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[Illustration]
ETIDORHPA
OR
THE END OF EARTH.
THE STRANGE HISTORY OF A MYSTERIOUS BEING
AND
The Account of a Remarkable Journey
AS COMMUNICATED IN MANUSCRIPT TO
LLEWELLYN DRURY
WHO PROMISED TO PRINT THE SAME, BUT FINALLY EVADED THE RESPONSIBILITY
WHICH WAS ASSUMED BY
JOHN URI LLOYD
WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
J. AUGUSTUS KNAPP
SIXTH EDITION
CINCINNATI
THE ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY
1896
ASCRIPTION.
To Prof. W. H. Venable, who reviewed the manuscript of this work, I am
indebted for many valuable suggestions, and I can not speak too kindly
of him as a critic.
The illustrations, excepting those mechanical and historical, making in
themselves a beautiful narrative without words, are due to the admirable
artistic conceptions and touch of Mr. J. Augustus Knapp.
Structural imperfections as well as word selections and phrases that
break all rules in composition, and that the care even of Prof. Venable
could not eradicate, I accept as wholly my own. For much, on the one
hand, that it may seem should have been excluded, and on the other, for
giving place to ideas nearer to empiricism than to science, I am also
responsible. For vexing my friends with problems that seemingly do not
concern in the least men in my position, and for venturing to think,
superficially, it may be, outside the restricted lines of a science
bound to the unresponsive crucible and retort, to which my life has been
given, and amid the problems of which it has nearly worn itself away, I
have no plausible excuse, and shall seek none.
JOHN URI LLOYD
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY JOHN URI LLOYD.
COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY JOHN URI LLOYD.
[_All rights reserved._]
PREFACE
[Illustration]
Books are as tombstones made by the living for the living, but destined
soon only to remind us of the dead. The preface, like an epitaph, seems
vainly to "implore the passing tribute" of a moment's interest. No man
is allured by either a grave-inscription or a preface, unless it be
accompanied by that ineffable charm which age casts over mortal
productions. Libraries, in one sense, represent cemeteries, and the rows
of silent volumes, with their dim titles, suggest burial tablets, many
of which, alas! mark only cenotaphs--empty tombs. A modern book, no
matter how talented the author, carries with it a familiar personality
which may often be treated with neglect or even contempt, but a volume a
century old demands some reverence; a vellum-bound or hog-skin print, or
antique yellow parchment, two, three, five hundred years old, regardless
of its contents, impresses one with an indescribable feeling akin to awe
and veneration,--as does the wheat from an Egyptian tomb, even though it
be only wheat. We take such a work from the shelf carefully, and replace
it gently. While the productions of modern writers are handled
familiarly, as men living jostle men yet alive; those of authors long
dead are touched as tho' clutched by a hand from the unseen world; the
reader feels that a phantom form opposes his own, and that spectral eyes
scan the pages as he turns them.
[Illustration: "THE STERN FACE, ... ACROSS THE GULF."]
The stern face, the penetrating eye of the personage whose likeness
forms the frontispiece of the yellowed volume in my hand, speak across
the gulf of two centuries, and bid me beware. The title page is read
with reverence, and the great tome is replaced with care, for an almost
superstitious sensation bids me be cautious and not offend. Let those
who presume to criticise the intellectual productions of such men be
careful; in a few days the dead will face their censors--dead.
Standing in a library of antiquated works, one senses the shadows of a
cemetery. Each volume adds to the oppression, each old tome casts the
influence of its spirit over the beholder, for have not these old books
spirits? The earth-grave covers the mind as well as the body of its
moldering occupant, and while only a strong imagination can assume that
a spirit hovers over and lingers around inanimate clay, here each title
is a voice that speaks as though the heart of its creator still
throbbed, the mind essence of the dead writer envelops the living
reader. Take down that vellum-bound volume,--it was written in one of
the centuries long past. The pleasant face of its creator, as fresh as
if but a print of yesterday, smiles upon you from the exquisitely
engraved copper-plate frontispiece; the mind of the author rises from
out the words before you. This man is not dead and his comrades live.
Turn to the shelves about, before each book stands a guardian
spirit,--together they form a phantom army that, invisible to mortals,
encircles the beholder.
[Illustration: "THE PLEASANT FACE OF ITS CREATOR ... SMILES UPON YOU."]
Ah! this antique library is not as is a church graveyard, only a
cemetery for the dead; it is also a mansion for the living. These
alcoves are trysting places for elemental shades. Essences of
disenthralled minds meet here and revel. Thoughts of the past take shape
and live in this atmosphere,--who can say that pulsations unperceived,
beyond the reach of physics or of chemistry, are not as ethereal
mind-seeds which, although unseen, yet, in living brain, exposed to such
an atmosphere as this, formulate embryotic thought-expressions destined
to become energetic intellectual forces? I sit in such a weird library
and meditate. The shades of grim authors whisper in my ear, skeleton
forms oppose my own, and phantoms possess the gloomy alcoves of the
library I am building.
[Illustration: "SKELETON FORMS OPPOSE MY OWN."]
With the object of carrying to the future a section of thought current
from the past, the antiquarian libraries of many nations have been
culled, and purchases made in every book market of the world. These
books surround me. Naturally many persons have become interested in the
movement, and, considering it a worthy one, unite to further the
project, for the purpose is not personal gain. Thus it is not unusual
for boxes of old chemical or pharmacal volumes to arrive by freight or
express, without a word as to the donor. The mail brings manuscripts
unprinted, and pamphlets recondite, with no word of introduction. They
come unheralded. The authors or the senders realize that in this unique
library a place is vacant if any work on connected subjects is missing,
and thinking men of the world are uniting their contributions to fill
such vacancies.
