking at the bottom of their hearts a secret principle at war with Democracy:-we 
know all this, and yet, day after day, submit our necks to the degrading yoke of the 
crudest opinion that emanates from the fatherland. Now if we must have nationality, let it 
be a nationality that will throw off this yoke. 

The chief of the rhapsodists who have ridden us to death like the Old Man of the 
Mountain, is the ignorant and egotistical Wilson. We use the term rhapsodists with 
perfect deliberation; for, Macaulay, and Dilke, and one or two others, excepted, there is 
not in Great Britain a critic who can be fairly considered worthy the name. The Germans 
and even the French, are infinitely superior. As regards Wilson, no man ever penned 
worse criticism or better rhodomontade. That he is "egotistical" his works show to all 
men, running as they read. That he is "ignorant" let his absurd and continuous school-boy 
blunders about Homer bear witness. Not long ago we ourselves pointed out a series of 
similar inanities in his review of Miss Barret's [sic] poems-a series, we say, of gross 
blunders, arising from sheer ignorance-and we defy him or any one to answer a single 
syllable of what we then advanced. 

And yet this is the man whose simple dictum (to our shame be it spoken) has the power to 
make or to mar any American reputation! In the last number of Blackwood, he has a 
continuation of the dull "Specimens of the British Critics," and makes occasion wantonly 
to insult one of the noblest of our poets, Mr. Lowell. The point of the whole attack 
consists in the use of slang epithets and phrases of the most ineffably vulgar description. 
"Squabashes" is a pet term. "Faugh!" is another. "We are Scotsmen to the spiner" says 
Sawney-as if the thing were not more than self-evident. Mr. Lowell is called a "magpie," 
an "ape," a "Yankee cockney," and his name is intentionally mis-written John Russell 
Lowell. Now were these indecencies perpetrated by an American critic, that critic would 
be sent to Coventry by the whole press of the country, but since it is Wilson who insults, 
we, as in duty bound, not only submit to the insult, but echo it, as an excellent jest, 
throughout the length and breadth of the land. "Quamdiu Catilina?" We do indeed 
demand the nationality of self-respect. In Letters as in Government we require a 
Declaration of Independence. A better thing still would be a Declaration of War-and that 
war should be carried forthwith "into Africa." 

Graham's Magazine, March, 1846 

Some Frenchman-possibly Montaigne-says: "People talk about thinking, but for my part 
I never think except when I sit down to write." It is this never thinking, unless when we 
sit down to write, which is the cause of so much indifferent composition. But perhaps 
there is something more involved in the Frenchman's observation than meets the eye. It is 
certain that the mere act of inditing tends, in a great degree, to the logicalisation of 
thought. Whenever, on account of its vagueness, I am dissatisfied with a conception of 
the brain, I resort forthwith to the pen, for the purpose of obtaining, through its aid, the 
necessary form, consequence, and precision. 

How very commonly we hear it remarked that such and such thoughts are beyond the 
compass of words! I do not believe that any thought, properly so called, is out of the 



reach of language. I fancy, rather, that where difficulty in expression is experienced, there 
is, in the intellect which experiences it, a want either of deliberateness or of method. For 
my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even 
more distinctness than that with which I conceived it:-as I have before observed, the 
thought is logicalised by the effort at (written) expression. 

There is, however, a class of fancies, of exquisite delicacy, which are not thoughts, and to 
which, as yet, I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt language. I use the word 
fancies at random, and merely because I must use some word; but the idea commonly 
attached to the term is not even remotely applicable to the shadows of shadows in 
question. They seem to me rather psychal than intellectual. They arise in the soul (alas, 
how rarely!) only at its epochs of most intense tranquillity- when the bodily and mental 
health are in perfection-and at those mere points of time where the confines of the 
waking world blend with those of the world of dreams. I am aware of these "fancies" 
only when I am upon the very brink of sleep, with the consciousness that I am so. I have 
satisfied myself that this condition exists but for an inappreciable point of time-yet it is 
crowded with these "shadows of shadows"; and for absolute thought there is demanded 
time's endurance. 

These "fancies" have in them a pleasurable ecstasy, as far beyond the most pleasurable of 
the world of wakefulness, or of dreams, as the Heaven of the Northman theology is 
beyond its Hell. I regard the visions, even as they arise, with an awe which, in some 
measure moderates or tranquillises the ecstasy-I so regard them, through a conviction 
(which seems a portion of the ecstasy itself) that this ecstasy, in itself, is of a character 
supernal to the Human Nature-is a glimpse of the spirit's outer world; and I arrive at this 
conclusion-if this term is at all applicable to instantaneous intuition-by a perception that 
the delight experienced has, as its element, but the absoluteness of novelty. I say the 
absoluteness- for in the fancies-let me now term them psychal impressions-there is really 
nothing even approximate in character to impressions ordinarily received. It is as if the 
five senses were supplanted by five myriad others alien to mortality. 

Now, so entire is my faith in the power of words, that at times I have believed it possible 
to embody even the evanescence of fancies such as I have attempted to describe. In 
experiments with this end in view, I have proceeded so far as, first, to control (when the 
bodily and mental health are good), the existence of the condition:- that is to say, I can 
now (unless when ill), be sure that the condition will supervene, if I so wish it, at the 
point of time already described: of its supervention until lately I could never be certain 
even under the most favorable circumstances. I mean to say, merely, that now I can be 
sure, when all circumstances are favorable, of the supervention of the condition, and feel 
even the capacity of inducing or compelling it:-the favorable circumstances, however, 
are not the less rare-else had I compelled already the Heaven into the Earth. 

I have proceeded so far, secondly, as to prevent the lapse from the Point of which I 
speak-the point of blending between wakefulness and sleep-as to prevent at will, I say, 
the lapse from this border-ground into the dominion of sleep. Not that I can continue the 
condition-not that I can render the point more than a point-but that I can startle myself 



from the point into wakefulness; and thus transfer the point itself into the realm of 
Memory-convey its impressions, or more properly their recollections, to a situation 
where (although still for a very brief period) I can survey them with the eye of analysis. 

For these reasons-that is to say, because I have been enabled to accomplish thus much-I 
do not altogether despair of embodying in words at least enough of the fancies in 
question to convey to certain classes of intellect, a shadowy conception of their character. 

In saying this I am not to be understood as supposing that the fancies or psychal 
impressions to which I allude are confined to my individual self-are not, in a word, 
common to all mankind-for on this point it is quite impossible that I should form an 
opinion-but nothing can be more certain than that even a partial record of the impressions 
would startle the universal intellect of mankind, by the supremeness of the novelty of the 
material employed, and of its consequent suggestions. In a word-should I ever write a 
paper on this topic, the world will be compelled to acknowledge that, at last, I have done 
an original thing. 

Democratic Review, April, 1846 

In general, our first impressions are true ones-the chief difficulty is in making sure which 
are the first. In early youth we read a poem, for instance, and are enraptured with it. At 
manhood we are assured by our reason that we had no reason to be enraptured. But some 
years elapse, and we return to our primitive admiration, just as a matured judgment 
enables us precisely to see what and why we admired. 

Thus, as individuals, we think in cycles, and may, from the frequency, or infrequency of 
our revolutions about the various thought-centres, form an accurate estimate of the 
advance of our thought toward maturity. It is really wonderful to observe how closely, in 
all the essentials of truth, the child-opinion coincides with that of the man proper-of the 
man at his best. 

And as with individuals so, perhaps, with mankind. When the world begins to return, 
frequently, to its first impressions, we shall then be warranted in looking for the 
millennium-or whatever it is:- we may safely take it for granted that we are attaining our 
maximum of wit, and of the happiness which is thence to ensue. The indications of such a 
return are, at present, like the visits of angels-but we have them now and then-in the 
case, for example, of credulity. The philosophic, of late days, are distinguished by that 
very facility in belief which was the characteristic of the illiterate half a century ago. 
Skepticism in regard to apparent miracles, is not, as formerly, an evidence either of 
superior wisdom or knowledge. In a word, the wise now believe-yesterday they would 
not believe-and day before yesterday (in the time of Strabo, for example) they believed, 
exclusively, anything and everything:-here, then, is one of the indicative cycles of 
discretion. I mention Strabo merely as an exception to the rule of his epoch-(just as one 
in a hurry for an illustration, might describe Mr. So and So to be as witty or as amiable as 
Mr. This and That is not-for so rarely did men reject in Strabo's time, and so much more 



rarely did they err by rejection, that the skepticism of this philosopher must be regarded 
as one of the most remarkable anomalies on record. 

I have not the slightest faith in Carlyle. In ten years-possibly in five-he will be 
remembered only as a butt for sarcasm. His linguistic Euphuisms might very well have 
been taken as prima facie evidence of his philosophic ones; they were the froth which 
indicated, first, the shallowness, and secondly, the confusion of the waters. I would blame 
no man of sense for leaving the works of Carlyle unread merely on account of these 
Euphuisms; for it might be shown a priori that no man capable of producing a definite 
impression upon his age or race, could or would commit himself to such inanities and 
insanities. The book about 'Hero-Worship '-is it possible that it ever excited a feeling 
beyond contempt? No hero-worshipper can possess anything within himself. That man is 
no man who stands in awe of his fellow-man. Genius regards genius with respect-with 
even enthusiastic admiration-but there is nothing of worship in the admiration, for it 
springs from a thorough cognizance of the one admired-from a perfect sympathy, the 
result of the cognizance; and it is needless to say, that sympathy and worship are 
antagonistic. Your hero-worshippers, for example-what do they know about 
Shakespeare? They worship him-rant about him-lecture about him-about him, him and 
nothing else-for no other reason than that he is utterly beyond their comprehension. They 
have arrived at an idea of his greatness from the pertinacity with which men have called 
him great. As for their own opinion about him-they really have none at all. In general the 
very smallest of mankind are the class of men- worshippers. Not one out of this class have 
ever accomplished anything beyond a very contemptible mediocrity. 

Carlyle, however, has rendered an important service (to posterity, at least) in pushing rant 
and cant to that degree of excess which inevitably induces reaction. Had he not appeared 
we might have gone on for yet another century, Emerson-izing in prose, Wordsworth- 
izing in poetry, and Fourier-izing in philosophy, Wilson-izing in criticism- Hudson-izing 
and Tom O'Bedlam-izing in everything. The author of the 'Sartor Resartus,' however, has 
overthrown the various arguments of his own order, by a personal reductio ad absurdum. 
Yet an Olympiad, perhaps, and the whole horde will be swept bodily from the memory of 
man-or be remembered only when we have occasion to talk of such fantastic tricks as, 
erewhile, were performed by the Abderites. 

