It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his

chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a

perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of

his meditations. In attempting _des oeufs à la Princesse_, he had

unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette à la Reine;_ the discovery of a

principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and

last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains

which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a

successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these

unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree

of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well

calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large

black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in

his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those

distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the

red firelight itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible

to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and

papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous

manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.

He had been thus occupied for some minutes when “I am in no hurry,

Monsieur Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

“The devil!” ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the

table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

“Very true,” calmly replied the voice.

“Very true!—what is very true?—how came you here?” vociferated

the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at

full length upon the bed.

“I was saying,” said the intruder, without attending to the

interrogatives,—“I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time—that

the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing

importance—in short, that I can very well wait until you have

finished your Exposition.”

“My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know?—how came you

to understand that I was writing an Exposition?—good God!”

“Hush!” replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly

from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp

that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher’s amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the

stranger’s dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly

lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct,

by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin,

but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These

garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their

present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches.

In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to

the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head

was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder part, from

which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles,

with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and

at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color

or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a

shirt, but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme

precision around the throat and the ends hanging down formally side by

side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an

ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and

demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over

his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an

instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of

his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps

of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly

from the person as to discover the words “Rituel Catholique” in white

letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine—even

cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the

ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an

expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of

the hands, as he stepped toward our hero—a deep sigh—and

altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be

unequivocally preposessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the

countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory

survey of his visitor’s person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and

conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous

transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one of those causes which

might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre

Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was

of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of

exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men

and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real

character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To

say no more, the conformation of his visitor’s feet was sufficiently

remarkable—he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall

hat—there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder part of his

breeches—and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.

Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself

thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all

times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much

of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in

regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all

conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading

his guest into the conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas,

which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication,

enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself—ideas

which, I should have added, his visitor’s great age, and well-known

proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled him to

afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit down,

while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire, and

place upon the now re-established table some bottles of _Mousseux_. Having

quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair _vis-à-vis_ to his

companion’s, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But

plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of

their application—and the _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by

the very first words of his visitor’s speech.

“I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi!

hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and the devil, dropping

at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth

from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth,

and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and

uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,

joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent,

stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to laugh

like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the

cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white

letters which formed the words “_Rituel Catholique_” on the book in his

guest’s pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and

in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words _Régitre des

Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,

when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted to his manner an

air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been

observed.

“Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak

sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the

d——dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine—I

_have_ some faint—some _very_ faint idea—of the

remarkable honor—”

“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say

no more—I see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green

spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat,

and deposited them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement

was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to

view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain

the color of his guest’s, he found them by no means black, as he had

anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet

hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow nor red—nor purple—nor

white—nor green—nor any other color in the heavens above, or

in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre

Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but

could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous

period—for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am

constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some

inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his

Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.

“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say?—oh!—ah!—I

perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given

you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!—true. Eyes, Pierre

Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place—that, you would say, is

the head?—right—the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these

optics are indispensable—yet I will convince you that my vision is

more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner—a

pretty cat—look at her—observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you

behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say,—the ideas—the

reflections—which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it

is, now—you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail

and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most

distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of

metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my

profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable

at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I

allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use

them well;—my vision is the soul.”

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring

out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and

make himself perfectly at home.

“A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” resumed his Majesty, tapping our

friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after

a thorough compliance with his visitor’s injunction. “A clever book that

of yours, upon my honor. It’s a work after my own heart. Your arrangement

of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your

notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most

intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper,

as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth

in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure

compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well

know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?”

“Cannot say that I—”

“Indeed!—why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men

expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis.”

“Which is—hiccup!—undoubtedly the case,” said the

metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux,

and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.

“There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly

declining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied—“there

was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a

friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?—ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons.

He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was

distressed for an idea. I bade him write, down that δ

υοῦς εστιν

αυλος. He said that he would do so, and went

home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me

for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to

Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher’s chair as he was inditing

the ‘αυλος.’

“Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So

the sentence now read ‘δ

υοῦς εστιν

αυγος’, and is, you perceive, the

fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.”

“Were you ever at Rome?” asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his second

bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of

Chambertin.

“But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,” said the devil,

as if reciting some passage from a book—“there was a time when

occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of

all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people,

and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power—at

that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon—at that time only I was in Rome, and I

have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.”

(*2)

{*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (_Cicero, Lucretius,

Seneca_) mais c’etait la Philosophie Grecque.—_Condorcet_.

“What do you think of—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?”

“What do I think of whom?” said the devil, in astonishment, “you cannot

surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus!

Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who

wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes

Laertes.”

