Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Эдгар Аллан По

  Vanny Buren, tan escondida

  Query no te senty venny

  Pork and pleasure, delly morry

  Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!

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

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

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

  Il pover hommy che non sera corty

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

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

  "Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun

  Duk she! duk she!"

  Alas! and are not her words too true?

  "And if I died, at least I died

  For thee—for thee."

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

  Volume 2

  Testimonials

  These were included as a part of volume 2 of the work. A few are by well-known writers

  These Tales have received encomiums of a most unusual character, from a great variety of high sources. Besides a number of editorial opinions in their favor, some personal ones (not editorial) are here appended. As all these (with a single exception) have already found their way into the papers, or other prints, of the time, the publishers presume there can be no impropriety in their republication.

  These tales are eminently distinguished by a wild, vigorous, and poetical imagination, a rich style, a fertile invention, and varied and curious learning.. Of singular force and beauty.

  - John P. Kennedy.

  I am much pleased with a tale called "The House of Usher," and should think that a collection of tales, equally well written, could not fail of being favorably received.. Its graphic effect is powerful.

  - Washington Irving.

  I have read a little tale called "William Wilson" with much pleasure. It is managed in a highly picturesque style, and the singular and mysterious interest is ably sustained throughout. I repeat what I have said of a previous production of this author; that I cannot but think that a series of articles of like style and merit would be extremely well received by the public.

  - Washington Irving.

  In "Ligeia," by Mr. Poe, there is a fine march of description, which has a touch of the D'Israeli quality.

  - N. P. Willis - Letters from under a Bridge.

  He puts us in mind of no less a writer than Shelley.

  - John Neal.

  "Bon-Bon," by Mr. Poe, is equal to anything Theodore Hook ever wrote.

  - M. M. Noah.

  Mr. Poe's "M.S. found in a bottle" is one of the most singularly ingenious and imaginative things I ever remember to have read. Discovery is there analyzed and spiritualized in a strain of allegory which need not fear comparison with Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."

  - J. F. Otis.

  - That powerful pen, whose versatile and brilliant creations I have so often admired.

  - Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.

  Mr. Poe possesses an extraordinary faculty. He paints the palpable obscure with strange power, throwing over his pictures a sombre gloom which is appalling. The images are dim, but distinct; shadowy but well-defined. The outline indeed is all we see; but there they stand, shrouded in darkness, and fright us with the mystery which defies farther scrutiny.. His genius, as well as private history, puts us in mind of that of Coleridge.

  - Judge Beverly Tucker (of Va.,) author of "George Balcombe."

  There can be but one opinion in regard to the force and beauty of his style.. He discovers a superior capacity and a highly cultivated taste.. A gentleman of fine endowments, possessing a taste classical and refined, an imagination affluent and splendid, and withal a singular capacity for minute and mathematical detail.. We always predicted that he would reach a high grade in American literature.. "Morella" will unquestionably prove that Mr. Poe has great powers of imagination, and a command of language never surpassed. We doubt if anything in the same style can be cited which contains more terrific beauty than this tale.

  - James E. Heath (of Va.), author of "Edge-Hill" and Editor of the S. Lit. Messenger.

  Mr. Poe is decidedly the best of all our young writers - I don't know but that I may say, of all our old
ones.

  - J. K. Paulding.

  - Facile princeps.

  - Professor Charles Anthon.

  We must say that we derive no small enjoyment from a delineation like this. We like to see the evidences of study and thought, as well as of inspiration, in the design, and of careful and elaborate handling in the execution, as well as of grand and striking effect in the tout ensemble. The "Fall of the House of Usher" is what we denominate a stern and sombre, but at the same time a noble and imposing picture, such as can be drawn only by a master-hand. Such things are not produced by your slip-shod amateurs in composition.

  - Phil. Weekly Messenger (Professor John Frost).

  "William Wilson," by Mr. Poe, reminds us of Godwin and Brockden Brown. The writer is a kindred spirit of theirs in his style of art. He paints with sombre Rembrandt-like tints, and there is great force and vigor of conception in whatever he produces.

  - Phil. Weekly Messenger (Professor Frost).