Graham's Magazine, January, 1848 

If any ambitious man have a fancy a revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of 
human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own-the 
road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he 
has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple-a few plain 
words-"My Heart Laid Bare." But-this little book must be true to its title. 

Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so 
many of mankind-so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, 
there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? 
To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would 



laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could 
not even conceive why they should object to its being published after their death. But to 
write it-there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man 
could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the 
fiery pen. 

Southern Literary Messenger, April, 1849 

I blush to see, in the—, an invidious notice of Bayard Taylor's "Rhimes of Travel." What 
makes the matter worse, the critique is from the pen of one who, although undeservedly, 
holds, himself, some position as a poet:-and what makes the matter worst, the attack is 
anonymous, and (while ostensibly commending) most zealously endeavors to damn the 
young writer "with faint praise." In his whole life, the author of the criticism never 
published a poem, long or short, which could compare, either in the higher merits, or in 
the minor morals of the Muse, with the worst of Mr. Taylor's compositions. 

Observe the generalizing, disingenuous, patronizing tone:- 

"It is the empty charlatan, to whom all things are alike impossible, who attempts 
everything. He can do one thing as well as another, for he can really do nothing.... Mr. 
Taylor's volume, as we have intimated, is an advance upon his previous publication. We 
could have wished, indeed, something more of restraint in the rhetoric, but," &c., &c., 
&c. 

The concluding sentence, here, is an excellent example of one of the most ingeniously 
malignant of critical ruses-that of condemning an author, in especial, for what the world, 
in general, feel to be his principal merit. In fact, the "rhetoric" of Mr. Taylor, in the sense 
intended by the critic, is Mr. Taylor's distinguishing excellence. He is, unquestionably, 
the most terse, glowing, and vigorous of all our poets, young or old-in point, I mean, of 
expression. His sonorous, well-balanced rhythm puts me often in mind of Campbell (in 
spite of our anonymous friend's implied sneer at "mere jingling of rhymes, brilliant and 
successful for the moment,") and his rhetoric in general is of the highest order:-By 
"rhetoric, I intend the mode generally in which thought is presented. When shall we find 
more magnificent passages than these? 

First queenly Asia, from the fAUan thrones 

Of twice three thousand years 

Came with the woe a grieving Goddess owns 

Who longs for mortal tears. 

The dust of ruin to her mantle clung 

And dimmed her crown of gold. 

While the majestic sorrow of her tongue 

From Tyre to Indus rolled. 

Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of woe 

Whose only glory streams 

From its lost childhood like the Arctic glow 



Which sunless winter dreams. 

In the red desert moulders Babylon 

And the wild serpent's hiss 

Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone 

And waste Persepolis. 

Then from her seat, amid the palms embowered 

That shade the Lion-land, 

Swart Africa in dusky aspect towered. 

The fetters on her hand. 

Backward she saw, from out the drear eclipse. 

The mighty Theban years. 

And the deep anguish of her mournful lips 

Interpreted, her tears. 

I copy these passages first, because the critic in question has copied them, without the 
slightest appreciation of their grandeur-for they are grand; and secondly, to put the 
question of "rhetoric" at rest. No artist who reads them will deny that they are the 
perfection of skill in their way. But thirdly, I wish to call attention to the glowing 
imagination evinced in the lines. My very soul revolts at such efforts, (as the one I refer 
to,) to depreciate such poems as Mr. Taylor's. Is there no honor-no chivalry left in the 
land? Are our most deserving writers to be forever sneered down, or hooted down, or 
damned down with faint praise, by a set of men who possess little other ability than that 
which assures temporary success to them, in common with Swaim's Panaces or 
Morrison's Pills? The fact is, some person should write, at once, a Magazine paper 
exposing- ruthlessly exposing, the dessous de cartes of our literary affairs. He should 
show how and why it is that ubiquitous quack in letters can always "succeed," while 
genius, (which implies self-respect with a scorn of creeping and crawling,) must 
inevitably succumb. He should point out the "easy arts" by which any one, base enough 
to do it, can get himself placed at the very head of American Letters by an article in that 
magnanimous Journal, "The Review." He should explain, too, how readily the same work 
can be induced (in the case of Simms,) to vilify personally, any one not a Northerner, for 
a trifling "consideration." In fact, our criticism needs a thorough regeneration, and must 
have it. 

Southern Literary Messenger, June, 1849 

I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what would be the fate of any 
individual gifted, or rather accursed, with an intellect very far superior to that of his race. 
Of course, he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise 
constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he would make himself 
enemies at all points. And since his opinions and speculations would widely differ from 
those of all mankind-that he would be considered a madman, is evident. How horribly 
painful such a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being charged 
with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong. 



In like manner, nothing can be clearer than that a very generous spirit-truly feeling what 
all merely profess-must inevitably find itself misconceived in every direction-its motives 
misinterpreted. Just as extremeness of intelligence would be thought fatuity, so excess of 
chivalry could not fail of being looked upon as meanness in its last degree-and so on with 
other virtues. This subject is a painful one indeed. That individuals have so soared above 
the plane of their race, is scarcely to be questioned; but, in looking back through history 
for traces of their existence, we should pass over all biographies of "the good and the 
great," while we search carefully the slight records of wretches who died in prison, in 
Bedlam, or upon the gallows. 

THE END 



MELLONTA TAUTA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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 "Toughkeepsie 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 



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-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 modem 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 ChampoUion 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 modem 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 govemment-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 1 17,000,000 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! I 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 ComwaUis 

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 fAUan 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 com). He was surrendered. The inscription 
commemorates the surrender of-what? why, "of Lord ComwaUis." 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 comer- 
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 END 



MESMERIC REVELATION 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1844 



WHATEVER doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its startling facts are 
now almost universally admitted. Of these latter, those who doubt, are your mere 
doubters by profession-an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more 
absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove, at the present day, that man, by mere 
exercise of will can so impress his fellow as to cast him into an abnormal condition, of 
which the phenomena resemble very closely those of death, or at least resemble them 
more nearly than they do the phenomena of any other normal condition within our 
cognizance; that, while in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort, 
and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with keenly refined 
perception, and through channels supposed unknown, matters beyond the scope of the 
physical organs; that, moreover, his intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and 
invigorated; that his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound, and, 
finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its frequency, while in the 
same proportion, the peculiar phenomena elicited are more extended and more 
pronounced. 

I say that these-which are the laws of mesmerism in its general features-it would be 
supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict upon my readers so needless a 
demonstration to-day. My purpose at present is a very different one indeed. I am 
impelled, even in the teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment, the very 
remarkable substance of a colloquy occurring between a sleep-waker and myself. 

I had long been in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr. Vankirk), and the 
usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the mesmeric perception had supervened. For 
many months he had been laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more distressing effects 
of which had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of Wednesday, the 
fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside. 

The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart, and breathed with 
great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as these he 
had usually found relief from the application of mustard to the nervous centres, but to- 
night this had been attempted in vain. 

As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although evidently in 
much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease. 

"I sent for you to-night," he said, "not so much to administer to my bodily ailment, as to 
satisfy me concerning certain physical impressions which, of late, have occasioned me 



much anxiety and surprise. I need not tell you how skeptical I have hitherto been on the 
topic of the soul's immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if in that 
very soul which I have been denying, a vague half- sentiment of its own existence. But 
this half- sentiment at no time amounted to conviction. With it my reason had nothing to 
do. All attempts at logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than 
before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own works as well as in 
those of his European and American echoes. The 'Charles Elwood' of Mr. Brownson for 
example, was placed in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it 
logical but the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the initial 
arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to 
me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end had plainly 
forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in 
perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he will 
never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long the fashion of 
the moralists of England, of France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse and 
exercise, but take no hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am 
persuaded, will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will may 
assent-the soul-the intellect, never. 

"I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually believed. But latterly there 
has been a certain deepening of the feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the 
acquiesence of reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish the two. I am enabled, too, 
plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I cannot better explain my meaning 
than by the hypothesis that the mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of 
ratiocination which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full accordance 
with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through its effect, into my normal 
condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning and its conclusion-the cause and its effect-are 
present together. In my natural state, the cause vanishes, the effect only, and perhaps only 
partially, remains. 

"These considerations have led me to think that some good results might ensue from a 
series of well-directed questions propounded to me while mesmerized. You have often 
observed the profound self-cognizance evinced by the sleep-waker-the extensive 
knowledge he displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric condition itself, and from 
this self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a catechism." 

I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into the 
mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more easy, and he seemed to suffer 
no physical uneasiness. The following conversation then ensued:-V. in the dialogue 
representing the patient, and P. myself. 

P. Are you asleep? 

V. Yes-no; I would rather sleep more soundly. 

P. [After a few more passes.] Do you sleep now? 



V. Yes. 

P. How do you think your present illness will result? 

V. [After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort.] I must die. 

P. Does the idea of death afflict you? 

V. [Very quickly.] No-no! 

P. Are you pleased with the prospect? 

V. If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no matter. The mesmeric condition is 
so near death as to content me. 

P. I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk. 

V. I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I feel able to make. You do not 
question me properly. 

P. What then shall I ask? 

V. You must begin at the beginning. 

P. The beginning! But where is the beginning? 

V. You know that the beginning is GOD. [This was said in a low, fluctuating tone, and 
with every sign of the most profound veneration.] 

P. What, then, is God? 

V. [Hesitating for many minutes.] I cannot tell. 

P. Is not God spirit? 

V. While I was awake I knew what you meant by "spirit," but now it seems only a word- 
such, for instance, as truth, beauty-a quality, I mean. 

P. Is not God immaterial? 

V. There is no immateriality-it is a mere word. That which is not matter, is not at all- 
unless qualities are things. 

P. Is God, then, material? 

V. No. [This reply startled me very much.] 



p. What, then, is he? 

V. [After a long pause, and mutteringly.] I see-but it is a thing difficult to tell. [Another 
long pause.] He is not spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as you understand it. But 
there are gradations of matter of which man knows nothing; the grosser impelling the 
finer, the finer pervading the grosser. The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric 
principle, while the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations of 
matter increase in rarity or fineness until we arrive at a matter unparticled-without 
particles-indivisible-one, and here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The 
ultimate or unparticled matter not only permeates all things, but impels all things; and 
thus is all things within itself. This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in the 
word "thought," is this matter in motion. 

