“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will

understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling

the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never

so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends

upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in

respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice

relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of

speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which

guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style

of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and

incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or

miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling

apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of

genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains

to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate

Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which

consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the

understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier

merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be

apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the

excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.

Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be

instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are

told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus

Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive

Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,

and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists

of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have

scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,

in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure

reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort

admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the

sublime.

“Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”

continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of

pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is

just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally

so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is

incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.

There may be an object in full keeping with the principle

suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in

possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm

to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a

merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of

very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining

the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his

designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey

the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in

bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of

interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness

and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in

the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent

the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to

reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.

Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be

harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape

whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and

magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or

superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin

to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while

the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary

Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but

which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of

the angels that hover between man and God.”

It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical

embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the

open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in

the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in

the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of

ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,

lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted

wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from

the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of

positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De

Staël.

MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER

Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general

attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has

been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.

Yet the question of its _modus operandi_ is still undetermined.

Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as

decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical

genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative

understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a

_pure machine_, unconnected with human agency in its movements,

and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of

the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were

they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it

would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any

similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have

been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on

Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among

these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,

the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV

when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,

into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table

was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and

drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,

a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on

the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.

Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his

whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the

edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone

as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to

the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its

former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In

this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair

of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and

opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to

her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,

closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped

his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original

position.

The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy

the following account of it from the _Letters_ before mentioned

of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the

Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.

“One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,

Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of

answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a

magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand

in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready

prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator

takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,

and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer

shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician

then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with

his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts

it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the

proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the

wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an

appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the

magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to

return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all

containing different questions, to which the magician returns the

most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin

plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each

other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each

side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the

drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the

magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes

his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is

returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer

together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the

machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,

during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The

inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions

acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to

the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”

The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the

size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal

that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says

Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and

drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head

and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled

the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the

sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical

structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in

the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its

wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and

curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper

movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck

stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.

{*1}

But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the

calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an

engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical

and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the

exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its

power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a

machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually

print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the

slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,

be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is

altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By

no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we

assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the

Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations

without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical

calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.

Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and

inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,

and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.

And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its

final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to

no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,

we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so

arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance

with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue

its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards

the required solution, since these movements, however complex,

are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.

But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him

there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess

necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular

disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate

their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first

move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an

algebraical question, and their great difference will be

immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second

step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It

is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.

But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second

move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it

proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations

remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a

consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a

consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of

the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.

But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the

_uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,

_no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would

advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable

judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be

granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in

themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and

disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is

then no analogy whatever between the operations of the

Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.

Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we

must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the

most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original

projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring

it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose

effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the

conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for

promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this

point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton

are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter

is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The

only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is

brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as

well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player

for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an

opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.

The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron

Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards

disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to

its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was

exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental

cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.

Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United

States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by

its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of

all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on

this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen

by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,

however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board

should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while

the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in

the costume of the player since it came into the possession of

Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image

of automaton}

At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or

folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within

about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom

and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen

habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large

box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The

exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of

the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,

or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a

game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the

floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it

moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the

Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on

which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the

top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.

The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length

before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an

apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back

of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches

square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in

the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the

Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To

judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into

five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two

drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the

cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of

the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of

the spectators.

Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their

view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch

of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut

above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of

all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,

pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely

together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance

into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes

now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the

figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the

one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and

shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same

time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,

which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of

machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel

closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets

fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The

door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The

exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the

cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are

apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles

and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having

opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set

of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them

perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as

cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.

3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and

the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,

(that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six

inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The

main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box

visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the

main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no

machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,

and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the

compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and

also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the

compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.

Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and

door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main

compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly

all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle

behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently

disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving

the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,

and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A

door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the

figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of

the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be

crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now

thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,

at one and the same time, every individual portion of the

Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the

interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if

ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the

extreme.