  There is also a sketch of much power and peculiar interest, entitled "The House of Usher" which cannot fail to attract attention -.. a remarkable specimen of a style of writing which possesses many attractions for those who love to dwell upon the terrible.

  - Phil. Pennsylvanian (Jos. C. Neal).

  Mr. Poe's story of "The House of Usher" would have been considered a chef d'oevre if it had appeared in the pages of Blackwood.

  - N. Y. Evening Star.

  "Lionizing" by Mr. Poe is an inimitable piece of wit and satire; and the man must be far gone in a melancholic humor whose risibility is not moved by this tale.

  - S. Lit. Messenger (E. Vernon Sparhawk).

  Mr. Poe's "Hans Phaall" will add much to his reputation as an imaginative writer. The story is a long one, but will appear short to the reader, whom it bears along with irresistible interest through a region of which of all others we know least, but which his fancy has invested with peculiar charms.

  - Idem.

  The author of the "Lunar Hoax" is indebted to the "Hans Phaall" of Mr. Poe for the conception and in a great measure for the execution of his discoveries.

  - Norfolk Herald.

  The "Due de L'Omelette" by Edgar A. Poe, is one of those light, spirited, and fantastic inventions of which we have had specimens before in the Messenger, betokening a fertility of imagination and power of execution, that would, under a sustained effort, produce creations of an enduring character.

  - Baltimore American (Geo. H. Calvert).

  The "Due de L'Omelette" is one of the best things of the kind we have ever read. Mr. Poe has great powers, and every line tells in all he writes. He is no spinner of long yarns, but chooses his subject, whimsically perhaps, but originally, and treats it in a manner peculiarly his own.

  - National Intelligencer (J. F. Otis).

  Of the lighter contributions - of the diamonds which sparkle beside the more sombre gems, commend us, thou spirit of eccentricity, forever and a day, to "The Duc de L'Omelette," - the best thing of the kind we ever have read or ever expect to read.

  - Petersburgh (Va.) Constellation (H. Haines).

  "The Tale of Jerusalem," is one of those felicitous hits which are the forte of Edgar A. Poe.

  - Baltimore Gazette.

  We seldom meet with more boldness in the development of intellectual capacity, or more vividness in description than we find in the productions of Edgar Allan Poe.

  - Brownsville (Pa.) Observer.

  - Equally ripe in graphic humor and various lore.

  - Charleston Courier.

  - An uniquely original vein of imagination, and of humorous delicate satire.

  - S. L. Messenger.

  The story of "The Fall of the House of Usher," from the pen of Mr. Poe, is very interesting - a well told tale.

  - Phil. U. S. Gazette (Jos. R. Chandler).

  Many of these tales are of a very high order of merit, and have been admired wherever they have been perused by men of mind. Mr. Poe is no imitator in story-telling. He has a peculiarity of his own - dealing often in rather wild imaginings, and yet he always contrives to sustain his plots with so much novelty of incident, that you must read him out in spite of any sober realities that may occasionally flit across the mind. And as you read you are ever impressed with the truth that he has much fancy, great richness of description, and true poetry for his imagery and colorings.

  - Phil. Sat. Courier (E. Holden).

  Poe can throw a chain of enchantment around every scene he attempts to describe, and one of his peculiarities consists in the perfect harmony between each locale and the characters introduced. He has certainly written some of the most popular tales of American origin.

  - Baltimore Post (Dr. J. Evans Snodgrass).

  He is excellent at caricature and satire.

  - Richmond Compiler.

  He is one of the very few American writers who blend philosophy common sense, humor and poetry smoothly together.. He lays his hand upon the wild steeds of his imagination, and they plunge furiously through storm and tempest, or foam along through the rattling thunder-cloud; or, at his bidding, they glide swiftly and noiselessly along the quiet and dreamy lake, or among the whispering bowers of thought and feeling..There are few writers in this country - take Neal, Irving, and Willis away, and we would say none - who can compete successfully in many respects with Poe. With an acuteness of observation, a vigorous and effective style, and an independence that defies control, he unites a fervid fancy and a most beautiful enthusiasm. His is a high destiny.

  - St. Louis Commercial Bulletin.

  FOUR BEASTS IN ONE

  THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD

  EPIMANES.

  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, l
ike 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