P. The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to motion and thinking, and 
that the latter is the origin of the former. 

V. Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the action of mind, not of 
thinking. The unparticled matter, or God, in quiescence is (as nearly as we can conceive 
it) what men call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect to human 
volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of its unity and omniprevalence; how, I 
know not, and now clearly see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in 
motion by a law or quality existing within itself, is thinking. 

P. Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the unparticled matter? 

V. The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in gradation. We have, for 
example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, 
electricity, the luminiferous ether. Now, we call all these things matter, and embrace all 
matter in one general definition; but in spite of this, there can be no two ideas more 
essentially distinct than that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the 
luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost irresistible inclination to 
class it with spirit, or with nihilty. The only consideration which restrains us is our 
conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to seek aid from our notion 
of an atom, as something possessing in infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. 
Destroy the idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able to regard the 
ether as an entity, or, at least, as matter. For want of a better word we might term it spirit. 
Take, now, a step beyond the luminiferous ether-conceive a matter as much more rare 
than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we arrive at once (in spite of 
all the school dogmas) at a unique mass- an unparticled matter. For although we may 
admit infinite littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness in the spaces 
between them is an absurdity. There will be a point-there will be a degree of rarity at 
which, if the atoms are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must vanish, and the mass 
absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic constitution being now taken 
away, the nature of the mass inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear, 
however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it is impossible to conceive spirit 
since it is impossible to imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have 



formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding by the consideration 
of infinitely rarefied matter. 

P. There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of absolute coalescence;- 
and that is the very slight resistance experienced by the heavenly bodies in their 
revolutions through space- a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in some 
degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have been quite overlooked by the 
sagacity even of Newton. We know that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion 
to their density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there are no interspaces, 
there can be no yielding. An ether, absolutely dense, would put an infinitely more 
effectual stop to the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron. 

V. Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in the ratio of its apparent 
unanswerability.-As regards the progress of the star, it can make no difference whether 
the star passes through the ether or the ether through it. There is no astronomical error 
more unaccountable than that which reconciles the known retardation of the comets with 
the idea of their passage through an ether, for, however rare this ether be supposed, it 
would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a very far briefer period than has been 
admitted by those astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they 
found it impossible to comprehend. The retardation actually experienced is, on the other 
hand, about that which might be expected from the friction of the ether in the 
instantaneous passage through the orb. In the one case, the retarding force is momentary 
and complete within itself-in the other it is endlessly accumulative. 

P. But in all this-in this identification of mere matter with God-is there nothing of 
irreverence? [I was forced to repeat this question before the sleep-waker fully 
comprehended my meaning.] 

V. Can you say why matter should be less reverenced than mind? But you forget that the 
matter of which "mind" or "spirit" of the schools, so far as regards its high capacities, and 
is, moreover, the "matter" of these schools at the same time. God, with all the powers 
attributed to spirit, is but the perfection of matter. 

P. You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is thought. 

V. In general, this motion is the universal thought of the universal mind. This thought 
creates. All created things are but the thoughts of God. 

P. You say, "in general." 

V. Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities, matter is necessary. 

P. But you now speak of "mind" and "matter" as do the metaphysicians. 

V. Yes-to avoid confusion. When I say "mind," I mean the unparticled or ultimate 
matter, by "matter," I intend all else. 



p. You were saying that "for new individualities matter is necessary." 

V. Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To create individual, thinking 
beings, it was necessary to incarnate portions of the divine mind. Thus man is 
individualized. Divested of corporate investiture, he were God. Now the particular 
motion of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the thought of man; as the 
motion of the whole is that of God. 

P. You say that divested of the body man will be God? 

V. [After much hesitation.] I could not have said this; it is an absurdity. 

P. [Referring to my notes.] You did say that "divested of corporate investiture man were 
God." 

V. And this is true. Man thus divested would be God-would be unindividualized. But he 
can never be thus divested-at least never will be-else we must imagine an action of God 
returning upon itself-a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature. Creatures are 
thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be irrevocable. 

P. I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the body? 

V. I say that he will never be bodiless. 

P. Explain. 

V. There are two bodies-the rudimental and the complete, corresponding with the two 
conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call "death," is but the painful 
metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our 
future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design. 

P. But of the worm's metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant. 

V. We, certainly-but not the worm. The matter of which our rudimental body is 
composed, is within the ken of the organs of that body; or, more distinctly, our 
rudimental organs are adapted to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body, but 
not to that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus escapes our 
rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell which falls, in decaying, from the inner 
form, not that inner form itself; but this inner form as well as the shell, is appreciable by 
those who have already acquired the ultimate life. 

P. You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly resembles death. How is this? 

V. When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles the ultimate life; for when 
I am entranced the senses of my rudimental life are in abeyance and I perceive external 



things directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ in the ultimate, 
unorganized life. 

P. Unorganized? 

V. Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is brought into sensible relation 
with particular classes and forms of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. 
The organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to that only; his ultimate 
condition, being unorganized, is of unlimited comprehension in all points but one-the 
nature of the volition of God-that is to say, the motion of the unparticled matter. You 
may have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is 
not, but a conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of what it is. A 
luminous body imparts vibration to the luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate 
similar ones within the retina; these again communicate similar ones to the optic nerve. 
The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain, also, similar ones to the 
unparticled matter which permeates it. The motion of this latter is thought, of which 
perception is the first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the rudimental 
life communicates with the external world; and this external world is, to the rudimental 
life, limited, through the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized life, 
the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a substance having affinity to 
brain, as I have said,) with no other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than 
even the luminiferous; and to this ether-in unison with it-the whole body vibrates, setting 
in motion the unparticled matter which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic 
organs, therefore, that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception of the ultimate 
life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages necessary to confine them until fledged. 

P. You speak of rudimental "beings." Are there other rudimental thinking beings than 
man? 

V. The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulae, planets, suns, and other 
bodies which are neither nebulae, suns, nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying 
pabulum for the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental beings. But for the 
necessity of the rudimental, prior to the ultimate life, there would have been no bodies 
such as these. Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic rudimental 
thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the features of the place tenanted. At 
death, or metamorphosis, these creatures, enjoying the ultimate life-immortality-and 
cognizant of all secrets but the one, act all things and pass every where by mere volition:- 
indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the sole palpabilities, and for the 
accommodation of which we blindly deem space created-but that space itself-that 
infinity of which the truly substantive vastness swallows up the star- shadows-blotting 
them out as non-entities from the perception of the angels. 

P. You say that "but for the necessity of the rudimental life, there would have been no 
stars." But why this necessity? 



V. In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter generally, there is nothing to 
impede the action of one simple unique law-the Divine Volition. With the view of 
producing impediment, the organic life and matter (complex, substantial and law- 
encumbered) were contrived. 

P. But again-why need this impediment have been produced? 

V. The result of law inviolate is perfection-right-negative happiness. The result of law 
violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the 
number, complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and matter, the 
violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent, practicable. Thus pain, which is the 
inorganic life is impossible, is possible in the organic. 

P. But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible? 

V. All things are either good or bad by comparison. A sufficient analysis will show that 
pleasure in all cases, is but the contrast of pain. Positive pleasure is a mere idea. To be 
happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never to suffer would have 
been never to have been blessed. But it has been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain 
cannot be; thus the necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of Earth, is the 
sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in Heaven. 

P. Still there is one of your expressions which I find it impossible to comprehend-"the 
truly substantive vastness of infinity." 

V. This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic conception of the term 
"substance" itself. We must not regard it as a quality, but as a sentiment:-it is the 
perception, in thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their organization. There are 
many things on the Earth, which would be nihility to the inhabitants of Venus-many 
things visible and tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as 
existing at all. But to the inorganic beings-to the angels-the whole of the unparticled 
matter is substance; that is to say, the whole of what we term "space," is to them the 
truest substantiality;-the stars, meantime, through what we consider their materiality, 
escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion as the unparticled matter, through what we 
consider its immateriality, eludes the organic. 

As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble tone, I observed on his 
countenance a singular expression, which somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to 
awake him at once. No sooner had I done this than, with a bright smile irradiating all his 
features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed that in less than a minute 
afterward his corpse had all the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of 
ice. Thus, ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure from Azrael's 
hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the latter portion of his discourse, been 
addressing me from out the regions of the shadows? 

THE END 



METZENGERSTEIN 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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-! say nothing. I assert, however, that much of our incredulity-as La Bruyere 
says of all our unhappiness-'Vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls." 

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 meme, 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. Indeed 
at the era of this history, it was observed by an old crone of haggard and sinister 
appearance, that "fire and water might sooner mingle than a Berlifitzing clasp the hand of 
a Metzengerstein." 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 
Berlifitzing s. 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 infirai 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 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 wildemess-in so 
magnificent a wilderness as that old principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning. 

The beautiful Lady Mary! How could she die?-and of consumption! But it is a path I 
have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to perish of that gentle disease. How 
glorious-to depart in the heyday of the young blood-the heart of all passion-the 
imagination all fire-amid the remembrances of happier days-in the fall of the year- and 
so be buried up forever in the gorgeous autumnal leaves! 

Thus died the Lady Mary. The young Baron Frederick stood without a living relative by 
the coffin of his dead mother. He placed his hand upon her placid forehead. No shudder 
came over his delicate frame-no sigh from his flinty bosom. Heartless, self-willed and 
impetuous from his childhood, he had reached the age of which I speak through a career 
of unfeeling, wanton, and reckless dissipation; and a barrier had long since arisen in the 
channel of all holy thoughts and gentle recollections. 

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 "Chateau 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 f Allan 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 chateau 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 chateau. 

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-e specially 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 
Chateau Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen 
leaping with an impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest, and 
extorted from every stupefied beholder the ejaculation-"horrible." 

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 END 



MORELLA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single. 
PLATO: SYMPOS. 

WITH a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. 
Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meeting, 
burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and 
tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their 
unusual meaning or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us 
together at the altar, and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however, 
shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness 
to wonder; it is a happiness to dream. 

Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no common 
order-her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and, in many matters, became her 
pupil. I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she 
placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the 
mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reason I could not imagine, 
were her favourite and constant study-and that in process of time they became my own, 
should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example. 