M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original

position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a

game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This

challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the

antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’

side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from

obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this

table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them

generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess

board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares

painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the

exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom

the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the

Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking

also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he

arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now

proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of

keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,

winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the

left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now

commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of

the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not

finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist

still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has

seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is

the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.

It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his

own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at

the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as

the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the

Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the

antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the

representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary

that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.

He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the

chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,

on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the

Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is

occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and

to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.

He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to

induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are

more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,

mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,

he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the

spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.

The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm

are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved

and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the

piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers

receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,

however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,

the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this

occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its

movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if

the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot

whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its

cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton

pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard

in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and

then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,

and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a

false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box

with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and

replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,

assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves

his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon

the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,

suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,

the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game

being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism

of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then

rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.

There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the

Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion

too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,

was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was

employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine

and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter

himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means

operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke

confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall

say nothing at present more than we have already said. In

relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we

have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,

and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to

any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The

supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were

the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would

disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will

suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box

during the whole of the exhibition.

The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at

least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,

was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The

author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the

machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the

opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow

cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among

the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of

the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When

the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body

within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the

machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the

door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being

then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says

the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within

any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too

obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and

accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.

In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in

which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.

Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated

by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught

boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could

be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the

chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the

evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly

than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,

and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the

wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by

suffering a close examination of the top of the box.

These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others

equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a

course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to

blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it

altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a

Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled

“An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”

This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet

to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural

Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and

satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are

undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for

Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory

explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very

cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,

made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite

impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the

adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross

misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference

employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as

we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute

explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many

pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so

shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,

concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one

part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the

mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can

be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently

endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of

this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the

box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,

however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in

which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of

the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in

the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made

to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived

at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is

managed, it is of course concealed at every step from

observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be

effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are

actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods

by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the

one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.

But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the

partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether

unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of

proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the

wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the

necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,

with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the

pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the

author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to

show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the

observation of the spectators.

In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,

in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are

effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the

nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our

result.

It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,

that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the

exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from

which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the

first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes

round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the

back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.

He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to

the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he

opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays

the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main

compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he

now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the

main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is

observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before

the drawer.

Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into

the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His

body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.

(the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip

_en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as

occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the

main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man

within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye

cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness

within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the

cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the

cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were

there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back

door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought

his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it

altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,

however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.

Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This

being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not

resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as

to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the

person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly

occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of

the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the

machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied

by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty

to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its

back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators

are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to

view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same

time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the

space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the

front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in

shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine

around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in

his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,

brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the

doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up

into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above

the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats

himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is

seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.

In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the

Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast

he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm

and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just

beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily

reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his

right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and

eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound

_echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and

actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this

mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the

machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of

about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the

spectators’ right) of the main compartment.

In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have

purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the

partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended

that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism

within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected

in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,

however performed, it is performed out of the view of the

spectators. Our result is founded upon the following

_observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of

Maelzel. {*5}

I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of

time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the

antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in

all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily

brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the

antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the

moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals

longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when

regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that

regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other

words, that the Automaton is not a _pure machine._

2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion

is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion

agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of

the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two

seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any

instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding

move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the

Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,

until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.

Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself

begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an

error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of

the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the

motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel

has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move

corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,

that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did

not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the

antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.

This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in

performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the

Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,

2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who

sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not

regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards

the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.

3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the

machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always

win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be

made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same

principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would

enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game

of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one

that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in

the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the

operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.

If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,

(what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving

it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more

absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would

afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure

machine—the very argument we now adduce.

4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we

never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.

It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so

circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would

be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of

the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in

meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted

these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions

proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But

the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies

precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When

engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of

setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are

moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,

he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head

shake and the eyes roll.

5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an

examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is

lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the

interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In

scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,

that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,

it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed

their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted

for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent

examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were

attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The

introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been

intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their

operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must

necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at

once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to

the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to

give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the

direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure

machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its

mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose

of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous

of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the

_simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were

brought about.

