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[page 301, unnumbered:]
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THE PSYCHE ZENOBIA.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
 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 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-coloured auriculas. As for
Snobbs
— any person who should look at me would be instantly aware that my
name
was'nt Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer
envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect
from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about "blood out
of
a turnip, &c." [Mem: put her in mind of it the first opportunity.]
[Mem: again — pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah! I have been assured that
Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a queen
(So
am I. Dr. Moneypenny, always calls me
the
Queen of 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
original patronymic, which is Zenobia, and not by any means Snobbs.
Nobody
but Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche
Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has
heard of me. I
am
that very Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the "Philadelphia, Regular-Exchange, Tea-Total, Young,
Belles-Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical Association to
Civilize Humanity." Dr. Moneypenny made the title for us, and says
he chose it because it sounded big like an empty rum-puncheon. (A
vulgar
man that sometimes — but he's deep.) We all sign the initials of the
society
after our names, in the fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts
—
the S. D. U. K., Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge,
&c.,
&c.
Dr. Moneypenny [page 302:] says that S stands for stale,
and that D. U. K.
spells
duck, (but it don't,) and 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
Dr.
Moneypenny,
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,
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
endeavour 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.
Every body 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 "Gulley'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, [page 303:] 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 every
body
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-coloured auriculas.
"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 [[he]]
continued,
after
a pause, with the most impressive energy and solemnity of manner, "mark
me! — that pen — must — never be mended! Herein, madam, lies
the
secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume it 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, madam, that when a
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 to 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 tact, taste, 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 [page 304:]
— 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 any body 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 bye, 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 mis-adventure [[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 [page
305:] of
Morrison'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 sentimental, and 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. Some how 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 mystic is also a good one —
but
requires
some skill in the handling. The beauty of this lies in a knowledge of
innuendo.
Hint all, and assert nothing. If you desire 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 as far as to insinuate 'oat-meal porridge,' but, if
'bread
and butter' is your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss
Psyche,
not on any account to say 'bread and butter.'
I assured him that I would never say
it again as
long as I lived. He continued.
"There are various other tones of
equal
celebrity,
but I shall only mention two more, the tone metaphysical, and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former, the merit consists in seeing into the
nature
of affairs a very great deal farther than any body else. This second
sight
is very efficient when properly managed. A little reading of
'The Sorrows of Werter,' will carry you a great way.
If you know any big words this is your chance for them. Talk of the
academy
and the lyceum, and say something about the Ionic and Italic schools,
or
about Bossarion, and Kant, and Schelling, and Fitche, and be sure you
abuse
a man called Locke, and bring in the words a priori and a
posteriori.
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 [page 306:] every thing deep, great, odd, piquant and
perinent, 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 bookworm. And yet above all things is it necessary that
your
article have an air of erudition, or at least afford evidence of
extensive
general reading. Now I'll put you in the way of accomplishing this
point.
See here! (pulling down some three or four ordinary looking volumes,
and
opening them at random.) By casting your eye down almost any page of
any
book in the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of
little
scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism which are the very
thing
for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well note down a
few
while I read them to you. I shall make two divisions: first, Piquant
Facts for the Manufacture of Similes; and
second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may require.
Write now! —" and I wrote as he dictated.
[["]]PIQUANT FACTS
FOR SIMILES. 'There were originally but
three
muses — Melete, Mneme, and Aœde — meditation, memory, and singing.'
You
may make a great deal of that little fact if properly worked. You see
it
is not generally known, and looks recherché. You must be
careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.
[["]]Again. 'The river Alpheus passed
beneath the
sea,
and emerged without injury to the purity of its waters.' Rather stale
that,
to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look quite as
fresh as ever.
[["]]Here is something better. 'The
Persian Iris
appears
to some persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
others, it is perfectly scentless.' Fine that, and very delicate! Turn
it
about a little, and it will do wonders. We'll have something 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 [page 307:] dexterity you will
evince
your intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the
Chinese.
With the aid of this you may possibly get along without either Arabic,
or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, however, without
French, 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 me torne a dar
la vida.'