In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were 
in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read 
to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. 
Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered 
with an unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies. And then-then, when poring 
over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me- would Morella place 
her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low, 
singular words, whose strange meaning burned themselves in upon my memory. And 
then, hour after hour, would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, 
until at length its melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon my soul, 
and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones. And thus, joy 
suddenly faded into horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon 
became Ge-Henna. 

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, growing out of 
the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of 
Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they 
will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little 



understood. The wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified Paliggenedia of the 
Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling, were 
generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative 
Morella. That identity which is termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to 
consist in the saneness of rational being. And since by person we understand an 
intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always 
accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call ourselves, 
thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal 
identity. But the principium indivduationis, the notion of that identity which at death is or 
is not lost for ever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest; not more 
from the perplexing and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and 
agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them. 

But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's manner oppressed 
me as a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her 
musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this, but did 
not upbraid; she seemed conscious of my weakness or my folly, and, smiling, called it 
fate. She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation of 
my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined 
away daily. In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins 
upon the pale forehead became prominent; and one instant my nature melted into pity, 
but in, next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and then my soul sickened and became 
giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes downward into some dreary and unfathomable 
abyss. 

Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of 
Morella's decease? I did; but the fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days, 
for many weeks and irksome months, until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over 
my mind, and I grew furious through delay, and, with the heart of a fiend, cursed the days 
and the hours and the bitter moments, which seemed to lengthen and lengthen as her 
gentle life declined, like shadows in the dying of the day. 

But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in heaven, Morella called me to her 
bedside. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and 
amid the rich October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the firmament had surely 
fAUan. 

"It is a day of days," she said, as I approached; "a day of all days either to live or die. It is 
a fair day for the sons of earth and life-ah, more fair for the daughters of heaven and 
death!" 

I kissed her forehead, and she continued: 

"I am dying, yet shall I live." 

"Morella!" 



"The days have never been when thou couldst love me-but her whom in life thou didst 
abhor, in death thou shalt adore." 

"Morella!" 

"I repeat I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection- ah, how little!-which 
thou didst feel for me, Morella. And when my spirit departs shall the child live-thy child 
and mine, Morella's. But thy days shall be days of sorrow-that sorrow which is the most 
lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy 
happiness are over and joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Paestum twice in 
a year. Thou shalt no longer, then, play the Teian with time, but, being ignorant of the 
myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on the earth, as do the 
Moslemin at Mecca." 

"Morella!" I cried, "Morella! how knowest thou this?" but she turned away her face upon 
the pillow and a slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice 
no more. 

Yet, as she had foretold, her child, to which in dying she had given birth, which breathed 
not until the mother breathed no more, her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew 
strangely in stature and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had 
departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent than I had believed it possible to feel 
for any denizen of earth. 

But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened, and gloom, and horror, 
and grief swept over it in clouds. I said the child grew strangely in stature and 
intelligence. Strange, indeed, was her rapid increase in bodily size, but terrible, oh! 
terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the 
development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily discovered in the 
conceptions of the child the adult powers and faculties of the woman? when the lessons 
of experience fell from the lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of 
maturity I found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say, all this 
beeame evident to my appalled senses, when I could no longer hide it from my soul, nor 
throw it off from those perceptions which trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at 
that suspicions, of a nature fearful and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my 
thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories of the entombed 
Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a being whom destiny compelled me 
to adore, and in the rigorous seclusion of my home, watched with an agonizing anxiety 
over all which concerned the beloved. 

And as years rolled away, and I gazed day after day upon her holy, and mild, and 
eloquent face, and poured over her maturing form, day after day did I discover new 
points of resemblance in the child to her mother, the melancholy and the dead. And 
hourly grew darker these shadows of similitude, and more full, and more definite, and 
more perplexing, and more hideously terrible in their aspect. For that her smile was like 
her mother's I could bear; but then I shuddered at its too perfect identity, that her eyes 



were like Morella's I could endure; but then they, too, often looked down into the depths 
of my soul with Morella's own intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of 
the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan fingers which 
buried themselves therein, and in the sad musical tones of her speech, and above all-oh, 
above all, in the phrases and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the 
living, I found food for consuming thought and horror, for a worm that would not die. 

Thus passed away two lustra of her life, and as yet my daughter remained nameless upon 
the earth. "My child," and "my love," were the designations usually prompted by a 
father's affection, and the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. 
Morella's name died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the 
daughter, it was impossible to speak. Indeed, during the brief period of her existence, the 
latter had received no impressions from the outward world, save such as might have been 
afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism 
presented to my mind, in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present deliverance from 
the terrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And many 
titles of the wise and beautiful, of old and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, 
came thronging to my lips, with many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy, and 
the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried dead? What 
demon urged me to breathe that sound, which in its very recollection was wont to make 
ebb the purple blood in torrents from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the 
recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of the night, I 
whispered within the ears of the holy man the syllables-Morella? What more than fiend 
convulsed the features of my child, and overspread them with hues of death, as starting at 
that scarcely audible sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the earth to heaven, and 
falling prostrate on the black slabs of our ancestral vault, responded-"! am here!" 

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds within my ear, and thence 
like molten lead rolled hissingly into my brain. Years-years may pass away, but the 
memory of that epoch never. Nor was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine-but 
the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of 
time or place, and the stars of my fate faded from heaven, and therefore the earth grew 
dark, and its figures passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld 
only-Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and 
the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore-Morella. But she died; and with my own 
hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found no 
traces of the first in the channel where I laid the second.-Morella. 

THE END 



MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



THE NATURAL scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its general features as 
well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old World-more especially of Europe-and not 
deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each 
region. The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed, for, although much has been 
said on both sides, a word more yet remains to be said. 

The most conspicuous of the British tourists who have attempted a comparison, seem to 
regard our northern and eastern seaboard, comparatively speaking, as all of America, at 
least, as all of the United States, worthy consideration. They say little, because they have 
seen less, of the gorgeous interior scenery of some of our western and southern districts- 
of the vast valley of Louisiana, for example,-a realization of the wildest dreams of 
paradise. For the most part, these travellers content themselves with a hasty inspection of 
the natural lions of the land-the Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, Harper's Ferry, the lakes 
of New York, the Ohio, the prairies, and the Mississippi. These, indeed, are objects well 
worthy the contemplation even of him who has just clambered by the castellated Rhine, 
or roamed 

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone; 

but these are not all of which we can boast; and, indeed, I will be so hardy as to assert 
that there are innumerable quiet, obscure, and scarcely explored nooks, within the limits 
of the United States, that, by the true artist, or cultivated lover of the grand and beautiful 
amid the works of God, will be preferred to each and to all of the chronicled and better 
accredited scenes to which I have referred. 

In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from the track of our own most deliberate 
tourists-how very far, then, beyond the reach of the foreigner, who, having made with his 
publisher at home arrangements for a certain amount of comment upon America, to be 
furnished in a stipulated period, can hope to fulfil his agreement in no other manner than 
by steaming it, memorandum-book in hand, through only the most beaten thoroughfares 
of the country! 

I mentioned, just above, the valley of Louisiana. Of all extensive areas of natural 
loveliness, this is perhaps the most lovely. No fiction has approached it. The most 
gorgeous imagination might derive suggestions from its exuberant beauty. And beauty is, 
indeed, its sole character. It has little, or rather nothing, of the sublime. Gentle 
undulations of soil, interwreathed with fantastic crystallic streams, banked by flowery 
slopes, and backed by a forest vegetation, gigantic, glossy, multicoloured, sparkling with 



gay birds and burthened with perfume-these features make up, in the vale of Louisiana, 
the most voluptuous natural scenery upon earth. 

But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter portions are reached only by the bypaths. 
Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who would behold the finest landscapes, must 
seek them not by the railroad, nor by the steamboat, not by the stage-coach, nor in his 
private carriage, not yet even on horseback-but on foot. He must walk, he must leap 
ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, or he must leave unseen the truest, the 
richest, and most unspeakable glories of the land. 

Now in the greater portion of Europe no such necessity exists. In England it exists not at 
all. The merest dandy of a tourist may there visit every nook worth visiting without 
detriment to his silk stockings; so thoroughly known are all points of interest, and so 
well-arranged are the means of attaining them. This consideration has never been allowed 
its due weight, in comparisons of the natural scenery of the Old and New Worlds. The 
entire loveliness of the former is collated with only the most noted, and with by no means 
the most eminent items in the general loveliness of the latter. 

River scenery has, unquestionably, within itself, all the main elements of beauty, and, 
time out of mind, has been the favourite theme of the poet. But much of this fame is 
attributable to the predominance of travel in fluvial over that in mountainous districts. In 
the same way, large rivers, because usually highways, have, in all countries, absorbed an 
undue share of admiration. They are more observed, and, consequently, made more the 
subject of discourse, than less important, but often more interesting streams. 

A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in the 
Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called,) which empties itself into the 
Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia. Now the Wissahiccon is of so 
remarkable a loveliness that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every 
bard, and the common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not parcelled off 
in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas of the opulent. Yet it is only 
within a very few years that any one has more than heard of the Wissahiccon, while the 
broader and more navigable water into which it flows, has been long celebrated as one of 
the finest specimens of American river scenery. The Schuylkill, whose beauties have 
been much exaggerated, and whose banks, at least in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, 
are marshy like those of the Delaware, is not at all comparable, as an object of 
picturesque interest, with the more humble and less notorious rivulet of which we speak. 

It was not until Fanny Kemble, in her droll book about the United States, pointed out to 
the Philadelphians the rare loveliness of a stream which lay at their own doors, that this 
loveliness was more than suspected by a few adventurous pedestrians of the vicinity. But, 
the "Journal" having opened all eyes, the Wissahiccon, to a certain extent, rolled at once 
into notoriety. I say "to a certain extent," for, in fact, the true beauty of the stream lies far 
above the route of the Philadelphian picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed farther than 
a mile or two above the mouth of the rivulet-for the very excellent reason that here the 
carriage-road stops. I would advise the adventurer who would behold its finest points to 



take the Ridge Road, ranning westwardly from the city, and, having reached the second 
lane beyond the sixth mile-stone, to follow this lane to its termination. He will thus strike 
the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its 
banks, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in either direction 
will meet his reward. 