“That’s a lie!” said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little

into his head.

“Very well!—very well, sir!—very well, indeed, sir!” said his

Majesty, apparently much flattered.

“That’s a lie!” repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; “that’s a—hiccup!—a

lie!”

“Well, well, have it your own way!” said the devil, pacifically, and

Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it his duty to

conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

“As I was saying,” resumed the visitor—“as I was observing a little

while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours

Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about

the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?”

“The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to

his MS., “is undoubtedly—”

“No, sir!”

“Indubitably—”

“No, sir!”

“Indisputably—”

“No, sir!”

“Evidently—”

“No, sir!”

“Incontrovertibly—”

“No, sir!”

“Hiccup!—”

“No, sir!”

“And beyond all question, a—”

“No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher, looking

daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle

of Chambertin.)

“Then—hic-cup!—pray, sir—what—what is it?”

“That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty,

musingly. “I have tasted—that is to say, I have known some very bad

souls, and some too—pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips,

and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket,

was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

He continued.

“There was the soul of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes—racy:

Plato—exquisite—not _your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your

Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let me

see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then

there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,—dear

Quinty! as I called him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I

toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want _flavor_, these

Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_,

which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne.”

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_ and endeavored

to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a

strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although

extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:—simply

kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor continued:

“I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;—you know I am

fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to

my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of

Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus—and Titus

Livius was positively Polybius and none other.”

“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:

“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it

is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev—I

mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long

ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a

little rancid on account of the gall!”

“Shelled!”

“I mean taken out of the carcass.”

“What do you think of a—hic-cup!—physician?”

“Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched

violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt

of asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing

him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.”

“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hic-cup!—abortion

of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.

“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev—if a

gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and

with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”

“How so?”

“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know

that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep

a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless

pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will—smell—you

understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls

are consigned to us in the usual way.”

“Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?”

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the

devil half started from his seat;—however, with a slight sigh, he

recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: “I tell

you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.”

The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough

comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued.

“Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put

up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in

which case I find they keep very well.”

“But the body!—hiccup!—the body!”

“The body, the body—well, what of the body?—oh! ah! I

perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I

have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties

never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and

Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and—and a

thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the

latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why

isn’t there A——, now, who you know as well as I? Is

_he_ not in possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who

writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who—but stay! I

have his agreement in my pocket-book.”

Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number

of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters

_Machi—Maza—Robesp_—with the words _Caligula, George,

Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it

read aloud the following words:

“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to

specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being

aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this

agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my

soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did

not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

{*4} Quere-Arouet?

“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he

was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;

Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed

shadow!”

“_Only_ think—hiccup!—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our

hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of

his Majesty’s discourse.

“Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph!

If _I_ would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.—humph!”

“_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”

“Yes, sir—hiccup!—_my_ soul is—”

“What, sir?”

“_No_ shadow, damme!”

“Did you mean to say—”

“Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”

“Did you not intend to assert—”

“My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a—”

“What, sir?”

“Stew.”

“Ha!”

“Soufflee.”

“Eh!”

“Fricassee.”

“Indeed!”

“Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you

have it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his

Majesty upon the back.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time

rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

“Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.

“Hiccup!—e-h?” said the philosopher.

“Have no funds on hand.”

“What?”

“Besides, very unhandsome in me—”

“Sir!”

“To take advantage of—”

“Hiccup!”

“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”

Here the visitor bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not

precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge

a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended

from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the

lamp.

SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.

The _symposium_ of the preceding evening had been a little too much

for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy.

Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it

occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful

of supper and go immediately to bed.

A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than

a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there

can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,

there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon

four. My wife will have it five;—but, clearly, she has confounded

two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to

admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,

without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.

Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the

serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon

the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a

profound slumber forthwith.

But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed

my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell,

and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once.

In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife

thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran

thus:

“Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive

this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I

have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my examination

of the Mummy—you know the one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it

and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present—you, of

course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven

to-night.

“Yours, ever,

PONNONNER.

By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I was as wide

awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, overthrowing

all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous; and set

off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor’s.

There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me

with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table; and

the moment I entered its examination was commenced.

It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur

Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb near Eleithias, in

the Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile.

The grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban

sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous

illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from

which our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such

illustrations—the walls being completely covered with fresco

paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich

patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased.

The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same

condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it—that is to say,

the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood,

subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the

complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely

the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once

that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.

Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet

long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was

oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be

the wood of the sycamore (_platanus_), but, upon cutting into it, we

found it to be pasteboard, or, more properly, _papier mache_,

composed of papyrus. It was thickly ornamented with paintings,

representing funeral scenes, and other mournful subjects—interspersed

among which, in every variety of position, were certain series of

hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the name of the

departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party; and he had no

difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and

represented the word _Allamistakeo_.

We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury; but

having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second,

coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the exterior one,

but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between

the two was filled with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the

colors of the interior box.

Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived at a

third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no

particular, except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still

emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the

second and the third case there was no interval—the one fitting

accurately within the other.

Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We

had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or

bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath,

made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and

painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various

supposed duties of the soul, and its presentation to different divinities,

with numerous identical human figures, intended, very probably, as

portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a

columnar, or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving

again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations.

Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads,

diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the

scarabaeus, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist

was a similar collar or belt.

Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preservation,

with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish. The skin was hard,

smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes

(it seemed) had been removed, and glass ones substituted, which were very

beautiful and wonderfully life-like, with the exception of somewhat too

determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.

Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the

embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum; but, on scraping the

surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the

powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums

became apparent.

We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which

the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover none.

No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened

mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to withdraw

through the nose; the intestines through an incision in the side; the body

was then shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several weeks,

when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.

As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was preparing

his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then past two

o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until

the next evening; and we were about to separate for the present, when some

one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic pile.

The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old

at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original,

and we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths

in jest, we arranged a battery in the Doctor’s study, and conveyed thither

the Egyptian.

It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some

portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than

other parts of the frame, but which, as we had anticipated, of course,

gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with

the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a

hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night,

when my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there

immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed

to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and

which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far

covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the _tunica albuginea_

remained visible.

With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became immediately

obvious to all.

I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because “alarmed” is,

in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for

the Brown Stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of

the company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright

fright which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr.

Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk

Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his

way, upon all fours, under the table.

After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a matter

of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now

directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over

the outside of the exterior _os sesamoideum pollicis pedis,_ and thus

got at the root of the abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now

applied the fluid to the bisected nerves—when, with a movement of

exceeding life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to

bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the

limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner,

which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a

catapult, through a window into the street below.

We rushed out _en masse_ to bring in the mangled remains of the

victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in

an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy, and more

than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with

vigor and with zeal.

It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a profound

incision into the tip of the subject’s nose, while the Doctor himself,

laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehement contact with the

wire.

Morally and physically—figuratively and literally—was the

effect electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and winked

very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime; in

the second place, it sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; in the

fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth,

turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, it addressed them, in very

capital Egyptian, thus:

“I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at

your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He

is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But

you, Mr. Gliddon—and you, Silk—who have travelled and resided

in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manor born—you, I say

who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I

think, as you write your mother tongue—you, whom I have always been

led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies—I really did

anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your

standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to

suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins,

and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to

the point) am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little

villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose?”

It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech

under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into

violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three

things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of

conduct might have been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at

a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the

other. But, perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the

age, which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now

usually admitted as the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and

impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s exceedingly

natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible.

However this may be, the facts are clear, and no member of our party

betrayed any very particular trepidation, or seemed to consider that any

thing had gone very especially wrong.

For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside,

out of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands

into his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew excessively

red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar

of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his right thumb

into the left corner of his mouth.

The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes and

at length, with a sneer, said:

“Why don’t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you, or

not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!”

Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of

the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indemnification inserted his

left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned.

Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly

to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what

we all meant.

Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for the

deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would

afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his

very excellent speech.

I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent

conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive

Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other

untravelled members of the company)—through the medium, I say, of

Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke

the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I

could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of

images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger)

the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of

sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr.

Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian

comprehend the term “politics,” until he sketched upon the wall, with a

bit of charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows,

standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, right arm thrown

forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward Heaven, and the

mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr.

Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea “wig,” until (at

Doctor Ponnonner’s suggestion) he grew very pale in the face, and

consented to take off his own.

It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned chiefly

upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and

disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this score, for any

disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the

individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and concluding with a mere hint (for

it could scarcely be considered more) that, as these little matters were

now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation

intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.

In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that

Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did

not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the

apologies tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the

company all round.

When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in

repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We

sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square

inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose.

It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of

Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering—no doubt from the cold.

The Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a

black dress coat, made in Jennings’ best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid

pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade,

a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim,

patent-leather boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of

whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between

the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was

some little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of

the Egyptian; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be

dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a

comfortable chair by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the

spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine.

The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course,

expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo’s

still remaining alive.

“I should have thought,” observed Mr. Buckingham, “that it is high time

you were dead.”

