literature, sleep overpowered me; the pen fell from my hands, and my
head reclined upon the desk. I had been thinking so much about the
Devil in my waking hours, that the same idea pursued me after I had
fallen asleep. I heard a gentle rap at the door, and having bawled out
as usual, "Come in," a little gentleman entered, wrapped in a large
blue cloth cloak, with a slouched hat, and goggles over his eyes.
After bowing and scraping with considerable ceremony, he took off his
hat, and threw his cloak over the back of a chair, when I immediately
perceived that my visitor was no mortal. His face was hideously ugly;
the skin appearing very much like wet paper, and the forehead covered
with those cabalistic signs whose wondrous significance is best known
to those who correct the press. On the end of his long hooked nose
there seemed to me to be growing, like a carbuncle, the first letter
of the alphabet, glittering with ink and ready to print. I observed,
also, that each of his fingers and toes, or rather claws, was in the
same manner terminated by one of the letters of the alphabet; and as
he slashed round his tail to brush a fly off his nose, I noticed that
the letter Z formed the extremity of that useful member. While I was
looking with no small astonishment and some trepidation at my
extraordinary visitor, he took occasion to inform me that he had
taken liberty to call, as he was afraid I might forget him in the
treatise which I was writing--an omission which he assured me would
cause him no little mortification. "In me," says he, "you behold the
prince and patron of printers' devils. My province is to preside over
the hell of books; and if you will only take the trouble to accompany
me a little way, I will show you some of the wonders of that world."
As my imagination had lately been much excited by perusing Dante's
_Inferno_, I was delighted with an adventure which promised to turn
out something like his wonderful journey, and I readily consented to
visit my new friend's dominions, and we sallied forth together. As we
pursued our way, my conductor endeavoured to give me some information
respecting the world I was about to enter, in order to prepare me for
the wonders I should encounter there. "You must know," remarked he,
"that books have souls as well as men; and the moment any work is
published, whether successful or not, its soul appears in precisely
the same form in another world; either in this domain, which is
subject to me, or in a better region, over which I have no control. I
have power only to exhibit the place of punishment for bad books,
periodicals, pamphlets, and, in short, publications of every kind."
We now arrived at the mouth of a cavern, which I did not remember to
have ever noticed before, though I had repeatedly passed the spot in
my walks. It looked to me more like the entrance to a coalmine than
anything else, as the sides were entirely black. Upon examining them
more closely, I found that they were covered with a black fluid which
greatly resembled printer's ink, and which seemed to corrode and wear
away the rocks of the cavern wherever it touched them. "We have lately
received a large supply of political publications," said my companion;
"and hell is perfectly saturated with their maliciousness. We carry on
a profitable trade upon the earth, by retailing this ink to the
principal political editors. Unfortunately, it is not found to answer
very well for literary publications, though they have tried it with
considerable success in printing the London _Quarterly_ and several of
the other important reviews."