I have already said, or should have said, that the brook is narrow. Its banks are generally, 
indeed almost universally, precipitous, and consist of high hills, clothed with noble 
shrubbery near the water, and crowned at a greater elevation, with some of the most 
magnificent forest trees of America, among which stands conspicuous the liriodendron 
tulipiferum. The immediate shores, however, are of granite, sharply defined or moss- 
covered, against which the pellucid water lolls in its gentle flow, as the blue waves of the 
Mediterranean upon the steps of her palaces of marble. Occasionally in front of the cliffs, 
extends a small definite plateau of richly herbaged land, affording the most picturesque 
position for a cottage and garden which the richest imagination could conceive. The 
windings of the stream are many and abrupt, as is usually the case where banks are 
precipitous, and thus the impression conveyed to the voyager's eye, as he proceeds, is that 
of an endless succession of infinitely varied small lakes, or, more properly speaking, 
tarns. The Wissahiccon, however, should be visited, not like "fair Melrose," by 
moonlight, or even in cloudy weather, but amid the brightest glare of a noonday sun; for 
the narrowness of the gorge through which it flows, the height of the hills on either hand, 
and the density of the foliage, conspire to produce a gloominess, if not an absolute 
dreariness of effect, which, unless relieved by a bright general light, detracts from the 
mere beauty of the scene. 

Not long ago I visited the stream by the route described, and spent the better part of a 
sultry day in floating in a skiff upon its bosom. The heat gradually overcame me, and, 
resigning myself to the influence of the scenes and of the weather, and of the gentle 
moving current, I sank into a half slumber, during which my imagination revelled in 
visions of the Wissahiccon of ancient days-of the "good old days" when the Demon of 
the Engine was not, when picnics were undreamed of, when "water privileges" were 
neither bought nor sold, and when the red man trod alone, with the elk, upon the ridges 
that now towered above. And, while gradually these conceits took possession of my 
mind, the lazy brook had borne me, inch by inch, around one promontory and within full 
view of another that bounded the prospect at the distance of forty or fifty yards. It was a 
steep rocky cliff, abutting far into the stream, and presenting much more of the Salvator 
character than any portion of the shore hitherto passed. What I saw upon this cliff, 
although surely an object of very extraordinary nature, the place and season considered, 
at first neither startled nor amazed me-so thoroughly and appropriately did it chime in 
with the half- slumberous fancies that enwrapped me. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, 
standing upon the extreme verge of the precipice, with neck outstretched, with ears erect, 
and the whole attitude indicative of profound and melancholy inquisitiveness, one of the 
oldest and boldest of those identical elks which had been coupled with the red men of my 
vision. 



I say that, for a few moments, this apparition neither startled nor amazed me. During this 
interval my whole soul was bound up in intense sympathy alone. I fancied the elk 
repining, not less than wondering, at the manifest alterations for the worse, wrought upon 
the brook and its vicinage, even within the last few years, by the stem hand of the 
utilitarian. But a slight movement of the animal's head at once dispelled the dreaminess 
which invested me, and aroused me to a full sense of novelty of the adventure. I arose 
upon one knee within the skiff, and, while I hesitated whether to stop my career, or let 
myself float nearer to the object of my wonder, I heard the words "hist!" "hist!" 
ejaculated quickly but cautiously, from the shrubbery overhead. In an instant afterwards, 
a negro emerged from the thicket, putting aside the bushes with care, and treading 
stealthily. He bore in one hand a quantity of salt, and, holding it towards the elk, gently 
yet steadily approached. The noble animal, although a little fluttered, made no attempt at 
escape. The negro advanced; offered the salt; and spoke a few words of encouragement 
or conciliation. Presently, the elk bowed and stamped, and then lay quietly down and was 
secured with a halter. 

Thus ended my romance of the elk. It was a pet of great age and very domestic habits, 
and belonged to an English family occupying a villa in the vicinity. 

THE END 



MYSTIFICATION 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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 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 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." 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 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, 
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 
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 who had fAUan 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 recherche 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, 

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 

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 modem 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. 

LITTLETON BARRY. 

THE END 



NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD 

A Tale With a Moral 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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

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



impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end of 
their fables. 

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

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

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



him-he called for the police. I pulled his nose-he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil his 
head that I would not venture to try that experiment again. 

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

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

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

I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be obliged to me if I would 
hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised all my insinuations. He was 
old enough to take care of himself. Did I still think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say 
any thing against his character? Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my 



maternal parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He 
would put this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself to 
abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother knew that I was 
out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet the Devil his 
head that she did not. 

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

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

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



reason to be sorry afterward;-for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his head that he 
could. 

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

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

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

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

"Dammit," observed I-although this sounded very much like an oath, than which nothing 
was further from my thoughts-"Dammit," I suggested-"the gentleman says 'ahem!'" 

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

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

At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased-God only knows why. He left his station 
at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a gracious air, took Dammit by the hand 



and shook it cordially, looking all the while straight up in his face with an air of the most 
unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine. 

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

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

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

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

One-two-three-and-away ! 

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

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an instant. In less than 
five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, 
and spring grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his 
legs as he went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon- winging it to admiration just over 



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

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

THE END 



ROMANCE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1829 



Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 
With drowsy head and folded wing. 
Among the green leaves as they shake 
Far down within some shadowy lake. 
To me a painted paroquet 
Hath been-a most familiar bird- 
Taught me my alphabet to say- 
To lisp my very earliest word 
While in the wild wood I did lie, 
A child- with a most knowing eye. 

Of late, eternal Condor years 
So shake the very Heaven on high 
With tumult as they thunder by, 
I have no time for idle cares 
Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 
And when an hour with calmer wings 
Its down upon my spirit flings- 
That little time with lyre and rhyme 
To while away-forbidden things! 
My heart would feel to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the strings. 

THE END 



SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1835 



DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

POLITIAN, Earl of Leicester. A MONK. 

DI BROGLIO, a Roman Duke. LALAGE 

COUNT CASTIGLIONE, his son. ALESSANDRA, betrothed to 

B ALDAZZAR, Duke of Surrey, Castiglione. 

Friend to Politian. JACINTA, maid to Lalage. 

The Scene lies in Rome 
I. 

ROME-A Hall in a Palace 

ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE. 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou art sad, Castiglione. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Sad!-not I. 

Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome! 

A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 

Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy! 

ALESSANDRA. 

Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing 
Thy happiness !-what ails thee, cousin of mine? 
Why didst thou sigh so deeply? 

CASTIGLIONE 

I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 

A silly-a most silly fashion I have 

When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (Sighing) 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged 
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,-these 



Will ruin thee! thou art already altered- 

Thy looks are haggard-nothing so wears away 

The constitution as late hours and wine. 

CASTIGLIONE (musing) 

Nothing, fair cousin, nothing-not even deep sorrow- 
Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
I will amend. 

ALESSANDRA 
Do it! I would have thee drop 
Thy riotous company, too-fellows low born- 
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir 
And Alessandra's husband. 

CASTIGLIONE 

I will drop them. 

ALESSANDRA 

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

CASTIGLIONE 

I'll see to it. 

ALESSANDRA 

Then see to it!-pay more attention, sir. 

To a becoming carriage-much thou wantest 

In dignity. 

CASTIGLIONE 

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

ALESSANDRA (haughtily) 
Thou mockest me, sir. 

CASTIGLIONE (abstractedly) 
Sweet, gentle Lalage! 

ALESSANDRA 

Heard I aright? 

speak to him-he speaks of Lalage! 

Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? 



(aside) He's not well! 
What ails thee, sir? 

CASTIGLIONE (starting) 

Cousin! fair cousin!-madam! 

I crave thy pardon-indeed I am not well- 

Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 

This air is most oppressive !-Madam-the Duke! 

(Enter DI BROGLIO) 

DI BROGLIO 

My son, I've news for thee!-hey?-what's the matter? (observing 

Alessandra) 

r the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her. 

You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! 

I've news for you both. Politian is expected 

Hourly in Rome-Politian, Earl of Leicester! 

We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit 

To the imperial city. 

ALESSANDRA 

What! Politian 

Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? 

DI BROGLIO 

The same, my love. 

We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young 

In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him. 

But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy 

Preeminent in arts and arms, and wealth. 

As of one who entered madly into life. 

Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. 

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

ALESSANDRA 

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

DI BROGLIO 

Far from it, love. 

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



ALESSANDRA 

'Tis very strange! 

I have known men have seen Politian 

And sought his company. They speak of him 

As of one who entered madly into life, 

Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian 
And know him well-nor learned nor he. 
He is a dreamer, and a man shut out 
From common passions. 

DI BROGLIO 

Children, we disagree. 

Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air 

Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear 

Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt) 

II 

ROME-A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a 
garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie 
some books and a hand mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant 
maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. 

LALAGE. 

Jacinta, is it thou? 

JACINTA (pertly) 
Yes, ma'am, I'm here. 

LALAGE. 

I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
Sit down!-Let not my presence trouble you- 
Sit down!-for I am humble, most humble. 

JACINTA (aside) 
'Tis time. 

(JACINTA seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, 
resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress 
with a contemptuous look. LALAGE continues to read.) 

LALAGE 

"It in another climate, so he said, 

"Bore a bright golden flower, but not this soil!" 



(pauses-turns over some leaves, and resumes) 

"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower- 

"But Ocean ever to refresh mankind 

"Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." 

O, beautiful !-most beautiful-how like 

To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! 

O happy land (pauses) She died!-the maiden died! 

A still more happy maiden who couldst die! 

Jacinta! 

(JACINTA returns no answer, and LALAGE presently resumes) 

Again !-a similar tale 

Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! 

Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play- 

"She died full young"-one Bossola answers him- 

"I think not so-her infelicity 

"Seemed to have years too many"-Ah luckless lady! 

Jacinta! (still no answer) 

Here 's a far sterner story. 

But like-oh, very like in its despair- 

Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily 

A thousand hearts-losing at length her own. 

She died. Thus endeth the history-and her maids 

Lean over and weep-two gentle maids 

With gentle names-Eiros and Charmion! 

Rainbow and Dove!-Jacinta! 

JACINTA (pettishly) 
Madam, what is it? 

LALAGE 

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

JACINTA 

Pshaw! (Exit) 

LALAGE 

If there be balm 

For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there! 

Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble 

Will there be found-"dew sweeter far than that 

Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." 

(Re-enter JACINTA, and throws a volume on the table) 

There, ma'am, 's the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (Aside) 



LALAGE (astonished) 

What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught 

To grieve thee or to vex thee?-I am sorry. 