6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of

the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but

very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no

ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human

face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll

unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the

lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in

an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.

Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do

better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of

the question, when we consider that the whole time of the

ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his

machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like

appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata

are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and

peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The

rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,

his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the

features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate

expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so

entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,

that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the

fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous

to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to

convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata

were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.

Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he

intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same

artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt

also through design) originally made it. What this design was it

is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its

motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its

operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)

than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey

the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.

7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,

the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in

any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a

system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,

that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,

cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or

any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same

as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the

operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of

exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.

8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the

Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the

same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the

Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,

are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a

pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it

is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure

machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could

there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,

than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the

other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be

of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,

than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will

naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this

thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,

although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,

indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to

represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the

more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a

consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of

his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his

words may.

9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has

thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind

it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned

above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of

convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled

with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be

apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of

the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and

unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very

slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This

circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more

remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily

slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should

require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when

the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position

upon the closing of the back door.

10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the

size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.

Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The

body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no

means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer

ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake

may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as

is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,

to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,

his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of

the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a

sitting position.

11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely

three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two

feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for

the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and

the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man

in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person

concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may

prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon

them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is

apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the

spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it

when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very

thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those

who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about

three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the

exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be

included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make

the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are

referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress

the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can

be accommodated within the box.

12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with

_cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A

portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only

partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the

changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the

rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,

and the partition between the main compartment, and the space

behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,

the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if

indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any

circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to

deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the

movements of the person within.

13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered

to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some

distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would

be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,

is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would

intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude

the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be

easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or

by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The

true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were

the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would

be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick

car, the breathings of the man concealed.

14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the

machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we

have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so

_deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,

he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never

opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of

cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first

pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first

shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of

cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of

chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now

if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.

Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary

to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible

arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes

infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that

he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does

_so _deviate as to falsify the solution.

15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during

exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many

employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have

been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of

the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition

room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure

machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed

any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and

when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table

of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that

so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see

through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which

the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the

arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents

itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.

Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote

from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about

two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches

shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from

the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio

different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on

one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on

the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the

candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of

ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against

which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by

the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the

rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of

radiation all upon different levels.

16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,

it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the

suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game

at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken

seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.

This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,

although all others of the suite played well. Similar

observations have been made since the Automaton has been

purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends

him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other

than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the

automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable

stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or

not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he

is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,

although frequently visible just before and just after the

exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond

with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house

now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er

was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no

exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to

many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of

the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of

_Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without

farther comment, to the reader.

17. The Turk plays with his _left_ arm. A circumstance so

remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it

whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the

fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not

to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.

The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,

but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is

obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as

this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall

lead us to the truth.

The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand

cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,

considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would

cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left

arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the

right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human

organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in

the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right

and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally

refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this

peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine

some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man

_would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of

themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few

more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The

Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other

circumstances could the man within play with his right—a

_desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the

Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery

which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie

just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man

within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and

awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly

compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or

else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither

case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the

contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the

left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man

within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,

without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the

figure.

We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged

against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.

THE POWER OF WORDS

OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with

immortality!

AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is

to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.

For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!

OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once

cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being

cognizant of all.

AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the

acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever

blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.

OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?

AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one

thing unknown even to Him.

OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last

all things be known?

AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force

the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep

slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual

vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden

walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining

bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?

OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no

dream.

AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered

that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford

infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to

know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench

it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my

Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left

the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the

throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies

and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and

triple-tinted suns.

OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me

in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted

to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during

mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to

say that the Creator is not God?

AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

OINOS. Explain.

AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures

which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing

into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,

not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative

power.

OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered

heretical in the extreme.

AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of

what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain

conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of

creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there

were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what

some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of

animalculæ.

AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of

the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which

has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the

first law.

OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of

nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these

stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?

AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to

the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought

can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our

hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in

so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.