The cavern widened as we advanced, and we came presently into a vast
open plain, which was bounded on one side by a wall so high that it
seemed to reach the very heavens. As we approached the wall I observed
a vast gateway before us, closed up by folding doors. The gates opened
at our approach, and we entered. I found myself in a warm sandy
valley, bounded on one side by a steep range of mountains. A feeble
light shone upon it, much like that of a sick chamber, and the air
seemed confined and stifling like that of the abode of illness. My
ears were assailed by a confused whining noise, as if all the litters
of new-born puppies, kittens with their eyes unopened, and babes just
come to light, in the whole world, were brought into one spot, and
were whelping, mewing, and squalling at once. I turned in mute wonder
to my guide for explanation; and he informed me that I now beheld the
destined abode of all still-born and abortive publications; and the
infantine noises which I heard were only their feeble wailing for the
miseries they had endured in being brought into the world. I now saw
what the feebleness of the light had prevented my observing before,
that the soil was absolutely covered with books of every size and
shape, from the little diamond almanac up to the respectable quarto. I
saw folios there. These books were crawling about and tumbling over
each other like blind whelps, uttering, at the same time, the most
mournful cries. I observed one, however, which remained quite still,
occasionally groaning a little, and appeared like an overgrown toad
oppressed with its own heaviness. I drew near, and read upon the back,
"_Resignation_, a Novel." The cover flew open, and the title-page
immediately began to address me. I walked off, however, as fast as
possible, only distinguishing a few words about "the injustice and
severity of critics;" "bad taste of the public;" "very well
considering;" "first effort;" "feminine mind," &c. &c. I presently
discovered a very important-looking little book, stalking about among
the rest in a great passion, kicking the others out of the way, and
swearing like a trooper; till at length, apparently exhausted with its
efforts, it sunk down to rise no more. "Ah ha!" exclaimed my little
diabolical friend, "here is a new comer; let's see who he is;" and
coming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could see the
back of it, upon which was printed "_The Monikins_, by the Author of,
&c. &c." I noticed that the book had several marks across it, as if
some one had been flogging the unfortunate work. "It is only the marks
of the scourge," said my companion, "which the critics have used
rather more severely, I think, than was necessary." I expected, after
all the passion I had seen, and the great importance of feeling,
arrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it would
have some pert remarks to make to us; but it was so much exhausted
that it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley was a small
pond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume very much like
the smell of bread and butter. An immense number of thin, prettily
bound manuscript books were soaking in this pond of milk, all of
which, I was informed, were _Young Ladies' Albums_, which it was
necessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them from stealing
passages from the various works about them. As soon as I heard what
they were, I ran away with all my speed, having a mortal dread of
these books.
We had now traversed the valley, and, approaching the barrier of
mountains, we found a passage cut through, which greatly resembled the
Pausilipo, near Naples; it was closed on the side towards the valley,
only with a curtain of white paper, upon which were printed the names
of the principal reviews, which my conductor assured me were enough to
prevent any of the unhappy works we had seen from coming near the
passage.
As we advanced through the mountains, occasional gleams of light
appeared before us, and immediately vanished, leaving us in darkness.
My guide, however, seemed to be well acquainted with the way, and we
went on fearlessly till we emerged into an open field, lighted up by
constant flashes of lightning, which glared from every side; the air
was hot, and strongly impregnated with sulphur. "Each department of my
dominions," said the Devil, "receives its light from the works which
are sent there. You are now surrounded by the glittering but
evanescent coruscations of the more recent novels. This department of
hell was never very well supplied till quite lately, though Fielding,
Smollett, Maturin, and Godwin, did what they could for us. Our
greatest benefactors have been Disraeli, Bulwer, and Victor Hugo; and
this glare of light, so painful to our eyes, proceeds chiefly from
their books." There was a tremendous noise like the rioting of an army
of drunken men, with horrible cries and imprecations, and fiend-like
laughing, which made my blood curdle; and such a scrambling and
fighting among the books, as I never saw before. I could not imagine
at first what could be the cause of this, till I discovered at last a
golden hill rising up like a cone in the midst of the plane, with just
room enough for one book on the summit; and I found that the novels
were fighting like so many devils for the occupation of this place.
One work, however, had gained possession of it, and seemed to maintain
its hold with a strength and resolution which bade defiance to the
rest. I could not at first make out the name of this book, which
seemed to stand upon its golden throne like the Prince of Hell; but
presently the whole arch of the heavens glared with new brilliancy,
and the magic name of _Vivian Grey_ flashed from the book in letters
of scorching light. I was much afraid, however, that _Vivian_ would
not long retain his post; for I saw _Pelham_ and _Peregrine Pickle_,
and the terrible _Melmoth_ with his glaring eyes, coming together to
the assault, when a whirlwind seized them all four and carried them
away to a vast distance, leaving the elevation vacant for some other
competitor. "There is no peace to the wicked, you see," said my
Asmodeus. "These books are longing for repose, and they can get none
on account of the insatiable vanity of their authors, whose desire for
distinction made them careless of the sentiments they expressed and
the principles they advocated. The great characteristic of works of
this stamp is action, intense, painful action. They have none of that
beautiful serenity which shines in Scott and Edgeworth; and they are
condemned to illustrate, by an eternity of contest here, the restless
spirit with which they are inspired."