For thou hast served me long and ever been 

Trustworthy and respectful, (resumes her reading) 

JACINTA (aside) 

I can't believe 

She has any more jewels-no-no-she gave me all. 

LALAGE 

What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me 
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
How fares good Ugo?-and when is it to be? 
Can I do aught?-is there no farther aid 
Thou needest, Jacinta? 

JACINTA 

Is there no farther aid! 

That's meant for me (aside). I'm sure, madam, you need not 

Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 

LALAGE 

Jewels! Jacinta,-now indeed, Jacinta, 
I thought not of the jewels. 

JACINTA 

Oh! perhaps not! 

But then I might have sworn it. After all. 

There 's Ugo says the ring is only paste. 

For he 's sure the Count Castiglione never 

Would have given a real diamond to such as you; 

And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot 

Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (Exit) 

(LALAGE bursts into tears and leans her head upon the 
table-after a short pause raises it) 

LALAGE 

Poor Lalage!-and is it come to this? 

Thy servant maid!-but courage !-'tis but a viper 

Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! 

(Taking up the mirror) 

Ha! here at least 's a friend-too much a friend 

In earlier day-a friend will not deceive thee. 

Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) 



A tale-a pretty tale-and heed thou not 

Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. 

It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, 

And Beauty long deceased-remembers me 

Of Joy departed-Hope, the Seraph Hope, 

Inurned and entombed:-now, in a tone 

Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible. 

Whispers of early grave untimely yawning 

For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true-thou liest not! 

Thou hast no end to gain-no heart to break- 

Castiglione lied who said he loved- 

Thou true-he false !-false!-false! 

(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and 
approaches unobserved) 

MONK 

Refuge thou hast. 

Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things! 

Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! 

LALAGE (arising hurriedly) 

I cannot pray!-My soul is at war with God! 

The frightful sounds of merriment below 

Disturb my senses-go! I cannot pray- 

The sweet airs from the garden worry me! 

Thy presence grieves me-go!-thy priestly raiment 

Fills me with dread-thy ebony crucifix 

With horror and awe! 

MONK 

Think of thy precious soul! 

LALAGE 

Think of my early days!-think of my father 
And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home. 
And the rivulet that ran before the door! 
Think of my little sisters !-think of them! 
And think of me!-think of my trusting love 
And confidence-his vows-my ruin-think-think 
Of my unspeakable misery !-begone! 
Yet stay! yet stay!-what was it thou saidst of prayer 
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith 
And vows before the throne? 



MONK 

I did. 

LALAGE 

'Tis well. 

There is a vow were fitting should be made- 

A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, 

A solemn vow! 

MONK 

Daughter, this zeal is well. 

LALAGE 

Father, this zeal is anything but well! 

Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? 

A crucifix whereon to register 

This sacred vow? (He hands her his own) 

Notthat-Oh! no!-no!-no! (Shuddering) 

Not that! Not that!-I tell thee, holy man. 

Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! 

Stand back! I have a crucifix my self, - 

I have a crucifix Methinks 'twere fitting 

The deed-the vow-the symbol of the deed- 

And the deed's register should tally, father! 

(Draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high) 

Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine 

Is written in Heaven! 

MONK 

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

LALAGE 
'Tis sworn! 
IIL 

An apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR 

BALDAZZAR 

-Arouse thee now, Politian! 

Thou must not-nay indeed, indeed, shalt not 

Give away unto these humors. Be thyself! 



Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
And live, for now thou diest! 

POLITIAN 

Not so, Baldazzar 
Surely I live. 

BALDAZZAR 

Politian, it doth grieve me 
To see thee thus. 

POLITIAN 

Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. 
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? 
At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
Which from my, forefathers I did inherit. 
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe. 
And be no more Politician, but some other. 
Command me, sir! 

BALDAZZAR 

To the field, then-to the field- 
To the senate or the field. 

POLITIAN. 

Alas! Alas! 

There is an imp would follow me even there! 
There is an imp hath followed me even there! 
There is-what voice was that? 

BALDAZZAR 

I heard it not. 

I heard not any voice except thine own. 

And the echo of thine own. 

POLITIAN 

Then I but dreamed. 

BALDAZZAR 

Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp-the court. 
Befit thee-Fame awaits thee-Glory calls- 
And her, the trumpet-tongued, thou wilt not hear 
In hearkening to imaginary sounds 
And phantom voices. 



POLITIAN 

It is a phantom voice! 
Didst thou not hear it then? 

BALDAZZAR 

I heard it not. 

POLITIAN 

Thou heardst it not!-Baldazaar, speak no more 

To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 

Oh I am sick, sick, even unto death. 

Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities 

Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile! 

We have been boys together-schoolfellows- 

And now are friends-yet shall not be so long- 

For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 

A kind and gentle office, and a Power 

A Power august, benignant and supreme- 

Shall then absolve thee of all further duties 

Unto thy friend. 

BALDAZZAR 

Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
I will not understand. 

POLITIAN 

Yet now as Fate 

Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low. 

The sands of Time are changed to golden grains. 

And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! 

I cannot die, having within my heart 

So keen a relish for the beautiful 

As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air 

Is balmier now than it was wont to be,- 

Rich melodies are floating in the winds- 

A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth- 

And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 

Sitteth in Heaven.-Hist! hist! thou canst not say 

Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar? 

BALDAZZAR 
Indeed I hear not. 

POLITIAN 

Not hear it!-listen now!-listen!-the faintest sound 
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! 



A lady's voice! -and sorrow in the tone! 
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell! 
Again !-again!-how solemnly it falls 
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice 
Surely I never heard-yet it were well 
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones 
In earlier days! 

BALDAZZAR 

I myself hear it now. 

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

Proceeds from yonder lattice-which you may see 

Very plainly through the window-it belongs. 

Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke? 

The singer is undoubtedly beneath 

The roof of his Excellency-and perhaps 

Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke 

As the betrothed of Castiglione, 

His son and heir. 

POLITIAN 

Be still !-it comes again! 

VOICE (very faintly) 
"And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus 
Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 
Say nay-say nay!" 

BALDAZZAR 

The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
In merry England-never so plaintively- 
Hist! hist! it comes again! 

VOICE (more loudly) 
"Is it so strong 
As for to leave me thus 
Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 
Say nay-say nay!" 



BALDAZZAR 

'Tis hushed and all is still! 

POLITIAN 

All is not still! 

BALDAZZAR 

Let us go down. 

POLITIAN 

Go down, Baldazzar, go! 

BALDAZZAR 

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

VOICE (distinctly) 
"Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among. 
And is thy heart so strong? 
Say nay-say nay!" 

BALDAZZAR 

Let us descend-'tis time. Politian, give 
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray. 
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness 
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember 

POLITIAN 

Remember? I do. lead on! I do remember. 

(Going) 

Let us descend. Believe me I would give. 

Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 

To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice- 

"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear 

Once more that silent tongue." 

BALDAZZAR 

Let me beg you, sir. 

Descend with me-the Duke may be offended. 

Let us go down, I pray you. 

VOICE (loudly) 
Say nay!-say nay! 



POLITIAN (aside) 

'Tis strange !-'tis very strange-methought the voice 

Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay! 

(Approaching the window) 

Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay. 

Now be this Fancy, by Heaven or be it Fate, 

Still will I not descend. Baldazzar make 

Apology unto the Duke for me; 

I go not down to-night. 

BALDAZZAR 

Your lordship's pleasure 

Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. 

POLITIAN 

Good-night, my friend, good-night. 
IV. 

The gardens of a Palace-Moonlight 

LALAGE, and POLITIAN 

LALAGE 

And dost thou speak of love 

To me, Politian ?-dost thou speak of love 

To Lalage?-ah, woe-ah, woe is me! 

This mockery is most cruel-most cruel indeed! 

POLITIAN 

Weep not! oh, sob not thus!-thy bitter tears 
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage- 
Be comforted! I know-I know it all. 
And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest 
And beautiful Lalage!-turn here thine eyes! 
Thou askest me if I could speak of love. 
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. 
Thou askest me that-and thus I answer thee- 
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (Kneeling) 
Sweet Lalage, I love thee-love thee-love thee; 
Thro' good and ill-thro' weal and woe I love thee. 
Not mother, with her first-bom on her knee. 
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime. 
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now 
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love? (Arising) 



Even for thy woes I love thee-even for thy woes- 
Thy beauty and thy woes. 

LALAGE 

Alas, proud Earl, 

Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me! 

How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens 

Pure and reproachless of thy princely line. 

Could the dishonored Lalage abide? 

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory- 

MY seared and bhghted name, how would it tally 

With the ancestral honors of thy house. 

And with thy glory? 

POLITIAN 

Speak not to me of glory! 
I hate-I loathe the name; I do abhor 
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian? 
Do I not love-art thou not beautiful- 
What need we more? Ha! glory !-now speak not of it. 
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn- 
By all my wishes now-my fears hereafter- 
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven- 
There is no deed I would more glory in. 
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory 
And trample it under foot. What matters it- 
What matters it, my fairest, and my best. 
That we go down unhonored and forgotten 
Into the dust-so we descend together. 
Descend together-and then-and then, perchance- 

LALAGE 

Why dost thou pause, Politian? 

POLITIAN 

And then, perchance 

Arise together, Lalage, and roam 

The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest. 

And still- 

LALAGE 

Why dost thou pause, Politian? 

POLITIAN 

And still together-together. 



LALAGE 

Now Earl of Leicester! 

Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts 

I feel thou lovest me truly. 

POLITIAN 

Oh, Lalage ! 

(Throwing himself upon his knee) 

And lovest thou me? 

LALAGE 

Hist! hush! within the gloom 
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed- 
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless- 
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. 
(Walks across and returns) 
I was mistaken-'twas but a giant bough 
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! 

POLITIAN 

My Lalage-my love! why art thou moved? 

Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self. 

Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it. 

Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind 

Is chilly-and these melancholy boughs 

Throw over all things a gloom. 

LALAGE 
Politian! 

Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land 
With which all tongues are busy-a land new found- 
Miraculously found by one of Genoa- 
A thousand leagues within the golden west? 
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine. 
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests. 
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds 
Of Heaven untrammelled flow-which air to breathe 
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter 
In days that are to come? 

POLITIAN 

O, wilt thou-wilt thou 

Fly to that Paradise-my Lalage, wilt thou 

Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten. 

And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 

And life shall then be mine, for I will live 



For thee, and in thine eyes-and thou shalt be 
No more a moumer-but the radiant Joys 
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope 
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee 
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved. 
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife. 
My all;-oh, wilt thou-wilt thou, Lalage, 
Fly thither with me? 