This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to

every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for

ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the

mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special

effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the

subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine

in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle

the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere

circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a

given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of

the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the

results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw

that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through

the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of

the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this

species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for

indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its

advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him

who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians

paused.

OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest

beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of

infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the

algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in

tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the

air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote

epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse

given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing

that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite

understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the

remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in

their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and

onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other

words, in their creation of new—until he found them

reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the

Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any

epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these

numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he

could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic

retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power

of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this

faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is

of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety

of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself

exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.

OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;

but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the

ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is

thus the great medium of creation.

OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the

source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—

OINOS. God.

AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair

Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of

the Earth.

OINOS. You did.

AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind

some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an

impulse on the air?

OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your

wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the

greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our

flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its

fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.

AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three

centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at

the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate

sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of

all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions

of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.

THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA

Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._

“These things are in the near future.”

_ Una._ “Born again?”

_ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These

were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long

pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until

Death himself resolved for me the secret.

_Una._ Death!

_Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,

too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes.

You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the

Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how

singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror

to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!

_Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How

often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its

nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human

bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!” That earnest

mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms—how

vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first

up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its

strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of

that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus,

in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy

then.

_Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine,

forever now!

_ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I

have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I

burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark

Valley and Shadow.

_ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos

in vain? I will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall

the weird narrative begin?

_Una._ At what point?

_Monos._ You have said.

_Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the

propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,

then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence

with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you,

you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed

down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.

_ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general

condition at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the

wise among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in the

world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term

“improvement,” as applied to the progress of our civilization.

There were periods in each of the five or six centuries

immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous

intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth

appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly

obvious—principles which should have taught our race to submit to

the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their

control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking

upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in

the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that

intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of

all—since those truths which to us were of the most enduring

importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in

proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason

bears no weight—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a

step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the

philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the

tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a

distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the

infant condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—living and

perishing amid the scorn of the “utilitarians”—of rough pedants,

who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been

properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets,

pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when

our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days

when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was

happiness—holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers ran

undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes,

primæval, odorous, and unexplored.

Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to

strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most

evil of all our evil days. The great “movement”—that was the cant

term—went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the

Arts—arose supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the

intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could

not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish

exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her

elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an

infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the

origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with

abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other

odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the

face of analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning voice

of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in

Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy

were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading

evil—Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime

huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank

before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was

deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And

methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and

of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it

appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the

perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its

culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that

taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle position between

the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely have

been disregarded—it was now that taste alone could have led us

gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the

pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas

for the μουσικη which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient

education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since both were

most desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or

despised. {*1}

Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how

truly!—“que tout notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au

sentiment;” and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the

natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old

ascendancy over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But

this thing was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of

knowledge the old age of the world drew on. This the mass of

mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected

not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to

look for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. I had

imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the

simple and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the

astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent

mother of all Arts. In history {*2} of these regions I met with a

ray from the Future. The individual artificialities of the three

latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their individual

overthrows we had seen local remedies applied; but for the

infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration save

in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw

that he must be “born again.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,

daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of

the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth,

having undergone that purification {*3} which alone could efface

its rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the

verdure and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of

Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for

man:—for man the Death purged—for man to whose now exalted

intellect there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the

redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still for

the material, man.

_Una._ Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but

the epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we

believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely warrant

us in believing. Men lived; and died individually. You yourself

sickened, and passed into the grave; and thither your constant

Una speedily followed you. And though the century which has since

elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus together once more,

tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of duration,

yet, my Monos, it was a century still.

_Monos._ Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity.

Unquestionably, it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied

at heart with anxieties which had their origin in the general

turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some

few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with

ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while

I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after some days there

came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless

torpor; and this was termed Death by those who stood around me.