* * * * *
Enough has been said concerning the ancient library that has bred these
reflections, and my own personality does not concern the reader. He can
now formulate his conclusions as well perhaps as I, regarding the origin
of the manuscript that is to follow, if he concerns himself at all over
subjects mysterious or historical, and my connection therewith is of
minor importance. Whether Mr. Drury brought the strange paper in person,
or sent it by express or mail,--whether it was slipped into a box of
books from foreign lands, or whether my hand held the pen that made the
record,--whether I stood face to face with Mr. Drury in the shadows of
this room, or have but a fanciful conception of his figure,--whether the
artist drew upon his imagination for the vivid likeness of the several
personages figured in the book that follows, or from reliable data has
given fac-similes authentic,--is immaterial. Sufficient be it to say
that the manuscript of this book has been in my possession for a period
of seven years, and my lips must now be sealed concerning all that
transpired in connection therewith outside the subject-matter recorded
therein. And yet I can not deny that for these seven years I have
hesitated concerning my proper course, and more than once have decided
to cover from sight the fascinating leaflets, hide them among
surrounding volumes, and let them slumber until chance should bring them
to the attention of the future student.
These thoughts rise before me this gloomy day of December, 1894, as,
snatching a moment from the exactions of business, I sit among these old
volumes devoted to science-lore, and again study over the unique
manuscript, and meditate; I hesitate again: Shall I, or shall I
not?--but a duty is a duty. Perhaps the mysterious part of the subject
will be cleared to me only when my own thought-words come to rest among
these venerable relics of the past--when books that I have written
become companions of ancient works about me--for then I can claim
relationship with the shadows that flit in and out, and can demand that
they, the ghosts of the library, commune with the shade that guards the
book that holds this preface.
JOHN URI LLOYD.
PREFACE TO THIS EDITION.
The foot-note on page 160, with the connected matter, has awakened
considerable interest in the life and fate of Professor Daniel Vaughn.
The undersigned has received many letters imparting interesting
information relating to Professor Vaughn's early history, and asking
many questions concerning a man of whose memory the writer thinks so
highly but whose name is generally unknown.
Indeed, as some have even argued that the author of Etidorhpa has no
personal existence, the words John Uri Lloyd being a _nom de plume_, so
others have accepted Professor Vaughn to have been a fanciful creation
of the mystical author.
Professor Daniel Vaughn was one whose life lines ran nearly parallel
with those of the late Professor C. S. Rafinesque, whose eventful history
has been so graphically written by Professor R. Ellsworth Call. The cups
of these two talented men were filled with privation's bitterness, and
in no other place has this writer known the phrase "The Deadly Parallel"
so aptly appropriate. Both came to America, scholars, scientists by
education; both traveled through Kentucky, teachers; both gave freely to
the world, and both suffered in their old age, dying in
poverty--Rafinesque perishing in misery in Philadelphia and Vaughn in
Cincinnati.
Daniel Vaughn was not a myth, and, in order that the reader may know
something of the life and fate of this eccentric man, an appendix has
been added to this edition of Etidorhpa, in which a picture of his face
is shown as the writer knew it in life, and in which brief mention is
made of his record.
The author here extends his thanks to Professor Richard Nelson and to
Father Eugene Brady for their kindness to the readers of Etidorhpa and
himself, for to these gentlemen is due the credit of the appended
historical note.
J. U. L.
A VALUABLE AND UNIQUE LIBRARY.
From the Pharmaceutical Era, New York, October, 1894.
In Cincinnati is one of the most famous botanical and pharmacal
libraries in the world, and by scientists it is regarded as an
invaluable store of knowledge upon those branches of medical science. So
famous is it that one of the most noted pharmacologists and chemists of
Germany, on a recent trip to this country, availed himself of its rich
collection as a necessary means of completing his study in the line of
special drug history. When it is known that he has devoted a life of
nearly eighty years to the study of pharmacology, and is an emeritus
professor in the famous University of Strassburg, the importance of his
action will be understood and appreciated. We refer to Prof. Frederick
Flueckiger, who, in connection with Daniel Hanbury, wrote
Pharmacographia and other standard works. Attached to the library is an
herbarium, begun by Mr. Curtis Gates Lloyd when a schoolboy, in which
are to be found over 30,000 specimens of the flora of almost every
civilized country on the globe. The collections are the work of two
brothers, begun when in early boyhood. In money they are priceless, yet
it is the intention of the founders that they shall be placed, either
before or at their death, in some college or university where all
students may have access to them without cost or favor, and their wills
are already made to this end, although the institution to receive the
bequest is not yet selected. Eager requests have been made that they be
sent to foreign universities, where only, some persons believe, they can
receive the appreciation they deserve.
The resting place of this collection is a neat three-story house at 204
West Court street, rebuilt to serve as a library building. On the door
is a plate embossed with the name Lloyd, the patronymic of the brothers
in question. They are John Uri and Curtis Gates Lloyd. Every hour that
can be spent by these men from business or necessary recreation is spent
here. Mr. C. G. Lloyd devotes himself entirely to the study of botany and
connected subjects, while his brother is equally devoted to materia
medica, pharmacy, and chemistry.