LALAGE 

A deed is to be done- 

Castiglione lives! 

POLITIAN 

And he shall die! (Exit) 

LALAGE (after a pause) 
And-he-shall-die !-alas ! 
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? 
Where am I?-what was it he said?-Politian! 
Thou art not gone-thou are not gone, Politian! 
I feel thou art not gone-yet dare not look. 
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go 
With those words upon thy lips-0, speak to me! 
And let me hear thy voice-one word-one word. 
To say thou art not gone,-one little sentence. 
To say how thou dost scorn-how thou dost hate 
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone- 

speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go! 

1 knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. 
Villain, thou art not gone-thou mockest me! 

And thus I clutch thee-thus!-He is gone, he is gone 
Gone-gone. Where am I?-'tis well-'tis very well! 
So that the blade be keen-the blow be sure, 
'Tis well, 'tis very well-alas! alas! 
V 

The suburbs. POLITIAN alone 

POLITIAN 

This weakness grows upon me. I am faint. 
And much I fear me ill-it will not do 
To die ere I have lived !-Stay, stay thy hand, 
O Azrael, yet awhile !-Prince of the Powers 
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me! 
O pity me! let me not perish now. 



In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! 
Give me to live yet-yet a little while: 
'Tis I who pray for life-I who so late 
Demanded but to die!-what sayeth the Count? 
(Enter BALDAZZAR) 

BALDAZZAR 

That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud 
Between the Earl Politian and himself. 
He doth decline your cartel. 

POLITIAN 

What didst thou say? 

What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? 

With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 

Laden from yonder bowers !-a fairer day, 

Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 

No mortal eyes have seen!-what said the Count? 

BALDAZZAR 

That he, Castiglione' not being aware 

Of any feud existing, or any cause 

Of quarrel between your lordship and himself. 

Cannot accept the chAUange. 

POLITIAN 

It is most true- 
All this is very true. When saw you, sir. 
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid 
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, 
A heaven so calm as this-so utterly free 
From the evil taint of clouds?-and he did say? 

BALDAZZAR 

No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir: 
The Count Castighone will not fight. 
Having no cause for quarrel. 

POLITIAN 

Now this is true- 
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, 
And I have not forgotten it-thou'lt do me 
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say 
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
Hold him a villain ?-thus much, I prythee, say 



Unto the Count-it is exceeding just 
He should have cause for quarrel. 

BALDAZZAR 

My lord!-my friend!- 

POLITIAN (aside) 

'Tis he!-he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest well. 
I know what thou wouldst say-not send the message- 
Well!-! will think of it-I will not send it. 
Now prythee, leave me-hither doth come a person 
With whom affairs of a most private nature 
I would adjust. 

BALDAZZAR 

I go-to-morrow we meet, 
Do we not?-at the Vatican. 

POLITIAN 

At the Vatican. 
(Exit BALDAZZAR) 
Enter CASTIGLIONE 

CASTIGLIONE 

The Earl of Leicester here! 

POLITIAN 

I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest. 
Dost thou not? that I am here. 

CASTIGLIONE 

My lord, some strange. 

Some singular mistake-misunderstanding- 

Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged 

Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 

Some words most unaccountable, in writing. 

To me, Castiglione; the bearer being 

Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 

Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing. 

Having given thee no offence. Ha! -am I right? 

'Twas a mistake?-undoubtedly-we all 

Do err at times. 

POLITIAN 

Draw, villain, and prate no more! 



CASTIGLIONE 

Ha!-draw?-and villain? have at thee then at once, 
Proud Earl! (Draws) 

POLITIAN (drawing) 
Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee 
In the name of Lalage! 

CASTIGLIONE 

(letting fall his sword and recoiling to 

the extremity of the stage) 

Of Lalage! 

Hold off-thy sacred hand!-avaunt, I say! 

Avaunt-I will not fight thee-indeed I dare not. 

POLITIAN 

Thou wilt not fight with me didst say. Sir Count? 
Shall I be baffled thus?-now this is well; 
Didst say thou darest not? Ha! 

CASTIGLIONE 

I dare not-dare not- 

Hold off thy hand-with that beloved name 

So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee- 

I cannot-dare not. 

POLITIAN 

Now by my halidom 

I do believe thee!-coward, I do believe thee! 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ha!-coward!-this may not be! 

(Clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but 

his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he 

falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl) 

Alas! my lord. 

It is-it is-most true. In such a cause 

I am the veriest coward. O pity me! 

POLITIAN (greatly softened) 
Alas!-I do-indeed I pity thee. 

CASTIGLIONE 

And Lalage- 



POLITIAN 

Scoundrell-arise and die! 

CASTIGLIONE 

It needeth not be-thus-thus-0 let me die 
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting 
That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
For in the fight I will not raise a hand 
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home- 
(Baring his bosom) 

Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon- 
Strike home. I will not fight thee. 

POLITIAN 

Now, s' Death and Hell! 

Am I not-am I not sorely-grievously tempted 

To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir. 

Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare 

For public insult in the streets-before 

The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee 

Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee 

Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest- 

Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,-ril taunt thee. 

Dost hear? with cowardice-thou will not fight me? 

Thou liest! thou shalt! (Exit) 

CASTIGLIONE 

Now this indeed is just! 

Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! 

THE END 



SERENADE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



So sweet the hour, so calm the time, 
I feel it more than half a crime. 
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute. 
To mar the silence ev'n with lute. 
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes 
An image of Elysium lies: 
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven, 
Form in the deep another seven: 
Endymion nodding from above 
Sees in the sea a second love. 
Within the valleys dim and brown. 
And on the spectral mountain's crown. 
The wearied light is dying down. 
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky 
Are redolent of sleep, as I 
Am redolent of thee and thine 
Enthralling love, my Adeline. 
But list, O list,-so soft and low 
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow. 
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem 
My words the music of a dream. 
Thus, while no single sound too rude 
Upon thy slumber shall intrude. 
Our thoughts, our souls-0 God above! 
In every deed shall mingle, love. 

THE END 



SHADOW-A PARABLE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow: 
Psalm of David. 

YE who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my 
way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things 
be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, 
when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will 
find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. 

The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which 
there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far 
and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To 
those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an 
aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had 
arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance 
of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Satumus. The 
peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the 
physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind. 

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a dim city 
called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no 
entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan 
Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, 
hkewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the 
peopleless streets-but the boding and the memory of Evil they would not be so excluded. 
There were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account-things 
material and spiritual-heaviness in the atmosphere-a sense of suffocation-anxiety-and, 
above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses 
are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead 
weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs-upon the household fumiture-upon the 
goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby-all 
things save only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing 
themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and 
motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at 
which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and 
the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were 
merry in our proper way-which was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon-which 
are madness; and drank deeply-although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there 



was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full 
length he lay, enshrouded; the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no 
portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes, in 
which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such 
interest in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to 
die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced 
myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into 
the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son 
of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among 
the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and so faded 
away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the sounds of the song departed, 
there came forth a dark and undefined shadow-a shadow such as the moon, when low in 
heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow neither of man nor 
of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, 
it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was 
vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor of God- 
neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow 
rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the door, and 
moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door 
whereupon the shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the 
young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as 
it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our 
eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, 
speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And 
the shadow answered, "I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of 
Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul 
Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand 
trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not 
the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences 
from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar 
accents of many thousand departed friends. 

THE END 



SILENCE-A FABLE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1837 



'Eudosin d'orheon korhuphai te kai pharhagges' 

'Prhones te kai charhadrhai. ' ALCMAN. (60 (10), 646.) The mountain pinnacles slumber; 

valleys, crags and caves are silent. 

"LISTEN to me," said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of 
which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is 
no quiet there, nor silence. 

"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not onwards to the 
sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous 
and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale 
desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch 
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting 
heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the 
rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other. 

"But there is a boundary to their realm— the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. 
There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But 
there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither 
and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, 
drop everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in 
perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds rush 
westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there 
is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither 
quiet nor silence. 

"It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fAUan, it was blood. 
And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head —and the lilies 
sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. 

"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. 
And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was 
lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, -and the 
rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stone; and I walked 
through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the 
characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher them. And I was going back into the 
morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the 
rock, and upon the characters;— and the characters were DESOLATION. 



"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid 
myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man 
was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga 
of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct— but his features were the 
features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of 
the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, 
and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of 
sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. 

"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon 
the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall 
primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I 
lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man 
trembled in the solitude; -but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. 

"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river 
Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. 
And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up 
from among them. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. 
And the man trembled in the solitude; —but the night waned and he sat upon the rock. 

"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among the 
wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in 
the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the 
behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. 
And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man 
trembled in the solitude; -but the night waned and he sat upon the rock. 

"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in 
the heaven where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the 
violence of the tempest —and the rain beat upon the head of the man —and the floods of 
the river came down —and the river was tormented into foam —and the water-lilies 
shrieked within their beds —and the forest crumbled before the wind —and the thunder 
rolled -and the lightning fell —and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close 
within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the 
solitude; —but the night waned and he sat upon the rock. 

"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the 
wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. 
And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway 
to heaven —and the thunder died away -and the lightning did not flash -and the clouds 
hung motionless —and the waters sunk to their level and remained —and the trees ceased 
to rock —and the water-lilies sighed no more —and the murmur was heard no longer from 
among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I 
looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; —and the characters were 
SILENCE. 



"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with 
terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock 
and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the 
characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face 
away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more." 

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi —in the iron-bound, melancholy 
volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the 
Earth, and of the mighty sea —and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the earth, and 
the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the sayings which were said by the Sybils; 
and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona - 
but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the 
shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an 
end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not 
laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which 
dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, 
and looked at him steadily in the face. 

THE END 



SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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

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

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

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

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

Yours, ever, PONNONNER. 