“Why,” replied the Count, very much astonished, “I am little more than

seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means

in his dotage when he died.”

Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of

which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly

misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since

he had been consigned to the catacombs at Eleithias.

“But my remark,” resumed Mr. Buckingham, “had no reference to your age at

the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are

still a young man), and my illusion was to the immensity of time during

which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum.”

“In what?” said the Count.

“In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B.

“Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be made to

answer, no doubt—but in my time we employed scarcely any thing else

than the Bichloride of Mercury.”

“But what we are especially at a loss to understand,” said Doctor

Ponnonner, “is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt

five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive and looking so

delightfully well.”

“Had I been, as you say, dead,” replied the Count, “it is more than

probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the

infancy of Galvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common

thing among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy,

and it was considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should

be; they accordingly embalmed me at once—I presume you are aware of

the chief principle of the embalming process?”

“Why, not altogether.”

“Ah, I perceive—a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I cannot

enter into details just now: but it is necessary to explain that to embalm

(properly speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal

functions subjected to the process. I use the word ‘animal’ in its widest

sense, as including the physical not more than the moral and vital being.

I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in

the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the

animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever

condition the individual was, at the period of embalmment, in that

condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of

the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present.”

“The blood of the Scarabaeus!” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.

“Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the ‘arms,’ of a very

distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be ‘of the blood of the

Scarabaeus,’ is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabaeus is

the insignium. I speak figuratively.”

“But what has this to do with you being alive?”

“Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse, before

embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabaei alone did

not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabeus, therefore, I

should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is

inconvenient to live.”

“I perceive that,” said Mr. Buckingham, “and I presume that all the entire

mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabaei.”

“Beyond doubt.”

“I thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, “that the Scarabaeus was one

of the Egyptian gods.”

“One of the Egyptian _what?”_ exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its

feet.

“Gods!” repeated the traveller.

“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,” said

the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the face of the earth has

ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were

with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or

media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be

more directly approached.”

There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor

Ponnonner.

“It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,” said he, “that

among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the

Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?”

“There can be no question of it,” replied the Count; “all the Scarabaei

embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even some of those

purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and

still remain in the tomb.”

“Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “what you mean by ‘purposely

so embalmed’?”

“With great pleasure!” answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely

through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had ventured to

address him a direct question.

“With great pleasure,” he said. “The usual duration of man’s life, in my

time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most

extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer

than a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term.

After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already

described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable

curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of

science much advanced, by living this natural term in installments. In the

case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this

kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age

of five hundred, would write a book with great labor and then get himself

carefully embalmed; leaving instructions to his executors pro tem., that

they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say

five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this

time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of

hap-hazard note-book—that is to say, into a kind of literary arena

for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole

herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under

the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have

enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go

about with a lantern to discover his own book. When discovered, it was

never worth the trouble of the search. After re-writing it throughout, it

was regarded as the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work

immediately in correcting, from his own private knowledge and experience,

the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally

lived. Now this process of re-scription and personal rectification,

pursued by various individual sages from time to time, had the effect of

preventing our history from degenerating into absolute fable.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying his hand

gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your pardon, sir, but may

I presume to interrupt you for one moment?”

“By all means, sir,” replied the Count, drawing up.

“I merely wished to ask you a question,” said the Doctor. “You mentioned

the historian’s personal correction of traditions respecting his own

epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these Kabbala were

usually found to be right?”

“The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to

be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-re-written

histories themselves;—that is to say, not one individual iota of

either was ever known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and

radically wrong.”

“But since it is quite clear,” resumed the Doctor, “that at least five

thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted

that your histories at that period, if not your traditions were

sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the

Creation, which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten

centuries before.”

“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo.

The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional

explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The

latter at length said, hesitatingly:

“The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During

my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the

universe (or this world if you will have it so) ever had a beginning at

all. I remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by

a man of many speculations, concerning the origin _of the human race;_

and by this individual, the very word _Adam_ (or Red Earth), which

you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical

sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just

as a thousand of the lower genera of creatures are germinated)—the

spontaneous germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously

upspringing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.”

Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of

us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham,

first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the sinciput of

Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:

“The long duration of human life in your time, together with the

occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in installments,

must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and

conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, therefore, that we are to

attribute the marked inferiority of the old Egyptians in all particulars

of science, when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the

Yankees, altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.”

“I confess again,” replied the Count, with much suavity, “that I am

somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what particulars of science

do you allude?”

Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the

assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal magnetism.

Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes,

which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim had

flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly

forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very contemptible

tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the Theban

savans, who created lice and a great many other similar things.

I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He

smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.