In the botanical department are the best works obtainable in every
country, and there the study of botany may be carried to any height. In
point of age, some of them go back almost to the time when the art of
printing was discovered. Two copies of Aristotle are notable. A Greek
version bound in vellum was printed in 1584. Another, in parallel
columns of Greek and Latin, by Pacius, was published in 1607. Both are
in excellent preservation. A bibliographical rarity (two editions) is
the "Historia Plantarum," by Pinaeus, which was issued, one in 1561, the
other in 1567. It appears to have been a first attempt at the production
of colored plates. Plants that were rare at that time are colored by
hand, and then have a glossy fixative spread over them, causing the
colors still to be as bright and fresh as the day that the
three-hundred-years-dead workmen laid them on. Ranged in their sequence
are fifty volumes of the famous author, Linnaeus. Mr. Lloyd has a very
complete list of the Linnaean works, and his commissioners in Europe and
America are looking out for the missing volumes. An extremely odd work
is the book of Dr. Josselyn, entitled "New England Rarities," in which
the Puritan author discusses wisely on "byrds, beastes and fishes" of
the New World. Dr. Carolus Plumierus, a French savant, who flourished in
1762, contributes an exhaustive work on the "Flora of the Antilles." He
is antedated many years, however, by Dr. John Clayton, who is termed
Johannes Claytonus, and Dr. John Frederick Gronovius. These gentlemen
collated a work entitled the "Flora of Virginia," which is among the
first descriptions of botany in the United States. Two venerable works
are those of Mattioli, an Italian writer, who gave his knowledge to the
world in 1586, and Levinus Lemnius, who wrote "De Miraculis Occultis
Naturae" in 1628. The father of modern systematized botany is conceded to
be Mons. J. P. Tournefort, whose comprehensive work was published in
1719. It is the fortune of Mr. Lloyd to possess an original edition in
good condition. His "Histoire des Plantes," Paris (1698), is also on the
shelves. In the modern department of the library are the leading French
and German works. Spanish and Italian authors are also on the shelves,
the Lloyd collection of Spanish flora being among the best extant.
Twenty-two volumes of rice paper, bound in bright yellow and stitched in
silk, contain the flora of Japan. All the leaves are delicately tinted
by those unique flower-painters, the Japanese. This rare work was
presented to the Lloyd library by Dr. Charles Rice, of New York, who
informed the Lloyds that only one other set could be found in America.
One of the most noted books in the collection of J. U. Lloyd is a Materia
Medica written by Dr. David Schoepf, a learned German scholar, who
traveled through this country in 1787. But a limited number of copies
were printed, and but few are extant. One is in the Erlangen library in
Germany. This Mr. Lloyd secured, and had it copied verbatim. In later
years Dr. Charles Rice obtained an original print, and exchanged it for
that copy. A like work is that of Dr. Jonathan Carver of the provincial
troops in America, published in London in 1796. It treats largely of
Canadian materia medica. Manasseh Cutler's work, 1785, also adorns this
part of the library. In addition to almost every work on this subject,
Mr. Lloyd possesses complete editions of the leading serials and
pharmaceutical lists published in the last three quarters of a century.
Another book, famous in its way, is Barton's "Collections Toward a
Materia Medica of the United States," published in 1798, 1801, and 1804.
Several noted botanists and chemists have visited the library in recent
years. Prof. Flueckiger formed the acquaintance of the Lloyds through
their work, "Drugs and Medicines of North America," being struck by the
exhaustive references and foot-notes. Students and lovers of the old art
of copper-plate engraving especially find much in the ornate title pages
and portraits to please their aesthetic sense. The founders are not
miserly, and all students and delvers into the medical and botanical
arts are always welcome. This library of rare books has been collected
without ostentation and with the sole aim to benefit science and
humanity. We must not neglect to state that the library is especially
rich in books pertaining to the American Eclectics and Thomsonians.
Since it has been learned that this library is at the disposal of
students and is to pass intact to some worthy institution of learning,
donations of old or rare books are becoming frequent.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PROLOGUE--History of Llewellyn Drury, 1
CHAPTER.
I. Home of Llewellyn Drury--"Never Less Alone than When Alone," 3
II. A Friendly Conference with Prof. Chickering, 16
III. A Second Interview with the Mysterious Visitor, 23
IV. A Search for Knowledge--The Alchemistic Letter, 35
V. The Writing of "My Confession," 44
VI. Kidnapped, 46
VII. A Wild Night--I am Prematurely Aged, 55
VIII. A Lesson in Mind Study, 63
IX. I Can Not Establish My Identity, 67
X. My Journey Towards the End of Earth Begins--The Adepts
Brotherhood, 74
XI. My Journey Continues--Instinct, 80
XII. A Cavern Discovered--Biswell's Hill, 84
XIII. The Punch Bowls and Caverns of Kentucky--"Into the Unknown
Country," 89
XIV. Farewell to God's Sunshine--"The Echo of the Cry," 99
XV. A Zone of Light, Deep Within the Earth, 105
XVI. Vitalized Darkness--The Narrows in Science, 109
XVII. The Fungus Forest--Enchantment, 119
XVIII. The Food of Man, 123
XIX. The Cry from a Distance--I Rebel Against Continuing the
Journey, 128
FIRST INTERLUDE.--THE NARRATIVE INTERRUPTED.
XX. My Unbidden Guest Proves His Statements, and Refutes
My Philosophy, 134
MY UNBIDDEN GUEST CONTINUES HIS MANUSCRIPT.
XXI. My Weight Disappearing, 142
SECOND INTERLUDE.
XXII. The Story Again Interrupted--My Guest Departs, 149
XXIII. Scientific Men Questioned--Aristotle's Ether, 151
XXIV. The Soliloquy of Prof. Daniel Vaughn--"Gravitation is
the Beginning and Gravitation is the End:
All Earthly Bodies Kneel to Gravitation," 156
THE UNBIDDEN GUEST RETURNS TO READ HIS MANUSCRIPT,
CONTINUING THE NARRATIVE.