While I was looking on with fearful interest in the mad combat before
me, the horizon seemed to be darkened, and a vast cloud rose up in the
image of a gigantic eagle, whose wings stretched from the east to the
west till he covered the firmament. In his talons he carried an open
book, at the sight of which the battle around me was calmed; the
lightnings ceased to flash, and there was an awful stillness. Then
suddenly there glared from the book a sheet of fire, which rose in
columns a thousand feet high, and filled the empyrean with intense
light; the pillars of flame curling and wreathing themselves into
monstrous letters, till they were fixed in one terrific glare, and I
read--"BYRON." Even my companion quailed before the awful light, and I
covered my face with my hands. When I withdrew them, the cloud and the
book had vanished, and the contest was begun again--"You have seen the
Prince of this division of hell," said my guide.
We now began rapidly to descend into the bowels of the earth; and,
after sinking some thousand feet, I found myself on terra firma again,
and walking a little way, we came to a gate of massive ice, over which
was written in vast letters--"My heritage is despair." We passed
through, and immediately found ourselves in a vast basin of lead,
which seemed to meet the horizon on every side. A bright light shone
over the whole region; but it was not like the genial light of the
sun. It chilled me through; and every ray that fell upon me seemed
like the touch of ice. The deepest silence prevailed; and though the
valley was covered with books, not one moved or uttered a sound. I
drew near to one, and I shivered with intense cold as I read upon
it--"Voltaire." "Behold," said the demon, "the hell of infidel books;
the light which emanates from them is the light of reason, and they
are doomed to everlasting torpor." I found it too cold to pursue my
investigations any farther in this region, and I gladly passed on from
the leaden gulf of Infidelity.
I had no sooner passed the barrier which separated this department
from the next, than I heard a confused sound like the quacking of
myriads of ducks and geese, and a great flapping of wings; of which I
soon saw the cause. "You are in the hell of newspapers," said my
guide. And sure enough, when I looked up I saw thousands of newspapers
flying about with their great wooden back-bones, and the padlock
dangling like a bobtail at the end, flapping their wings and hawking
at each other like mad. After circling about in the air for a little
while, and biting and tearing each other as much as they could, they
plumped down, head first, into a deep black-looking pool, and were
seen no more. "We place these newspapers deeper in hell than the
Infidel publications," said the Devil; "because they are so much more
extensively read, and thereby do much greater mischief. It is a kind
of pest of which there is no end; and we are obliged to allot the
largest portion of our dominions to containing them."
We now came to an immense pile of a leaden hue, which I found at last
to consist of old worn-out type, which was heaped up to form the wall
of the next division. A monstrous u, turned bottom upwards (in this
way [Symbol: inverted U]) formed the arch of a gateway through which
we passed; and then traversed a draw-bridge, which was thrown across a
river of ink, upon whose banks millions of horrible little demons were
sporting. I presently saw that they were employed in throwing into the
black stream a quantity of books which were heaped up on the shore. As
I looked down into the stream, I saw that they were immediately
devoured by the most hideous and disgusting monsters which were
floundering about there. I looked at one book, which had crawled out
after being thrown into the river; it was dripping with filth, but I
distinguished on the back the words--_Don Juan_. It had hardly climbed
up the bank, however, when one of the demons gave it a kick, and sent
it back into the stream, where it was immediately swallowed. On the
back of some of the books which the little imps were tossing in, I saw
the name of--_Rochester_, which showed me the character of those which
were sent into this division of the infernal regions.