This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to

his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the company, who had never as

yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on this

head, I had better consult Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one

Plutarch de facie lunae.

I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses, and, in

general, about the manufacture of glass; but I had not made an end of my

queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow,

and begged me for God’s sake to take a peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for

the Count, he merely asked me, in the way of reply, if we moderns

possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the

style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this

question, little Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very

extraordinary way.

“Look at our architecture!” he exclaimed, greatly to the indignation of

both the travellers, who pinched him black and blue to no purpose.

“Look,” he cried with enthusiasm, “at the Bowling-Green Fountain in New

York! or if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for a moment the

Capitol at Washington, D. C.!”—and the good little medical man went

on to detail very minutely, the proportions of the fabric to which he

referred. He explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less

than four and twenty columns, five feet in diameter, and ten feet apart.

The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that

moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the principal buildings of

the city of Aznac, whose foundations were laid in the night of Time, but

the ruins of which were still standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in

a vast plain of sand to the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however,

(talking of the porticoes,) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a

kind of suburb called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four

columns, thirty-seven feet in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart.

The approach to this portico, from the Nile, was through an avenue two

miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues, and obelisks, twenty, sixty,

and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself (as well as he could

remember) was, in one direction, two miles long, and might have been

altogether about seven in circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over,

within and without, with hieroglyphics. He would not pretend to assert

that even fifty or sixty of the Doctor’s Capitols might have been built

within these walls, but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred

of them might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace at

Carnac was an insignificant little building after all. He (the Count),

however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the ingenuity,

magnificence, and superiority of the Fountain at the Bowling Green, as

described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow, had ever

been seen in Egypt or elsewhere.

I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads.

“Nothing,” he replied, “in particular.” They were rather slight, rather

ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not be compared, of

course, with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved causeways upon which

the Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and

fifty feet in altitude.

I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces.

He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I should

have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even the

little palace at Carnac.

This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any idea of

Artesian wells; but he simply raised his eyebrows; while Mr. Gliddon

winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone, that one had been recently

discovered by the engineers employed to bore for water in the Great Oasis.

I then mentioned our steel; but the foreigner elevated his nose, and asked

me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved work seen on the

obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper.

This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the

attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called the “Dial,” and

read out of it a chapter or two about something that is not very clear,

but which the Bostonians call the Great Movement of Progress.

The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common things in

his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite a nuisance, but it

never progressed.

We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Democracy, and were at

much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the advantages we

enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum, and no king.

He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little amused.

When we had done, he said that, a great while ago, there had occurred

something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined

all at once to be free, and to set a magnificent example to the rest of

mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious

constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed

remarkably well; only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing

ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some

fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism

that was ever heard of upon the face of the Earth.

I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant.

As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.

Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and deplored the

Egyptian ignorance of steam.

The Count looked at me with much astonishment, but made no answer. The

silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his

elbows—told me I had sufficiently exposed myself for once—and

demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern

steam-engine is derived from the invention of Hero, through Solomon de

Caus.

We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luck

would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue,

and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the

moderns in the all-important particular of dress.

The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons, and

then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it up close to

his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended

itself very gradually from ear to ear; but I do not remember that he said

any thing in the way of reply.

Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching the Mummy

with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honor as a

gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at any period, the

manufacture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges or Brandreth’s pills.

We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer—but in vain. It was

not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was

triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill a grace.

Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy’s

mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.

Upon getting home I found it past four o’clock, and went immediately to

bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since seven, penning these

memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall

behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of

this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that

every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be

President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of

coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a

couple of hundred years.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either

thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the

essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite

for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which

best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most

definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little

length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard

to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,

has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I

hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long

poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it

excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of

this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal

necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem

to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of

any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it

flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in

effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the

critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired

throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during

perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand.

This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing

sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it

merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its

totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be necessary)

at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of

excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true

poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no

critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the

work, we read it again, omitting the first book—that is to say,

commencing with the second—we shall be surprised at now finding that

admirable which we before condemned—that damnable which we had

previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,

aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a

nullity:—and this is precisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good

reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the

epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect

sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but

an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic

anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem _were _popular

in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem

will ever be popular again.

That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measure

of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition

sufficiently absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly

Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractly

considered—there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a

volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from

these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment

of physical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a

sense of the sublime—but no man is impressed after _this _fashion

by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies

have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have

not _insisted _on our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or

Pollock by the pound—but what else are we to _infer _from their

continual plating about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any

little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for

the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but let us

forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that

common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art

rather by the impression it makes—by the effect it produces—than

by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained

effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The

fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor

can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this

proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as

self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities,

they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue

brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now

and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or

enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon

the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and

spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp

themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers

of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem,

in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following

exquisite little Serenade—

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me—who knows how?—

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark the silent stream—

The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale’s complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on shine,

O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast:

O, press it close to shine again,

Where it will break at last.