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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 à propos when
you are struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
'I'l pover 'huomo che non
s'en era
accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.'
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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, so
sterb'ich denn
Durch sie — durch sie!'
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That's German — from Schiller. [[']]And if I die, at least I die — for
thee
— for thee![[']] Here it is clear that you are apostrophising the cause
of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed [page 308:] what
gentleman, (or lady either)
of
sense, would'nt 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 recherché
or brief in one's Latin, it's getting
so
common.) Ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi
— that is to say he has understood the words of your proposition, but
not the ideas. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor fellow,
you perceive,
whom
you addressed while choking with that chicken-bone, and who therefore
did'nt
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 his
speeches
are mere anemonœ verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with
great
brillancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be down
upon
him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter — a phrase which
Longinus (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 something
pretty
from Demosthenes — for example. xxx x xxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx [[Greek
text]].
[Aner o pheogon 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.
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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 acute 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's 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.[["]] [page
309:]
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 only offer me
fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have it,
than sacrifice it for so trivial 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 tears
stood
in his eyes, "is there any thing 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, as soon as convenient, to — to — get yourself
drowned,
or — choked with a chicken-bone, or —
or
hung, — or — bitten by a — but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard — fine fellows, I assure
you — savage, and all that — indeed just the thing for your money —
they'll
have you eaten up, auriculas 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 my 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 a 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 my 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. [page 310:]
THE
SCYTHE OF
TIME.
It was a quiet and still afternoon
when
I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle
in the streets were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming.
Children
were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
bellowed.
Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they
danced. Danced! Could it then be possible? Danced!
Alas!
thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a
host
of gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of
genius
and imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the
everlasting,
and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the continued
— yes the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing,
disturbing,
and, if I may be allowed the expression, the very disturbing
influence
of the serene, and godlike, and heavenly, and exalting, and elevated,
and
purifying effect of what may be rightly termed the most enviable, the
most truly enviable — nay! the most benignly beautiful,
the most
deliciously
ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so
bold
an expression) thing (pardon
me,
gentle reader!) in the world — but I am led away by my feelings. In such
a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a
trifle!
The dogs danced! I — I could not! They frisked. I wept.
They
capered. I sobbed aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to
bring
to the recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in
relation
to the fitness of things which is to be found in the commencement of
the
third volume of that admirable and venerable Chinese novel, the Jo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through the city
I had two
humble
but faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
had
a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied
fashionably
around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her
head was somewhat bigger than her body, and, her tail being cut off
exceedingly
close, gave an air of injured innocence to the interesting animal which
rendered her a favourite with all.
And Pompey, my nigger! sweet Pompey!
how shall I
ever forget thee? I had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height
(I like to be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years
of
age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called
small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his
large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him [page
311:] with no
neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle
of the upper portion of the feet. He
was
clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a stock of nine
inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat which had formerly
been
in the service of the tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It
was a good overcoat. It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was
nearly
new. Pompey held it up out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our
party, and two of
them have already been the subject of remark. There was a third — that
third person was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not
Suky Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of
which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue
Arabian
mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green agraffas, and seven
graceful
flounces of the orange-coloured auricula. I thus formed the third of
the
party. There was the poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We
were three. Thus it is said there were originally but
three Furies —
Melty, Nimmy and Hetty — Meditation, Memory, and Singing.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant
Pompey, and
attended
at a respectful distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the populous
and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On a sudden, there
presented itself to view a church — a Gothic cathedral — vast,
venerable,
and with a tall steeple, which towered into the sky. What madness now
possessed
me? Why did I rush upon my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable
desire
to ascend the giddy pinnacle and
thence
survey the immense extent of the city. The door of the cathedral stood
invitingly open. My destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous archway.
Where
then was my guardian angel? — if indeed such angels there be. If!
Distressing monosyllable! what a world of mystery, and meaning, and
doubt
and uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the
ominous
archway! I entered; and, without injury to my orange-coloured
auriculas,
I passed beneath the portal, and emerged within the vestibule! Thus it
is said the immense river Alceus passed unscathed, and unwetted,
beneath
the sea.