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of

sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the

extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and

profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer

noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the

mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by

external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased

to beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses

were unusually active, although eccentrically so—assuming often

each other’s functions at random. The taste and the smell were

inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and

intense. The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened

my lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of

flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old

Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The

eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered no complete

impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls

could not roll in their sockets but all objects within the range

of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less

distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or

into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than

those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the

former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I

appreciated it only as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the

matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in

shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at the same

time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in

action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision,

not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification

more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but

pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest

physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon

my eyelids, at first only recognised through vision, at length,

long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual

delight immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my

perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the

passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree wrought

into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain there was some

little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or pleasure

none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear with all

their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every

variation of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no

more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the

sorrows which gave them birth; while the large and constant tears

which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which

broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And

this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders spoke

reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with loud

cries.

They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark figures which

flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my

vision they affected me as forms; but upon passing to my side

their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and

other dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of wo. You

alone, habited in a white robe, passed in all directions

musically about me.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed

by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when

sad real sounds fall continuously within his ear—low distant

bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal intervals, and mingling

with melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a

heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the oppression of

some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a moaning

sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more

continuous, which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown

in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into

the room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted

into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary

and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great

measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp, (for

there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain

of melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the

bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side,

breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my

brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with

the merely physical sensations which circumstances had called

forth, a something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that, half

appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and sorrow; but

this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and seemed

indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away,

first into extreme quiescence, and then into a purely sensual

pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there

appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its

exercise I found a wild delight—yet a delight still physical,

inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the

animal frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve

thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up

in the brain, that of which no words could convey to the merely

human intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it

a mental pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of

man’s abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization of this

movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the firmamental

orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the

irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches

of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The

slightest deviations from the true proportion—and these

deviations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of

abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense.

Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the

individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty

in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective

momentary errors of each. And this—this keen, perfect,

self-existing sentiment of duration—this sentiment existing (as

man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently

of any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense,

upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and

certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of the

temporal Eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had

departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the

coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the

tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these

strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they

ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my

vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself

from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my

frame, and was followed by total loss of the idea of contact. All

of what man has termed sense was merged in the sole consciousness

of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration. The

mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the

deadly Decay.

Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and

the sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a

lethargic intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in

operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware

of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una,

I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the

noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those

movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me

within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse, which

bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped

heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness

and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.

And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose,

there rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched

narrowly each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record

of its flight—without effort and without object.

A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more

indistinct, and that of mere locality had, in great measure,

usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in

that of place. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had

been the body, was now growing to be the body itself. At length,

as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is

Death imaged)—at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the

deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into

awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams—so to me, in the

strict embrace of the Shadow came that light which alone might

have had power to startle—the light of enduring Love. Men toiled

at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp

earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of

Una.

And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been

extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into

quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had returned to

dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length

utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead—instead of all

things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats Place and Time. For

that which was not—for that which had no form—for that which had

no thought—for that which had no sentience—for that which was

soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion—for all this

nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave was still a

home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.

THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION

Πυρ σοι προσοισω.

I will bring fire to thee.

—EURIPIDES—_Androm._

EIROS.

Why do you call me Eiros?

CHARMION.

So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too,

my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.

EIROS.

This is indeed no dream!

CHARMION.

Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I

rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational. The film of

the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart and

fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired and,

to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and

wonders of your novel existence.

EIROS.

True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the

terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,

rushing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my

senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their

perception of the new.

CHARMION.

A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and

feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what

you undergo—yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have

now suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in

Aidenn.

EIROS.

In Aidenn?

CHARMION.

In Aidenn.

EIROS.

Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of

all things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future

merged in the august and certain Present.

CHARMION.

Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of

this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the

exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward—but

back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that

stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us

converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the

world which has so fearfully perished.

EIROS.

Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream.

CHARMION.

Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?

EIROS.

Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there

hung a cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your

household.

CHARMION.

And that last hour—speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked

fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out

from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—at that

period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you

was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the

speculative philosophy of the day.

EIROS.

The individual calamity was as you say entirely unanticipated;

but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion

with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even

when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in

the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of

all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of the earth

alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin,

speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical

knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors of

flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well

established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites

of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either

in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had

long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable

tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our

substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was

not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets

were accurately known. That among them we should look for the

agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many

years considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild

fancies had been, of late days, strangely rife among mankind;

and, although it was only with a few of the ignorant that actual

apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a

new comet, yet this announcement was generally received with I

know not what of agitation and mistrust.

