Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.
"A clever book that of yours, Pierre," resumed his Majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after a thorough compliance with his visiter's injunction. "A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own heart. Your arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?"
"Cannot say that I -"
"Indeed! - why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."
"Which is - hiccup! - undoubtedly the case," said the metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.
"There was Plato, too," continued his Majesty, modestly declining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied - "there was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon? - ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write, down that o nous estin aulos. He said that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the 'aulos.'"
"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics."
"Were you ever at Rome?" asked the restaurateur, as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of Chambertin.
But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time," said the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book - "there was a time when occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power - at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon - at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."{*2}
{*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grecque. - Condorcet.
"What do you think of - what do you think of - hiccup! - Epicurus?"
"What do I think of whom?" said the devil, in astonishment, "you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir? - I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes."
"That's a lie!" said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head.
"Very well! - very well, sir! - very well, indeed, sir!" said his Majesty, apparently much flattered.
"That's a lie!" repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; "that's a - hiccup! - a lie!"
"Well, well, have it your own way!" said the devil, pacifically, and Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.
"As I was saying," resumed the visiter - "as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very outre notions in that book of yours Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"
"The - hiccup! - soul," replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS., "is undoubtedly-"
"No, sir!"
"Indubitably-"
"No, sir!"
"Indisputably-"
"No, sir!"
"Evidently-"
"No, sir!"
"Incontrovertibly-"
"No, sir!"
"Hiccup! -"
"No, sir!"
"And beyond all question, a-"
"No sir, the soul is no such thing!" (Here the philosopher, looking daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle of Chambertin.)
"Then - hic-cup! - pray, sir - what - what is it?"
"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his Majesty, musingly. "I have tasted - that is to say, I have known some very bad souls, and some too - pretty good ones." Here he smacked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
He continued.
"There was the soul of Cratinus - passable: Aristophanes - racy: Plato - exquisite- not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus - faugh! Then let me see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus, - dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. - Let us taste your Sauterne."
Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to nil admirari and endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice: - simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued:
"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle; - you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus - and Titus Livius was positively Polybius and none other."
"Hic-cup!" here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:
"But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon - if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev - I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall!"
"Shelled!"
"I mean taken out of the carcass."
"What do you think of a - hic-cup! - physician?"
"Don't mention them! - ugh! ugh! ugh!" (Here his Majesty retched violently.) "I never tasted but one - that rascal Hippocrates! - smelt of asafoetida - ugh! ugh! ugh! - caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx - and after all he gave me the cholera morbus."
"The - hiccup - wretch!" ejaculated Bon-Bon, "the - hic-cup! - absorption of a pill-box!" - and the philosopher dropped a tear.
"After all," continued the visiter, "after all, if a dev - if a gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."
"How so?"
"Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will - smell - you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way."
"Hiccup! - hiccup! - good God! how do you manage?"
Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the devil half started from his seat; - however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: "I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing."
The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visiter continued.
"Why,
there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well."
"But the body! - hiccup! - the body!"
"The body, the body - well, what of the body? - oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and - and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who - but stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book."
Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters Machi - Maza- Robesp - with the words Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:
"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d'or, I being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul. (Signed) A...." {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)
{*4} Quere-Arouet?
"A clever fellow that," resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow; Ha! ha! ha! - he! he! he! - hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed shadow!"
"Only think - hiccup! - of a fricasseed shadow!" exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of his Majesty's discourse.
"Only think of a hiccup! - fricasseed shadow!! Now, damme! - hiccup! - humph! If I would have been such a - hiccup! - nincompoop! My soul, Mr. - humph!"
"Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"
"Yes, sir - hiccup! - my soul is-"
"What, sir?"
"No shadow, damme!"
"Did you mean to say-"
"Yes, sir, my soul is - hiccup! - humph! - yes, sir."
"Did you not intend to assert-"
"My soul is - hiccup! - peculiarly qualified for - hiccup! - a-"
"What, sir?"
"Stew."
"Ha!"
"Soufflee."
"Eh!"
"Fricassee."
"Indeed!"
"Ragout and fricandeau - and see here, my good fellow! I'll let you have it- hiccup! - a bargain." Here the philosopher slapped his Majesty upon the back.
"Couldn't think of such a thing," said the latter calmly, at the same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
"Am supplied at present," said his Majesty.
"Hiccup - e-h?" said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What?"
"Besides, very unhandsome in me -"
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of-"
"Hiccup!"
"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation."
Here the visiter bowed and withdrew - in what manner could not precisely be ascertained - but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.
SHADOW -- A PARABLE
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow:
-- Psalm of David.
YE who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets -- but the boding and the memory of Evil they would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account -- things material and spiritual -- heaviness in the atmosphere -- a sense of suffocation -- anxiety -- and, above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs -- upon the household furniture -- upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby -- all things save only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way -- which was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon -- which are madness; and drank deeply -- although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and undefined shadow -- a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor of God -- neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into t
he 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 DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
What o'clock is it? -- Old Saying.
EVERYBODY knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the world is -- or, alas, was -- the Dutch borough of Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit. For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability, with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.
By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am enabled to say, positively, that the borough of Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity whatsoever.
Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude of opinions upon this delicate point- some acute, some learned, some sufficiently the reverse -- I am able to select nothing which ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of Grogswigg- nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey -- is to be cautiously preferred. -- It runs: -- "Vondervotteimittis -- Vonder, lege Donder -- Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz- Bleitziz obsol: -- pro Blitzen." This derivative, to say the truth, is still countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance, and must refer the reader desirous of information to the "Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris," of Dundergutz. See, also, Blunderbuzzard "De Derivationibus," pp. 27 to 5010, Folio, Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher; wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.
Works of Edgar Allan Poe Page 97