I thought the staircases would never
have an end. Round! Yes they went round and up, and round and
up,
and round
and
up, until I could not help surmising with the sagacious Pompey, upon
whose
supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early affection — I could
not help surmising that the upper end of the continuous spiral ladder
had
been accidentally, [page 312:] or perhaps designedly, removed.
I paused for breath;
and, in the meantime, an incident occurred of too momentous a nature in
a moral, and also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over
without
notice. It appeared to me — indeed I was quite confident of the fact —
I could not be mistaken — No! I had, for some moments, carefully and
anxiously
observed the motions of my Diana. I say that I could not be
mistaken
— Diana smelt a rat! I called Pompey's attention to the
subject,
and he — he agreed with me. There was then no longer any
reasonable room for doubt. The rat had been smelled — and by Diana.
Heavens! shall I ever forget the intense excitement of that moment?
Alas!
what is the boasted intellect of man? The rat! — it was there — that is
to say, it was somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I — I could
not! Thus it is said the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet
and
very powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted,
and there were
now only three or four more upward steps intervening between us and the
summit. We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step!
One
little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great staircase
of
human life how vast a sum of human happiness or misery often depends. I
thought of myself, and then of Pompey, and then of the mysterious and
inexplicable
destiny which surrounded us. I thought of Pompey! — alas, I thought of
love! I thought of the many false steps which have been taken,
and
may be taken again. I resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I
abandoned
the arm of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one
remaining
step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was followed immediately
afterwards by my poodle. Pompey alone remained behind. I stood at the
head
of the staircase, and encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to
me
his hand, and unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm
hold upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
The
overcoat it dropped, and, with one of
his
feet, Pompey stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat.
He stumbled and fell — this consequence was inevitable. He fell
forwards,
and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the —— in the breast,
precipitated
me headlong, together with himself, upon the hard, the filthy, the
detestable
floor of the belfry. But my revenge was sure, sudden, and complete.
Seizing
him furiously by the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity
of
the black, and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with
every manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry
and
remained. Pompey [page 313:] arose, and said no word. But he
regarded me piteously
with his large eyes and — sighed. Ye gods — that sigh! It sunk into my
heart. And the hair — the wool! Could I have reached that wool I would
have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of regret. But alas! it was
now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled among the cordage of the bell, I
fancied it still alive. I fancied that it stood on end with
indignation.
Thus the happy dandy Flos Aeris of Java, bears, it is said, a
beautiful
flower, which will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
suspend
it by a cord from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we
looked about
the room for an aperture through which to survey the city of Edina.
Windows
there were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber
proceeded
from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a height of about
seven
feet from the floor. Yet what will the
energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to this
hole.
A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic-looking
machinery
stood opposite the hole, close to it; and through the hole there passed
an iron rod from the machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where
the
hole lay, there was barely room for my body — yet I was desperate, and
determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
"You perceive that aperture, Pompey.
I wish to
look
through it. You will stand here just beneath the hole — so. Now hold
out
one of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it — thus. Now the
other
hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your shoulders."
He did every thing I wished, and I
found, upon
getting
up, that I could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
paused
a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey that I would be
considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon his shoulders. I told
him I would be tender of his feelings — ossi tender que Zaire.
Having
done this justice to my faithful friend, I gave myself up with great
zest
and enthusiasm to the enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread
itself out before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall
forbear to
dilate.
I will not describe the city of Edinburg [[Edinburgh]]. Every one has
been to
Edinburg [[Edinburgh]]
— the classic Edina. I will confine myself to the momentous details of
my own lamentable adventure. Having,
in
some measure satisfied my curiosity in regard to the extent,
situation,
and general appearance of the city, I had leisure [page 314:]
to survey the church
in which I was, and the delicate architecture of the steeple. I
observed
that the aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in
the dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the
street,
as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of French watches. No
doubt
the true object was to admit the arm of an attendant, to adjust, when
necessary,
the hands of the clock from within. I observed also, with surprise, the
immense size of these hands, the longest of which could not have been
less
than ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in
breadth.