The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and

it was at once conceded by all observers, that its path, at

perihelion, would bring it into very close proximity with the

earth. There were two or three astronomers, of secondary note,

who resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I cannot

very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon the

people. For a few short days they would not believe an assertion

which their intellect so long employed among worldly

considerations could not in any manner grasp. But the truth of a

vitally important fact soon makes its way into the understanding

of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical

knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was

not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of very

unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little

perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material

increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration

in its color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were

discarded and all interests absorbed in a growing discussion,

instituted by the philosophic, in respect to the cometary nature.

Even the grossly ignorant aroused their sluggish capacities to

such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect—their

soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the

sustenance of loved theory. They sought—they panted for right

views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose in the

purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed

down and adored.

That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would

result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly

lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely

permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was

demonstrated, that the density of the comet’s nucleus was far

less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a

similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point

strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror.

Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the

biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a

directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been

known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought

about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that

enforced every where conviction; and that the comets were of no

fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved

all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great

calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices

and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors which

were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet—were now

altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion,

reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The

feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.

What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of

elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological

disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and

consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic and electric

influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would

in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on,

their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent

diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as

it came. All human operations were suspended.

There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when

the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any

previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any

lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all

the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was

gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently

within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge

even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no

longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its

historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a

hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical

phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and

a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable

rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame,

extending from horizon to horizon.

Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear

that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we

lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity

of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was

apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through

it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we

gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight

of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown

before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.

Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was

now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change

had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild

signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of

pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and

an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that

our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this

atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be

subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of

investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror

through the universal heart of man.

It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a

compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of

twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in

every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the

principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely

necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most

powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the

contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or

flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been

ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we

had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of

the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a

total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,

all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;—the entire fulfilment,

in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and

horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy

Book.

Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of

mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired

us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In

its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the

consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away

with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid

modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously

through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all

men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening

heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the

destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I

speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a

moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and

penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before

the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a

shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM;

while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed,

burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose

surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the

high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.

SHADOW—A PARABLE

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow._

—_Psalm of David_.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall

have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For

indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known,

and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen

of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and

some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in

the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense

than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many

prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea

and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad.

To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown

that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek

Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the

alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at

the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the

red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the

skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only

in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations,

and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a

noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a

company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save

by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the

artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened

from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut

out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless

streets—but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be

so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can

render no distinct account—things material and

spiritual—heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense of

suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that terrible state of

existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly

living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie

dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs—upon

the household furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and

all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all things save

only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel.

Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus

remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror

which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which

we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own

countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his

companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way—which

was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are madness;

and drank deeply—although the purple wine reminded us of blood.

For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of

young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the

genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in

our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague,

and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire

of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment

as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to

die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed

were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the

bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the

depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice

the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they

ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable

draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and

so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the

sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and

undefined shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,

might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow

neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And

quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length

rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But

the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the

shadow neither of man nor of God—neither God of Greece, nor God

of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the

brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the

door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became

stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested

was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young

Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen

the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not

steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually

into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos,

speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and

its appellation. And the shadow answered, “I am SHADOW, and my

dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those

dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian

canal.” And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in

horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the

tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one

being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their

cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in

the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand

departed friends.

VOLUME 5.

PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.

In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their

residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little

sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France, _meliora probant,

deteriora _sequuntur—the people are too much a race of gadabouts

to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a

delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The

Chinese and most of the eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy.

The Scotch are _poor _decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an

indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are _all

_curtains—a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The

Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are

preposterous.

How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aristocracy of

blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable

thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the _display

of wealth _has here to take the place and perform the office of the

heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a transition readily

understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been

brought to merge in simple _show_ our notions of taste itself.

To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of

costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an

impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves—or

of taste as regards the proprietor:—this for the reason, first, that

wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting

a nobility; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood,

confining itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather

avoids than affects that mere costliness in which a _parvenu _rivalry

may at any time be successfully attempted.