Beyond this region rose up a vast chain of mountains, which we were
obliged to clamber over. After toiling for a long time, we reached the
summit, and I looked down upon an immense labyrinth built upon the
plain below, in which I saw a great number of large folios, stalking
about in solemn pomp, each followed by a number of small volumes and
pamphlets, like so many pages or footmen watching the beck of their
master. "You behold here," said the demon, "all the false works upon
theology which have been written since the beginning of the Christian
era. They are condemned to wander about to all eternity in the
hopeless maze of this labyrinth, each folio drawing after it all the
minor works to which it gave origin." A faint light shone from these
ponderous tomes; but it was like the shining of a lamp in a thick
mist, shorn of its rays, and illuminating nothing around it. And if my
companion had not held a torch before me, I should not have discerned
the outlines of this department of the Infernal world. As my eye
became somewhat accustomed to the feeble light, I discovered beyond
the labyrinth a thick mist, which appeared to rise from some river or
lake. "That," said my companion, "is the distinct abode of German
Metaphysical works, and other treatises of a similar unintelligible
character. They are all obliged to pass through a press; and if there
is any sense in them, it is thus separated from the mass of nonsense
in which it is imbedded, and is allowed to escape to a better world.
Very few of the works, however, are found to be materially diminished
by passing through the press." We had now crossed the plain, and stood
near the impenetrable fog, which rose up like a wall before us. In
front of it was the press managed by several ugly little demons, and
surrounded by an immense number of volumes of every size and shape,
waiting for the process which all were obliged to undergo. As I was
watching their operations, I saw two very respectable German folios,
with enormous clasps, extended like arms, carrying between them a
little volume, which they were fondling like a pet child with marks of
doting affection. These folios proved to be two of the most abstruse,
learned, and incomprehensible of the metaphysical productions of
Germany; and the bantling which they seemed to embrace with so much
affection, was registered on the back--"_Records of a School_." I did
not find that a single ray of intelligence had been extracted from
either of the two after being subjected to the press. As soon as the
volumes had passed through the operation of yielding up all the little
sense they contained, they plunged into the intense fog, and
disappeared for ever.
We next approached the verge of a gulf, which appeared to be
bottomless; and there was dreadful noise, like the war of the
elements, and forked flames shooting up from the abyss, which reminded
me of the crater of Vesuvius. "You have now reached the ancient limits
of hell," said the demon, "and you behold beneath your feet the
original chaos on which my domains are founded. But within a few years
we have been obliged to build a yet deeper division beyond the gulf,
to contain a class of books that were unknown in former times." "Pray,
what class can be found," I asked, "worse than those which I have
already seen, and for which it appears hell was not bad enough?" "They
are American re-prints of English publications," replied he, "and they
are generally works of such a despicable character, that they would
have found their way here without being republished; but even where
the original work was good, it is so degenerated by the form under
which it re-appears in America, that its merit is entirely lost, and
it is only fit for the seventh and lowest division of hell."
I now perceived a bridge spanning over the gulf, with an arch that
seemed as lofty as the firmament. We hastily passed over, and found
that the farthest extremity of the bridge was closed by a gate, over
which was written three words. "They are the names of the three furies
who reign over this division," said my guide. I of course did not
contradict him; but the words looked very much like some I had seen
before; and the more I examined them, the more difficult was it to
convince myself that the inscription was not the same thing as the
sign over a certain publishing house in Philadelphia.
"These," said the Devil, "are called the three furies of the hell of
books; not from the mischief they do there to the works about them,
but for the unspeakable wrong they did to the same works upon the
earth, by re-printing them in their hideous brown paper editions." As
soon as they beheld me, they rushed towards me with such piteous
accents and heart-moving entreaties, that I would intercede to save
them from their torment, that I was moved with the deepest compassion,
and began to ask my conductor if there were no relief for them. But he
hurried me away, assuring me that they only wanted to sell me some of
their infernal editions, and the idea of owning any such property was
so dreadful that it woke me up directly.