They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges appeared to be
sharp.
Having noticed these particulars, and some others, I again turned my
eyes
upon the glorious prospect below, and soon became absorbed in
contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was
aroused by
the
voice of Pompey, who declared he could stand it no longer, and
requested
that I would be so kind as to come down. This was unreasonable, and I
told
him so in a speech of some length. He replied, but with an evident
misunderstanding
of my ideas upon the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in
plain words that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus
e-clench-eye,
that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his words
little
better than an enemy-werrybor'em. With this he
appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after
my
altercation with Pompey,
when, as I was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I
was
startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle pressure
upon
the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I felt inexpressibly
alarmed.
I knew that Pompey was beneath my feet, and that Diana was sitting,
according
to my express directions, upon her hind-legs in the farthest corner of
the room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning my
head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror, that the
huge,
glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock, had, in the course
of
its hourly revolution, descended upon my neck. There was, I
knew,
not a second to be lost. I pulled back at once — but it was too late.
There
was no chance of forcing my head through the mouth of that terrible
trap
in which it was so fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower
with a rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavoured with all my
strength
to force upwards the ponderous iron-bar. I might as well [page 315:]
have tried to
lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down it came, closer, and yet
closer.
I screamed to Pompey for aid, but he said that I had hurt his feelings
by calling him "an ignorant old squint eye." I yelled to Diana, but she
only said "bow-wow-wow," and that "I
had
told her on no account to stir from the corner." Thus I had no relief
to
expect from my associates.
Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe
of
Time (for I now discovered the literal import of that classical
phrase)
had not stopped, nor was likely to stop, in its career. Down and still
down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch in my
flesh,
and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At one time I fancied
myself
in Philadelphia with the stately Dr[[.]] Moneypenny, at another in the
back
parlor of Mr[[.]] Blackwood receiving his invaluable instructions. And
then
again the sweet recollection of better and earlier times came over me,
and I thought of that happy period when the world was not all a desert,
and Pompey not altogether cruel.
The ticking of the machinery amused
me. Amused
me, I say, for my sensations now bordered upon perfect happiness,
and
the most trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal click-clack,
click-clack, click-clack, of the clock was the most
melodious
of music in my ears — and occasionally even put me in mind of the
grateful
sermonic harangues of Dr[[.]] Ollapod. Then there were the great
figures
upon
the dial-plate — how intelligent, how intellectual, they all looked!
And
presently they took to dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the
figure
V who performed the most to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady
of
breeding. None of your swaggerers, and nothing at all indelicate in her
motions. She did the pirouette to
admiration
— whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavour to hand her a
chair
for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her exertions — and it was
not
until then that I fully perceived my lamentable situation. Lamentable
indeed!
The bar had buried itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a
sense
of exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the moment,
could not help repeating those exquisite verses of the poet Miguel De
Cervantes.
Vanny Buren, tan escondida
Query no te senty venny
Pork and pleasure, delly morry
Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!
|
But now a new horror presented itself, and one
indeed
sufficient to startle the strongest nerves. My eyes from the cruel
pressure
of the machine, were absolutely starting from their [page 316:]
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 behaviour 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
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 three 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 lodged 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
upon this topic I felt in my pocket for my snuff-box, but, upon getting
it, and endeavouring 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 acknowledgment in return. Shortly afterwards it made [page
317:] me
a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without my 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 compared
me to the hero in Ariosto, who, in the heat of combat, not perceiving
that
he was dead, continued to fight valiantly dead as he was. I remember
that
it used the precise words of the poet:
Il pover hommy che non sera
corty
And have a combat tenty erry morty.
|
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 was endeavouring to crack nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing
off
his overcoat, he made one spring for the staircase and — I never saw
him
again. I hurled after the scoundrel those vehement words of Demosthenes
| Andrew O'Phlegethon, you
really make
haste
to fly, |
and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the curtailed,
the
one-eyed, the shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what 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 — is
that
the departed spirit, the shade, the ghost of my beloved puppy, which I
perceive sitting with a grace and face 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.
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