The people _will _imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough

diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being

the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general,

to be the sole means of the aristocratic distinction; and the populace,

looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two

entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of

an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole

test of its merit in a decorative point of view—and this test, once

established, has led the way to many analogous errors, readily traceable

to the one primitive folly.

There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist

than the interior of what is termed in the United States—that is to

say, in Appallachia—a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual

defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would

of the keeping of a picture—for both the picture and the room are

amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of

art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits

of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.

A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several

pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation

to use _Very _often the eye is offended by their inartistic

arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent—too uninterruptedly

continued—or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines

occur, they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision,

the appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.

Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other

decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place; and an

extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstance,

irreconcilable with good taste—the proper quantum, as well as the

proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect.

Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still

very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the

apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the

forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary

man; a good judge of a carpet _must be _a genius. Yet we have heard

discoursing of carpets, with the air “_d’un mouton qui reve,” _fellows

who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of their

own _moustaches. _Every one knows that a large floor _may _have

a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of

small—yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards

texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preterpluperfect

tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching

pattern—a carpet should _not _be bedizzened out like a Riccaree

Indian—all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock’s feathers. In brief—distinct

grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, _of no meaning, _are

here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of

well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of

Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or

ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be rigidly

Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth & still occasionally seen

in the dwellings of the rabble—cloths of huge, sprawling, and

radiating devises, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among

which no ground is intelligible—these are but the wicked invention

of a race of time-servers and money-lovers—children of Baal and

worshippers of Mammon—Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize

fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established

joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.

_Glare_ is a leading error in the philosophy of American household

decoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion

of taste just specified., We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass.

The former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady

light offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or

what artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do

wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely

thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp

proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass

shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is

a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted

it, partly on account of its _flashiness,_ but principally on account

of its _greater rest,_ is a good commentary on the proposition with

which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of

a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly

subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of

these gaudy abominations is unequal broken, and painful. It alone is

sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its

influence. Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half

disenchanted beneath its evil eye.

In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its

leading feature is _glitter—_and in that one word how much of

all that is detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are _sometimes

_pleasing—to children and idiots always so—but in the

embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth,

even strong _steady _lights are inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning

glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle

in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of

all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.

The rage for _glitter-_because its idea has become as we before

observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract—has

led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our

dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine

thing. Now the slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one

who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and

especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror

presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,—a thing

always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent

in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here

aggravated, not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of its

sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four

or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show,

a room of no shape at all. If we add to this evil, the attendant glitter

upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing

effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened,

would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be

altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the

same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be

startled into an exclamation of pleasure and surprise.

It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man

of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The

corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture.

As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among _our

_aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia), for the

spirituality of a British _boudoir. _But we have seen apartments in

the tenure of Americans of moderns [possibly “modest” or “moderate”]

means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the _or-molu’d

_cabinets of our friends across the water. Even _now_, there is

present to our mind’s eye a small and not, ostentatious chamber with whose

decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa—the

weather is cool—the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of

the room during his slumber.

It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth—a

shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of

furniture. It has but one door—by no means a wide one—which is

at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the

other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor—have deep

recesses—and open on an Italian _veranda. _Their panes are of a

crimson-tinted glass, set in rose-wood framings, more massive than usual.

They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to

the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the

recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a

deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which is the material

of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the whole

fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy appearance),

issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles

the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown

open also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping

it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such

devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains and their fringe—the

tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere in profusion, and

determine the _character _of the room. The carpet—of Saxony

material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson

ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that

festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the _ground,

_and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a succession of short

irregular curves—one occasionally overlaying the other. The walls

are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small

Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many

paintings relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an

imaginative cast—such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the

lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or

four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits in the manner of Sully.

The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no “brilliant

effects.” _Repose _speaks in all. Not one is of small size.

Diminutive paintings give that _spotty _look to a room, which is the

blemish of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad

but not deep, and richly carved, without being _dulled _or filagreed.