XXV. The Mother of a Volcano--"You Can Not Disprove, and You
Dare Not Admit," 162
XXVI. Motion from Inherent Energy--"Lead Me Deeper Into this
Expanding Study," 169
XXVII. Sleep, Dreams, Nightmare--"Strangle the Life from My
Body," 175
THIRD INTERLUDE.--THE NARRATIVE AGAIN INTERRUPTED.
XXVIII. A Challenge--My Unbidden Guest Accepts It, 179
XXIX. Beware of Biology--The Science of the Life of Man--The
Old Man relates a Story as an Object Lesson, 186
XXX. Looking Backward--The Living Brain, 193
THE MANUSCRIPT CONTINUED.
XXXI. A Lesson on Volcanoes--Primary Colors are Capable of
Farther Subdivision, 204
XXXII. Matter is Retarded Motion--"A Wail of Sadness
Inexpressible," 218
XXXIII. "A Study of True Science is a Study of God"--Communing
with Angels, 224
XXXIV. I Cease to Breathe, and Yet Live, 226
XXXV. "A Certain Point Within a Circle"--Men are as Parasites
on the Roof of Earth, 230
XXXVI. The Drinks of Man, 235
XXVII. The Drunkard's Voice, 238
XXXVIII. The Drunkard's Den, 240
XXXIX. Among the Drunkards, 247
XL. Further Temptation--Etidorhpa Appears, 252
XLI. Misery, 262
XLII. Eternity Without Time, 272
FOURTH INTERLUDE.
XLIII. The Last Contest, 277
THE NARRATIVE CONTINUED.
XLIV. The Fathomless Abyss--The Edge of the Earth's Shell, 306
XLV. My Heart-throb is Stilled, and Yet I Live, 310
XLVI. The Inner Circle, or the End of Gravitation--In the
Bottomless Gulf, 317
XLVII. Hearing Without Ears--"What Will Be the End?" 322
XLVIII. Why and How--The Straggling Ray of Light from those
Farthermost Outreaches, 327
XLIX. Oscillating Through Space--The Earth Shell Above Us, 333
L. My Weight Annihilated--"Tell me," I cried in alarm,
"is this a Living Tomb?" 340
LI. Is That a Mortal?--"The End of Earth," 345
FIFTH INTERLUDE.
LII. The Last Farewell, 352
EPILOGUE--Letter Accompanying the Mysterious Manuscript, 360
ILLUSTRATIONS.
FULL-PAGE.
Likeness of The--Man--Who--Did--It. Frontispiece
PAGE.
Preface Introduction--"Here lies the bones," etc. iii.
"And to my amazement, saw a white-haired man." 7, 8.
"The same glittering, horrible, mysterious knife." 29, 30.
"Fac-simile of the mysterious manuscript of I--Am--The--Man--
Who--Did--It." 35, 36.
"My arms were firmly grasped by two persons." 47.
"Map of Kentucky near entrance to cavern." 85, 86.
"Confronted by a singular looking being." 95, 96.
"This struggling ray of sunlight is to be your last for
years." 101, 102.
"I was in a forest of colossal fungi." 117, 118.
"Monstrous cubical crystals." 131, 132.
"Far as the eye could reach the glassy barrier spread as a
crystal mirror." 147, 148.
"Soliloquy of Prof. Daniel Vaughn--'Gravitation is the
beginning, and gravitation is the end; all earthly bodies
kneel to gravitation.'" 157, 158.
"We came to a metal boat." 165, 166.
"Facing the open window he turned the pupils of his eyes
upward." 197, 198.
"We finally reached a precipitous bluff." 205, 206.
"The wall descended perpendicularly to seemingly infinite
depths." 209, 210.
Etidorhpa. 255, 256.
"We passed through caverns filled with creeping reptiles." 297, 298.
"Flowers and structures beautiful, insects gorgeous." 303, 304.
"With fear and trembling I crept on my knees to his side." 307, 308.
Diagram descriptive of journey from the Kentucky cavern to
the "End of Earth," showing section of earth's crust. 332, 333.
"Suspended in vacancy, he seemed to float." 347, 348.
"I stood alone in my room holding the mysterious
manuscript." 357, 358.
Fac-simile of letter from I--Am--The--Man. 363.
Manuscript dedication of Author's Edition. 364, 365.
HALF-PAGE AND TEXT CUTS.
"The Stern Face." Fac-simile, reduced from copper plate title
page of the botanical work (1708), 917 pages, of Simonis
Paulli, D., a Danish physician. Original plate 7 x 5-1/2
inches. iv.
"The Pleasant Face." Fac-simile of the original copper plate
frontispiece to the finely illustrated botanical work of
Joannes Burmannus, M.D., descriptive of the plants collected
by Carolus Plumierus. Antique. Original plate 9 x 13 inches. v.
"Skeleton forms oppose my own." Photograph of John Uri Lloyd
in the gloomy alcove of the antiquated library. vi.
"Let me have your answer now." 12.
"I espied upon the table a long white hair." 14.
"Drew the knife twice across the front of the door-knob." 32.
"I was taken from the vehicle, and transferred to a
block-house." 52.
"The dead man was thrown overboard." 54.
"A mirror was thrust beneath my gaze." 58.
"I am the man you seek." 70.
"We approach daylight, I can see your face." 106.
"Seated himself on a natural bench of stone." 108.
"An endless variety of stony figures." 129.
Cuts showing water and brine surfaces. 136.
Cuts showing earth chambers in which water rises above brine. 137.
Cuts showing that if properly connected, water and brine
reverse the usual law as to the height of their surfaces. 138, 139.