THE DEVIL'S MOTHER-IN-LAW[16]
BY FERNÁN CABALLERO
[16] From _Spanish Fairy Tales_. By Fernán Caballero.
Translated by J. H. Ingram. (Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott
Co., 1881. By permission of the Publishers.)
In a town, named Villagañanes, there was once an old widow uglier than
the sergeant of Utrera, who was considered as ugly as ugly could be;
drier than hay; older than foot-walking, and more yellow than the
jaundice. Moreover, she had so crossgrained a disposition that Job
himself could not have tolerated her. She had been nicknamed "Mother
Holofernes," and she had only to put her head out of doors to put all
the lads to flight. Mother Holofernes was as clean as a new pin, and
as industrious as an ant, and in these respects suffered no little
vexation on account of her daughter Panfila, who was, on the contrary,
so lazy, and such an admirer of the Quietists, that an earthquake
would not move her. So it came to pass that Mother Holofernes began
quarrelling with her daughter almost from the day that the girl was
born.
"You are," she said, "as flaccid as Dutch tobacco, and it would take a
couple of oxen to draw you out of your room. You fly work as you would
the pest, and nothing pleases you but the window, you shameless girl.
You are more amorous than Cupid himself, but, if I have any power, you
shall live as close as a nun."
On hearing all this, Panfila got up, yawned, stretched herself, and
turning her back on her mother, went to the street door. Mother
Holofernes, without paying attention to this, began to sweep with most
tremendous energy, accompanying the noise of the broom with a
monologue of this tenor:--
"In my time girls had to work like men."
The broom gave the accompaniment of _shis_, _shis_, _shis_.
"And lived as secluded as nuns."
And the broom went _shis_, _shis_, _shis_.
"Now they are a pack of fools."--_Shis_, _shis_.
"Of idlers."--_Shis_, _shis_.
"And think of nothing but husbands.--_Shis_, _shis_.
"And are a lot of good-for-nothings."
The broom following with its chorus.
By this time she had nearly reached the street door, when she saw her
daughter making signs to a youth; and the handle of the broom, as the
handiest implement, descended upon the shoulders of Panfila, and
effected the miracle of making her run. Next, Mother Holofernes,
grasping the broom, made for the door; but scarcely had the shadow of
her head appeared, than it produced the customary effect, and the
aspirant disappeared so swiftly that it seemed as if he must have had
wings on his feet.
"Drat that fellow!" shouted the mother; "I should like to break all
the bones in his body."
"What for? Why should I not think of getting married?"
"What are you saying? You get married, you fool! not while I live!"
"Why were you married, madam? and my grandmother? and my great
grandmother?"
"Nicely I have been repaid for it, by you, you sauce-box! And
understand me, that if I chose to get married, and your grandmother
also, and your great grandmother also, I do not intend that you shall
marry; nor my granddaughter, nor my great granddaughter! Do you hear
me?"
In these gentle disputes the mother and daughter passed their lives,
without any other result than that the mother grumbled more and more
every day, and the daughter became daily more and more desirous of
getting a husband.
Upon one occasion, when Mother Holofernes was doing the washing, and
as the lye was on the point of boiling, she had to call her daughter
to help her lift the caldron, in order to pour its contents on to the
tub of clothes. The girl heard her with one ear, but with the other
was listening to a well-known voice which sang in the street:--
"I would like to love thee,
Did thy mother let me woo!
May the demon meddle
In all she tries to do!"
The sound outside being more attractive for Panfila than the caldron
within, she did not hasten to her mother, but went to the window.
Mother Holofernes, meanwhile, seeing that her daughter did not come,
and that time was passing, attempted to lift the caldron by herself,
in order to pour the water upon the linen; and as the good woman was
small, and not very strong, it turned over, and burnt her foot. On
hearing the horrible groans Mother Holofernes made, her daughter went
to her.
"Wretch, wretch!" cried the enraged Mother Holofernes to her daughter,
"may you love Barabbas! And as for marrying--may Heaven grant you may
marry the Evil One himself!"