They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls,

and do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to

better advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of

the chamber is injured. But one mirror—and this not a very large one—is

visible. In shape it is nearly circular—and it is hung so that a

reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary

sitting-places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson

silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two light

conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood,

also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed

altogether of the richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near one of the

sofas. This is also without cover—the drapery of the curtains has

been thought sufficient.. Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which

bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded

angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with

highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some

light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk

cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred magnificently bound

books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand

lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from

He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a

tranquil but magical radiance over all.

A TALE OF JERUSALEM

Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos

Passus erat——

—Lucan—_De Catone_

——a bristly _bore_.

_Translation._

“Let us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and Simeon

the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of the

world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one—“let us hasten to the

ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David,

and overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of

the fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the

promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the

sacrifices.”

Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or

sub-collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.

“Verily,” replied the Pharisee; “let us hasten: for this generosity in the

heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of

the worshippers of Baal.”

“That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the

Pentateuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that is only toward the people of

Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to their

own interests? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us

lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver

shekels per head!”

“Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that the

Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the Most High,

has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar,

to the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit.”

“Now, by the five corners of my beard!” shouted the Pharisee, who belonged

to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner of

_dashing _and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a

thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees—a stumbling-block to less

gifted perambulators)—“by the five corners of that beard which, as a

priest, I am forbidden to shave!—have we lived to see the day when a

blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of

appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated

elements? Have we lived to see the day when—”

“Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,” interrupted

Abel-Phittim, “for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or

by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings

should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not

extinguish, and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.”

That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and which

bore the name of its architect, King David, was esteemed the most strongly

fortified district of Jerusalem; being situated upon the steep and lofty

hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from the

solid rock, was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its

inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square

towers of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred and

twenty cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin, the

wall arose by no means from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary,

between the level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart sprang up a

perpendicular cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the

precipitous Mount Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived

on the summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the

turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the

besieging army—they looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an

eminence excelling by many feet that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by

several, that of the temple of Belus.

“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice,

“the uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore—as the locusts in the

wilderness! The valley of the King hath become the valley of Adommin.”

“And yet,” added Ben-Levi, “thou canst not point me out a Philistine—no,

not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the wilderness to the battlements—who

seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!”

“Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!” here shouted a Roman

soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the regions

of Pluto—“lower away the basket with the accursed coin which it has

broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince your

gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought

fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The god Phœbus, who is a

true god, has been charioted for an hour—and were you not to be on the

ramparts by sunrise? Ædepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the

world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every

kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say—and

see that your trumpery be bright in color and just in weight!”

“El Elohim!” ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the

centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against

the temple—“El Elohim!—who is the god Phœbus?—whom doth

the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of

the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!—is

it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?—or Ashimah?—or

Nibhaz,—or Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or

Succoth-Benith?—or Dagon?—or Belial?—or Baal-Perith?—or

Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?”

“Verily it is neither—but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too

rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on

the projection of yonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the

holy things of the sanctuary.”

By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the heavily laden

basket was now carefully lowered down among the multitude; and, from the

giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen gathering confusedly round it; but

owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of

their operations could be obtained.

Half an hour had already elapsed.

“We shall be too late!” sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration of this

period he looked over into the abyss—“we shall be too late! we shall be

turned out of office by the Katholim.”

“No more,” responded Abel-Phittim—“no more shall we feast upon the

fat of the land—no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense—our

loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple.”

“Raca!” swore Ben-Levi, “Raca! do they mean to defraud us of the purchase

money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?”

“They have given the signal at last!” cried the Pharisee—“they

have given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!—and thou,

Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either

still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to

place therein a beast of good weight!” And the Gizbarim pulled away, while

their burden swung heavily upward through the still increasing mist.

“Booshoh he!”—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the

extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—“Booshoh he!” was

the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.

“Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of

Engedi, and as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!”

“It is a firstling of the flock,” said Abel-Phittim, “I know him by the

bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are

more beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral, and his flesh is like the

honey of Hebron.”

“It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,” said the Pharisee, “the

heathen have dealt wonderfully with us——let us raise up our

voices in a psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm and on the

psaltery—on the harp and on the huggab—on the cythern and on the sackbut!”