"I bounded upward fully six feet." 143.
"I fluttered to the earth as a leaf would fall." 144.
"We leaped over great inequalities." 145.
"The bit of garment fluttered listlessly away to the distance,
and then--vacancy." 173.
Cut showing that water may be made to flow from a tube higher
than the surface of the water. 182.
Cut showing how an artesian fountain may be made without earth
strata. 184.
"Rising abruptly, he grasped my hand." 191.
"A brain, a living brain, my own brain." 200.
"Shape of drop of water in the earth cavern." 211.
"We would skip several rods, alighting gently." 227.
"An uncontrollable, inexpressible desire to flee." 229.
"I dropped on my knees before him." 232.
"Handing me one of the halves, he spoke the single word,
'Drink.'" 234.
"Each finger pointed towards the open way in front." 242.
"Telescoped energy spheres." 280.
"Space dirt on energy spheres." 281.
"I drew back the bar of iron to smite the apparently
defenseless being in the forehead." 313.
"He sprung from the edge of the cliff into the abyss below,
carrying me with him into its depths." 315.
"The Earth and its atmosphere." 336.
PROLOGUE.
My name was Johannes Llewellyn Llongollyn Drury. I was named Llewellyn
at my mother's desire, out of respect to her father, Dr. Evan Llewellyn,
the scientist and speculative philosopher, well known to curious
students as the author of various rare works on occult subjects. The
other given names were ancestral also, but when I reached the age of
appreciation, they naturally became distasteful; so it is that in early
youth I dropped the first and third of these cumbersome words, and
retained only the second Christian name. While perhaps the reader of
these lines may regard this cognomen with less favor than either of the
others, still I liked it, as it was the favorite of my mother, who
always used the name in full; the world, however, contracted Llewellyn
to Lew, much to the distress of my dear mother, who felt aggrieved at
the liberty. After her death I decided to move to a western city, and
also determined, out of respect to her memory, to select from and
rearrange the letters of my several names, and construct therefrom three
short, terse words, which would convey to myself only, the resemblance
of my former name. Hence it is that the Cincinnati Directory does not
record my self-selected name, which I have no reason to bring before the
public. To the reader my name is Llewellyn Drury. I might add that my
ancestors were among the early settlers of what is now New York City,
and were direct descendants of the early Welsh kings; but these matters
do not concern the reader, and it is not of them that I now choose to
write. My object in putting down these preliminary paragraphs is simply
to assure the reader of such facts, and such only, as may give him
confidence in my personal sincerity and responsibility, in order that he
may with a right understanding read the remarkable statements that occur
in the succeeding chapters.
The story I am about to relate is very direct, and some parts of it are
very strange, not to say marvelous; but not on account of its
strangeness alone do I ask for the narrative a reading;--that were mere
trifling. What is here set down happened as recorded, but I shall not
attempt to explain things which even to myself are enigmatical. Let the
candid reader read the story as I have told it, and make out of it what
he can, or let him pass the page by unread--I shall not insist on
claiming his further attention. Only, if he does read, I beg him to read
with an open mind, without prejudice and without predilection.
Who or what I am as a participant in this work is of small importance. I
mention my history only for the sake of frankness and fairness. I have
nothing to gain by issuing the volume. Neither do I court praise nor
shun censure. My purpose is to tell the truth.
Early in the fifties I took up my residence in the Queen City, and
though a very young man, found the employment ready that a friend had
obtained for me with a manufacturing firm engaged in a large and
complicated business. My duties were varied and peculiar, of such a
nature as to tax body and mind to the utmost, and for several years I
served in the most exacting of business details. Besides the labor which
my vocation entailed, with its manifold and multiform perplexities, I
voluntarily imposed upon myself other tasks, which I pursued in the
privacy of my own bachelor apartments. An inherited love for books on
abstruse and occult subjects, probably in part the result of my blood
connection with Dr. Evan Llewellyn, caused me to collect a unique
library, largely on mystical subjects, in which I took the keenest
delight. My business and my professional duties by day, and my studies
at night, made my life a busy one.
In the midst of my work and reading I encountered the character whose
strange story forms the essential part of the following narrative. I may
anticipate by saying that the manuscript to follow only incidentally
concerns myself, and that if possible I would relinquish all connection
therewith. It recites the physical, mental, and moral adventures of one
whose life history was abruptly thrust upon my attention, and as
abruptly interrupted. The vicissitudes of his body and soul,
circumstances seemed to compel me to learn and to make public.
ETIDORPHA.
CHAPTER I.
"NEVER LESS ALONE THAN WHEN ALONE."
More than thirty years ago occurred the first of the series of
remarkable events I am about to relate. The exact date I can not recall;
but it was in November, and, to those familiar with November weather in
the Ohio Valley, it is hardly necessary to state that the month is one
of possibilities. That is to say, it is liable to bring every variety of
weather, from the delicious, dreamy Indian summer days that linger late
in the fall, to a combination of rain, hail, snow, sleet,--in short,
atmospheric conditions sufficiently aggravating to develop a suicidal
mania in any one the least susceptible to such influences. While the
general character of the month is much the same the country
over,--showing dull grey tones of sky, abundant rains that penetrate man
as they do the earth; cold, shifting winds, that search the very
marrow,--it is always safe to count more or less upon the probability of
the unexpected throughout the month.