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We had expected to 
find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, 
we found a sort of sheath, made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt 



and painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various supposed 
duties of the soul, and its presentation to different divinities, with numerous identical 
human figures, intended, very probably, as portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending 
from head to foot was a columnar, or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic 
hieroglyphics, giving again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some portions of the 
temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than other parts of the frame, but 
which, as we had anticipated, of course, gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility 
when brought in contact with the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, 
with a hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night, when 
my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there immediately riveted in 
amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed to assure me that the orbs which we 



had all supposed to be glass, and which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, 
were now so far covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the tunica albuginea 
remained visible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at your behaviour. 
Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He is a poor little fat fool who 
knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But you, Mr. Gliddon-and you, Silk-who have 
travelled and resided in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manner born-you, I say 
who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I think, as you 
write your mother tongue-you, whom I have always been led to regard as the firm friend 
of the mummies-I really did anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I 



to think of your standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I 
to suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins, and my 
clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to the point) am I to 
regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little villain. Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling 
me by the nose?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent conversation in which 
the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive Egyptian, through the medium (so 
far as concerned myself and other untravelled members of the company )-through the 
medium, I say, of Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen 



spoke the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I could 
not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of images entirely modern, 
and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger) the two travellers were reduced, 
occasionally, to the employment of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a 
particular meaning. Mr. Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the 
Egyptian comprehend the term "politics," until he sketched upon the wall, with a bit of 
charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows, standing upon a stump, with 
his left leg drawn back, right arm thrown forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up 
toward Heaven, and the mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way 
Mr. Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea "wig," until (at Doctor 
Ponnonner's suggestion) he grew very pale in the face, and consented to take off his own. 

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

"In what?" said the Count. 

"In asphaltum," persisted Mr. B. 

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

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

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

"Why not altogether." 

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



"The blood of the Scarabaeus!" exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner. 

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

"But what has this to do with you being alive?" 

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

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

"Beyond doubt." 

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

"One of the Egyptian what?" exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its feet. 

"Gods!" repeated the traveller. 

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

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

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

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

"Will you be kind enough to explain," I said, "what you mean by 'purposely so 
embalmed'?" 

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



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

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

"By all means, sir," replied the Count, drawing up. 

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

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

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

"Sir!" said the Count AUamistakeo. 



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses, and, in general, about 
the manufacture of glass; but I had not made an end of my queries before the silent 



member again touched me quietly on the elbow, and begged me for God's sake to take a 
peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the Count, he merely asked me, in the way of reply, if 
we moderns possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the 
style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this question, little 
Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very extraordinary way. 

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

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

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

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

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

I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces. 

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant. 

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

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

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

We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luck would have it. 
Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue, and inquired if the people of 



Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the modems in the all-important particular of 
dress. 

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

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

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

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

THE END 



SONG 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



I saw thee on thy bridal day- 
When a burning blush came o'er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 
The world all love before thee: 

And in thine eye a kindling light 
(Whatever it might be) 
Was all on Earth my aching sight 
Of Loveliness could see. 

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame- 
As such it well may pass- 
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame 
In the breast of him, alas! 

Who saw thee on that bridal day. 

When that deep blush would come o'er thee. 

Though happiness around thee lay; 

The world all love before thee. 

THE END 



SONNET-TO ZANTE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1837 



Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, 

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! 

How many memories of what radiant hours 

At sight of thee and thine at once awake! 

How many scenes of what departed bliss! 

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! 

How many visions of a maiden that is 

No more-no more upon thy verdant slopes! 

No more! alas, that magical sad sound 

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more- 

Thy memory no more! Accursed ground 

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enameled shore, 

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! 

"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!" 

THE END 



SONNET-SILENCE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1840 



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

THE END 



SONNET-TO SCIENCE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1829 



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

THE END 



SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



Thy soul shall find itself alone 

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone; 

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 

Into thine hour of secrecy. 

Be silent in that solitude. 
Which is not loneliness-for then 
The spirits of the dead, who stood 
In life before thee, are again 
In death around thee, and their will 
Shall overshadow thee; be still. 

The night, though clear, shall frown. 
And the stars shall not look down 
From their high thrones in the Heaven 
With light like hope to mortals given. 
But their red orbs, without beam, 
To thy weariness shall seem 
As a burning and a fever 
Which would cling to thee for ever. 

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish. 
Now are visions ne'er to vanish; 
From thy spirit shall they pass 
No more, like dew-drop from the grass. 

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

THE END 



STANZAS 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



How often we forget all time, when lone 

Admiring Nature's universal throne; 

Her woods-her wilds-her mountains-the intense 

Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! [BYRON, The Island.] 



I 



In youth have I known one with whom the Earth 
In secret communing held-as he with it, 
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth: 
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit 
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth 
A passionate light-such for his spirit was fit- 
And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour 
Of its own fervor what had o'er it power. 



II 



Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought 
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er. 
But I will half believe that wild light fraught 
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore 
Hath ever told-or is it of a thought 
The unembodied essence, and no more. 
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass 
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass? 



Ill 



Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye 
To the loved object-so the tear to the lid 
Will start, which lately slept in apathy? 
And yet it need not be-(that object) hid 
From us in life-but common-which doth lie 
Each hour before us-but then only, bid 
With a strange sound, as of a harp- string broken. 
To awake us-'Tis a symbol and a token 



IV 



Of what in other worlds shall be-and given 
In beauty by our God, to those alone 
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven 
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone. 
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven, 
Tho' not with Faith-with godliness-whose throne 
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; 
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. 

THE END 



TALE OF JERUSALEM 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



1850 



Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos 

Passus erat 

Lucan 

—a bristly bore. 
Translation 

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Half an hour had already elapsed. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Booshoh he!-for shame !-it is a ram from the thickets of Engedi, and as rugged as the 
valley of Jehosaphat! " 

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

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

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



"Now El Emanu!" slowly, and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as, letting go their 
hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the Philistines, "El Emanu !-God 
be with US-it is the unutterable flesh!" 

THE END 



TAMERLANE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



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

Know thou the secret of a spirit 
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. 
O yearning heart! I did inherit 
Thy withering portion with the fame, 
The searing glory which hath shone 
Amid the jewels of my throne. 
Halo of Hell! and with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again- 

craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours! 
The undying voice of that dead time. 
With its interminable chime. 
Rings, in the spirit of a spell. 
Upon thy emptiness-a knell. 

1 have not always been as now: 
The fever'd diadem on my brow 
I claim'd and won usurpingly- 

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Caesar-this to me? 
The heritage of a kingly mind. 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 



On mountain soil I first drew life: 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 
Nightly their dews upon my head, 
And, I believe, the winged strife 
And tumult of the headlong air 
Have nestled in my very hair. 

So late from Heaven-that dew-it fell 

(Mid dreams of an unholy night) 

Upon me with the touch of Hell, 

While the red flashing of the light 

From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er. 

Appeared to my half-closing eye 

The pageantry of monarchy. 

And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 

Came hurriedly upon me, telling 

Of human battle, where my voice. 

My own voice, silly child! -was swelling 

(O! how my spirit would rejoice. 

And leap within me at the cry) 

The battle-cry of Victory! 

The rain came down upon my head 
Unshelter'd-and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 
It was but man, I thought, who shed 
Laurels upon me: and the rush- 
The torrent of the chilly air 
Gurgled within my ear the crush 
Of empires-with the captive's prayer- 
The hum of suitors-and the tone 
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 

My passions, from that hapless hour. 

Usurp 'd a tyranny which men 

Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power. 

My innate nature-be it so: 

But father, there liv'd one who, then, 

Then-in my boyhood-when their fire 

Burn'd with a still intenser glow, 

(For passion must, with youth, expire) 

E'en then who knew this iron heart 

In woman's weakness had a part. 

I have no words-alas!-to tell 
The loveliness of loving well! 



Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
Are-shadows on th' unstable wind: 
Thus I remember having dwelt 
Some page of early lore upon. 
With loitering eye, till I have felt 
The letters-with their meaning-melt 
To fantasies-with none. 

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

We grew in age-and love-together. 
Roaming the forest, and the wild; 
My breast her shield in wintry weather- 
And when the friendly sunshine smil'd. 
And she would mark the opening skies, 
I saw no Heaven-but in her eyes. 

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

Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove. 
When, on the mountain peak, alone. 
Ambition lent it a new tone- 
I had no being-but in thee: 
The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth-the air-the sea- 



Its joy-its little lot of pain 

That was new pleasure-the ideal, 

Dim vanities of dreams by night- 

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

I was ambitious-have you known 
The passion, father? You have not: 
A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
Of half the world as all my own. 
And murmur'd at such lowly lot- 
But, just like any other dream. 
Upon the vapour of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 
Of beauty which did while it thro' 
The minute-the hour-the day-oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 

We walk'd together on the crown 

Of a high mountain which look'd down 

Afar from its proud natural towers 

Of rock and forest, on the hills- 

The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers. 

And shouting with a thousand rills. 

I spoke to her of power and pride. 
But mystically-in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 
The moment's converse; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly- 
A mingled feeling with my own- 
The flush on her bright cheek, to me 
Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 
Light in the wilderness alone. 

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then. 
And donn'd a visionary crown- 
Yet it was not that Fantasy 
Had thrown her mantle over me- 
But that, among the rabble-men. 



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

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

O, human love! thou spirit given 
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, 
And, failing in thy power to bless. 
But leav'st the heart a wilderness! 
Idea! which bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound. 
And beauty of so wild a birth- 
Farewell! for I have won the Earth. 

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see 

No cliff beyond him in the sky. 

His pinions were bent droopingly- 

And homeward tum'd his soften'd eye. 

'Twas sunset: when the sun will part 

There comes a suUenness of heart 

To him who still would look upon 

The glory of the summer sun. 

That soul will hate the ev'ning mist. 

So often lovely, and will list 

To the sound of the coming darkness (known 

To those whose spirits hearken) as one 

Who, in a dream of night, would fly 

But cannot from a danger nigh. 



What tho' the moon-the white moon 
Shed all the splendour of her noon, 
Her smile is chilly, and her beam. 
In that time of dreariness, will seem 
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 
And boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one- 
For all we live to know is known, 
And all we seek to keep hath flown- 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noon-day beauty-which is all. 

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

Father, I firmly do believe- 
I know-for Death, who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar. 
Where there is nothing to deceive. 
Hath left his iron gate ajar. 
And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing thro' Eternity- 
I do believe that Eblis hath 
A snare in every human path- 
Else how, when in the holy grove 
I wandered of the idol. Love, 
Who daily scents his snowy wings 
With incense of burnt offerings 
From the most unpolluted things. 
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven, 
No mote may shun-no tiniest fly- 
The lightning of his eagle eye- 
How was it that Ambition crept. 
Unseen, amid the revels there. 
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
In the tangles of Love's very hair?