The particular day which ushered in the event about to be chronicled,
was one of these possible heterogeneous days presenting a combination of
sunshine, shower, and snow, with winds that rang all the changes from
balmy to blustery, a morning air of caloric and an evening of numbing
cold. The early morning started fair and sunny; later came light showers
suddenly switched by shifting winds into blinding sleet, until the
middle of the afternoon found the four winds and all the elements
commingled in one wild orgy with clashing and roaring as of a great
organ with all the stops out, and all the storm-fiends dancing over the
key-boards! Nightfall brought some semblance of order to the sounding
chaos, but still kept up the wild music of a typical November day, with
every accompaniment of bleakness, gloom, and desolation.
Thousands of chimneys, exhaling murky clouds of bituminous soot all day,
had covered the city with the proverbial pall which the winds in their
sport had shifted hither and yon, but as, thoroughly tired out, they
subsided into silence, the smoky mesh suddenly settled over the houses
and into the streets, taking possession of the city and contributing to
the melancholy wretchedness of such of the inhabitants as had to be out
of doors. Through this smoke the red sun when visible had dragged his
downward course in manifest discouragement, and the hastening twilight
soon gave place to the blackness of darkness. Night reigned supreme.
Thirty years ago electric lighting was not in vogue, and the system of
street lamps was far less complete than at present, although the gas
burned in them may not have been any worse. The lamps were much fewer
and farther between, and the light which they emitted had a feeble,
sickly aspect, and did not reach any distance into the moist and murky
atmosphere. And so the night was dismal enough, and the few people upon
the street were visible only as they passed directly beneath the lamps,
or in front of lighted windows; seeming at other times like moving
shadows against a black ground.
As I am like to be conspicuous in these pages, it may be proper to say
that I am very susceptible to atmospheric influences. I figure among my
friends as a man of quiet disposition, but I am at times morose,
although I endeavor to conceal this fact from others. My nervous system
is a sensitive weather-glass. Sometimes I fancy that I must have been
born under the planet Saturn, for I find myself unpleasantly influenced
by moods ascribed to that depressing planet, more especially in its
disagreeable phases, for I regret to state that I do not find
corresponding elation, as I should, in its brighter aspects. I have an
especial dislike for wintry weather, a dislike which I find growing with
my years, until it has developed almost into positive antipathy and
dread. On the day I have described, my moods had varied with the
weather. The fitfulness of the winds had found its way into my
feelings, and the somber tone of the clouds into my meditations. I was
restless as the elements, and a deep sense of dissatisfaction with
myself and everything else, possessed me. I could not content myself in
any place or position. Reading was distasteful, writing equally so; but
it occurred to me that a brisk walk, for a few blocks, might afford
relief. Muffling myself up in my overcoat and fur cap, I took the
street, only to find the air gusty and raw, and I gave up in still
greater disgust, and returning home, after drawing the curtains and
locking the doors, planted myself in front of a glowing grate fire,
firmly resolved to rid myself of myself by resorting to the oblivion of
thought, reverie, or dream. To sleep was impossible, and I sat moodily
in an easy chair, noting the quarter and half-hour strokes as they were
chimed out sweetly from the spire of St. Peter's Cathedral, a few blocks
away.
Nine o'clock passed with its silver-voiced song of "Home, Sweet Home";
ten, and then eleven strokes of the ponderous bell which noted the
hours, roused me to a strenuous effort to shake off the feelings of
despondency, unrest, and turbulence, that all combined to produce a
state of mental and physical misery now insufferable. Rising suddenly
from my chair, without a conscious effort I walked mechanically to a
book-case, seized a volume at random, reseated myself before the fire,
and opened the book. It proved to be an odd, neglected volume, "Riley's
Dictionary of Latin Quotations." At the moment there flashed upon me a
conscious duality of existence. Had the old book some mesmeric power? I
seemed to myself two persons, and I quickly said aloud, as if addressing
my double: "If I can not quiet you, turbulent Spirit, I can at least
adapt myself to your condition. I will read this book haphazard from
bottom to top, or backward, if necessary, and if this does not change
the subject often enough, I will try Noah Webster." Opening the book
mechanically at page 297, I glanced at the bottom line and read,
"Nunquam minus solus quam cum solus" (Never less alone than when alone).
These words arrested my thoughts at once, as, by a singular chance, they
seemed to fit my mood; was it or was it not some conscious invisible
intelligence that caused me to select that page, and brought the
apothegm to my notice?
Again, like a flash, came the consciousness of duality, and I began to
argue with my other self. "This is arrant nonsense," I cried aloud;
"even though Cicero did say it, and, it is on a par with many other
delusive maxims that have for so many years embittered the existence of
our modern youth by misleading thought. Do you know, Mr. Cicero, that
this statement is not sound? That it is unworthy the position you occupy
in history as a thinker and philosopher? That it is a contradiction in
itself, for if a man is alone he is alone, and that settles it?"
I mused in this vein a few moments, and then resumed aloud: "It won't
do, it won't do; if one is alone--the word is absolute,--he is single,
isolated, in short, alone; and there can by no manner of possibility be
any one else present. Take myself, for instance: I am the sole occupant
of this apartment; I am alone, and yet you say in so many words that I
was never less alone than at this instant." It was not without some
misgiving that I uttered these words, for the strange consciousness of
my own duality constantly grew stronger, and I could not shake off the
reflection that even now there were two of myself in the room, and that
I was not so much alone as I endeavored to convince myself.
This feeling oppressed me like an incubus; I must throw it off, and,
rising, I tossed the book upon the table, exclaiming: "What folly! I am
alone,--positively there is no other living thing visible or invisible
in the room." I hesitated as I spoke, for the strange, undefined
sensation that I was not alone had become almost a conviction; but the
sound of my voice encouraged me, and I determined to discuss the
subject, and I remarked in a full, strong voice: "I am surely alone; I
know I am! Why, I will wager everything I possess, even to my soul, that
I am alone." I stood facing the smoldering embers of the fire which I
had neglected to replenish, uttering these words to settle the
controversy for good and all with one person of my dual self, but the
other ego seemed to dissent violently, when a soft, clear voice claimed
my ear:
"You have lost your wager; you are not alone."
[Illustration: "AND TO MY AMAZEMENT SAW A WHITE-HAIRED MAN."]
I turned instantly towards the direction of the sound, and, to my
amazement, saw a white-haired man seated on the opposite side of the
room, gazing at me with the utmost composure. I am not a coward, nor a
believer in ghosts or illusions, and yet that sight froze me where I
stood. It had no supernatural appearance--on the contrary, was a plain,
ordinary, flesh-and-blood man; but the weather, the experiences of
the day, the weird, inclement night, had all conspired to strain my
nerves to the highest point of tension, and I trembled from head to
foot. Noting this, the stranger said pleasantly: "Quiet yourself, my
dear sir; you have nothing to fear; be seated." I obeyed, mechanically,
and regaining in a few moments some semblance of composure, took a
mental inventory of my visitor. Who is he? what is he? how did he enter
without my notice, and why? what is his business? were all questions
that flashed into my mind in quick succession, and quickly flashed out
unanswered.
The stranger sat eying me composedly, even pleasantly, as if waiting for
me to reach some conclusion regarding himself. At last I surmised: "He
is a maniac who has found his way here by methods peculiar to the
insane, and my personal safety demands that I use him discreetly."
"Very good," he remarked, as though reading my thoughts; "as well think
that as anything else."
"But why are you here? What is your business?" I asked.
"You have made and lost a wager," he said. "You have committed an act of
folly in making positive statements regarding a matter about which you
know nothing--a very common failing, by the way, on the part of mankind,
and concerning which I wish first to set you straight."
The ironical coolness with which he said this provoked me, and I hastily
rejoined: "You are impertinent; I must ask you to leave my house at
once."
"Very well," he answered; "but if you insist upon this, I shall, on
behalf of Cicero, claim the stake of your voluntary wager, which means
that I must first, by natural though violent means, release your soul
from your body." So saying he arose, drew from an inner pocket a long,
keen knife, the blade of which quiveringly glistened as he laid it upon
the table. Moving his chair so as to be within easy reach of the
gleaming weapon, he sat down, and again regarded me with the same quiet
composure I had noted, and which was fast dispelling my first impression
concerning his sanity.
I was not prepared for his strange action; in truth, I was not prepared
for anything; my mind was confused concerning the whole night's doings,
and I was unable to reason clearly or consecutively, or even to satisfy
myself what I did think, if indeed I thought at all.
The sensation of fear, however, was fast leaving me; there was something
reassuring in my unbidden guest's perfect ease of manner, and the mild,
though searching gaze of his eyes, which were wonderful in their
expression. I began to observe his personal characteristics, which
impressed me favorably, and yet were extraordinary. He was nearly six
feet tall, and perfectly straight; well proportioned, with no tendency
either to leanness or obesity. But his head was an object from which I
could not take my eyes,--such a head surely I had never before seen on
mortal shoulders. The chin, as seen through his silver beard, was
rounded and well developed, the mouth straight, with pleasant lines
about it, the jaws square and, like the mouth, indicating decision, the
eyes deep set and arched with heavy eyebrows, and the whole surmounted
by a forehead so vast, so high, that it was almost a deformity, and yet
it did not impress me unpleasantly; it was the forehead of a scholar, a
profound thinker, a deep student. The nose was inclined to aquiline, and
quite large. The contour of the head and face impressed me as indicating
a man of learning, one who had given a lifetime to experimental as well
as speculative thought. His voice was mellow, clear, and distinct,
always pleasantly modulated and soft, never loud nor unpleasant in the
least degree. One remarkable feature I must not fail to mention--his
hair; this, while thin and scant upon the top of his head, was long, and
reached to his shoulders; his beard was of unusual length, descending
almost to his waist; his hair, eyebrows, and beard were all of singular
whiteness and purity, almost transparent, a silvery whiteness that
seemed an aureolar sheen in the glare of the gaslight. What struck me as
particularly remarkable was that his skin looked as soft and smooth as
that of a child; there was not a blemish in it. His age was a puzzle
none could guess; stripped of his hair, or the color of it changed, he
might be twenty-five,--given a few wrinkles, he might be ninety. Taken
altogether, I had never seen his like, nor anything approaching his
like, and for an instant there was a faint suggestion to my mind that he
was not of this earth, but belonged to some other planet.
I now fancy he must have read my impressions of him as these ideas
shaped themselves in my brain, and that he was quietly waiting for me
to regain a degree of self-possession that would allow him to disclose
the purpose of his visit.
He was first to break the silence: "I see that you are not disposed to
pay your wager any more than I am to collect it, so we will not discuss
that. I admit that my introduction to-night was abrupt, but you can not
deny that you challenged me to appear." I was not clear upon the point,
and said so. "Your memory is at fault," he continued, "if you can not
recall your experiences of the day just past. Did you not attempt to
interest yourself in modern book lore, to fix your mind in turn upon
history, chemistry, botany, poetry, and general literature? And all
these failing, did you not deliberately challenge Cicero to a practical
demonstration of an old apothegm of his that has survived for centuries,
and of your own free will did not you make a wager that, as an admirer
of Cicero's, I am free to accept?" To all this I could but silently
assent. "Very good, then; we will not pursue this subject further, as it
is not relevant to my purpose, which is to acquaint you with a narrative
of unusual interest, upon certain conditions, with which if you comply,
you will not only serve yourself, but me as well."
"Please name the conditions," I said.
"They are simple enough," he answered. "The narrative I speak of is in
manuscript. I will produce it in the near future, and my design is to
read it aloud to you, or to allow you to read it to me, as you may
select. Further, my wish is that during the reading you shall interpose
any objection or question that you deem proper. This reading will occupy
many evenings, and I shall of necessity be with you often. When the
reading is concluded, we will seal the package securely, and I shall
leave you forever. You will then deposit the manuscript in some safe
place, and let it remain for thirty years. When this period has elapsed,
I wish you to publish this history to the world."
"Your conditions seem easy," I said, after a few seconds' pause.
"They are certainly very simple; do you accept?"
I hesitated, for the prospect of giving myself up to a succession of
interviews with this extraordinary and mysterious personage seemed to
require consideration. He evidently divined my thoughts, for, rising
from his chair, he said abruptly: "Let me have your answer now."
I debated the matter no further, but answered: "I accept,
conditionally."
"Name your conditions," the guest replied.
"I will either publish the work, or induce some other man to do so."
[Illustration: "LET ME HAVE YOUR ANSWER NOW."]
"Good," he said; "I will see you again," with a polite bow; and turning
to the door which I had previously locked, he opened it softly, and with
a quiet "Good night" disappeared in the hall-way.
I looked after him with bewildered senses; but a sudden impulse caused
me to glance toward the table, when I saw that he had forgotten his
knife. With the view of returning this, I reached to pick it up, but my
finger tips no sooner touched the handle than a sudden chill shivered
along my nerves. Not as an electric shock, but rather as a sensation of
extreme cold was the current that ran through me in an instant. Rushing
into the hall-way to the landing of the stairs, I called after the
mysterious being, "You have forgotten your knife," but beyond the faint
echo of my voice, I heard no sound. The phantom was gone. A moment later
I was at the foot of the stairs, and had thrown open the door. A street
lamp shed an uncertain light in front of the house. I stepped out and
listened intently for a moment, but not a sound was audible, if indeed I
except the beating of my own heart, which throbbed so wildly that I
fancied I heard it. No footfall echoed from the deserted streets; all
was silent as a churchyard, and I closed and locked the door softly,
tiptoed my way back to my room, and sank collapsed into an easy chair. I
was more than exhausted; I quivered from head to foot, not with cold,
but with a strange nervous chill that found intensest expression in my
spinal column, and seemed to flash up and down my back vibrating like a
feverous pulse. This active pain was succeeded by a feeling of frozen
numbness, and I sat I know not how long, trying to tranquilize myself
and think temperately of the night's occurrence. By degrees I recovered
my normal sensations, and directing my will in the channel of sober
reasoning, I said to myself: "There can be no mistake about his visit,
for his knife is here as a witness to the fact. So much is sure, and I
will secure that testimony at all events." With this reflection I turned
to the table, but to my astonishment I discovered that the knife had
disappeared. It needed but this miracle to start the perspiration in
great cold beads from every pore. My brain was in a whirl, and reeling
into a chair, I covered my face with my hands. How long I sat in this
posture I do not remember. I only know that I began to doubt my own
sanity, and wondered if this were not the way people became deranged.
Had not my peculiar habits of isolation, irregular and intense study,
erratic living, all conspired to unseat reason? Surely here was every
ground to believe so; and yet I was able still to think consistently and
hold steadily to a single line of thought. Insane people can not do
that, I reflected, and gradually the tremor and excitement wore away.
When I had become calmer and more collected, and my sober judgment said,
"Go to bed; sleep just as long as you can; hold your eyelids down, and
when you awake refreshed, as you will, think out the whole subject at
your leisure," I arose, threw open the shutters, and found that day was
breaking. Hastily undressing I went to bed, and closed my eyes, vaguely
conscious of some soothing guardianship. Perhaps because I was
physically exhausted, I soon lost myself in the oblivion of sleep.
[Illustration: "I ESPIED UPON THE TABLE A LONG WHITE HAIR."]
I did not dream,--at least I could not afterwards remember my dream if I
had one, but I recollect thinking that somebody struck ten distinct
blows on my door, which seemed to me to be of metal and very sonorous.
These ten blows in my semi-conscious state I counted. I lay very quiet
for a time collecting my thoughts and noting various objects about the
room, until my eye caught the dial of a French clock upon the mantel.
It was a few minutes past ten, and the blows I had heard were the
strokes of the hammer upon the gong in the clock. The sun was shining
into the room, which was quite cold, for the fire had gone out. I arose,
dressed myself quickly, and after thoroughly laving my face and hands in
ice-cold water, felt considerably refreshed.
Before going out to breakfast, while looking around the room for a few
things which I wanted to take with me, I espied upon the table a long
white hair. This was indeed a surprise, for I had about concluded that
my adventure of the previous night was a species of waking nightmare,
the result of overworked brain and weakened body. But here was tangible
evidence to the contrary, an assurance that my mysterious visitor was
not a fancy or a dream, and his parting words, "I will see you again,"
recurred to me with singular effect. "He will see me again; very well; I
will preserve this evidence of his visit for future use." I wound the
delicate filament into a little coil, folded it carefully in a bit of
paper, and consigned it to a corner in my pocket-book, though not
without some misgiving that it too might disappear as did the knife.
The strange experience of that night had a good effect on me; I became
more regular in all my habits, took abundant sleep and exercise, was
more methodical in my modes of study and reasoning, and in a short time
found myself vastly improved in every way, mentally and physically.
The days went fleeting into weeks, the weeks into months, and while the
form and figure of the white-haired stranger were seldom absent from my
mind, he came no more.