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet

than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal

imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by

him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in

the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.

One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which

he has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect of undue

brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the

The shadows lay along Broadway,

’Twas near the twilight-tide—

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly,

Walk’d spirits at her side.

Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet,

And Honor charm’d the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair—

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true—

For heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to won,

But honor’d well her charms to sell.

If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair—

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail—

’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

From this world’s peace to pray

For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman’s heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven

By man is cursed alway!

In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has

written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly

ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident

sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other

works of this author.

While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is

indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the

public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a

heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the

brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more

in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies

combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _It has been

assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate

object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a

morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged.

We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians

very especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads

that to write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge such

to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting

in the true poetic dignity and force:—but the simple fact is that

would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should

immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor _can

_exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than

this very poem, this poem _per se, _this poem which is a poem and

nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem’s sake.

With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I

would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I

would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The

demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All _that

_which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that _with

which _she _has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a

flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth

we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple,

precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must

be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the

poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical

and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of

inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of

these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the

obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious

distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I

place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the

mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but

from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle

has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues

themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the trio marked

with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with

Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is

regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the

obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with

displaying the charms:—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of

her deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting,

to the appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.

An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense

of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the

manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists.

And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in

the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and

sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the

light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing,

with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of

description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and

sentiments which greet _him _in common with all mankind—he, I

say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something

in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst

unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This

thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and

an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for

the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild

effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of

the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among

the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness

whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by

Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find

ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina

supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,

impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at

once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which _through’

_the poem, or _through _the music, we attain to but brief and

indeterminate glimpses.

The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on

the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all

_that _which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to

understand and _to feel _as poetic.

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—in

Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very

especially in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in

the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has

regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly

on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music,

in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment

in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an

adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not

now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps

that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired

by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal

Beauty. It _may _be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and

then, attained in _fact. _We are often made to feel, with a shivering

delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have

been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in

the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the

widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers

had advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his

own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.

To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words

as _The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is Taste.

With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral

relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with

Duty or with Truth.

A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at

once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived,

I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation

of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation,

or excitement _of the soul, _which we recognize as the Poetic

Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the

satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of

the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of

the sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because

it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as

directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet having been

weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most

readily _attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that

the incitements of Passion’ or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons

of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they

may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the

work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper

subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and the real

essence of the poem.

I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your

consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:—

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an Eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,

That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life’s endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired

for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.

Nothing can be better than—

———————the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the

whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance

_of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the

sentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the general manner. This

“ease” or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion

to regard as ease in appearance alone—as a point of really difficult

attainment. But not so:—a natural manner is difficult only to him

who should never meddle with it—to the unnatural. It is but the

result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the

tone, _in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind

would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.

The author who, after the fashion of “The North American Review,” should

be upon _all _occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily upon _many

_occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be

considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the

sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one

which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale, close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife-bee and humming bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,

Come, from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light,

Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season’s glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me;

Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.

Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften’d hearts should bear

The thoughts of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

Whose part in all the pomp that fills

The circuit of the summer hills,

Is—that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice

To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more

melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The

intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all

the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the

soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The

impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining

compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a

similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know

not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the

higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full

of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate Pinckney:—

I fill this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given

A form so fair that, like the air,

’Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music’s own,

Like those of morning birds,

And something more than melody

Dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips each flows

As one may see the burden’d bee

Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,

The measures of her hours;

Her feelings have the flagrancy,

The freshness of young flowers;

And lovely passions, changing oft,

So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—

The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;

But memory, such as mine of her,

So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life’s, but hers.

I fill’d this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon—

Her health! and would on earth there stood,

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south. Had

he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as

the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long

controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing

called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is especially

beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly

to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the

evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits

_of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for

themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us

that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very

admirable book:—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the

work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing

this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all

the chaff _for his reward.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by

no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that

the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.

Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an

axiom, which need only be properly _put, _to become self-evident. It

is _not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and

thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to

admit that they are _not _merits altogether.

Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character

as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude

to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense

energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There

are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all

in all _of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps,

has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any

other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while

granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than

whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact

is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other

faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very

naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there a

greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.

In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more

profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than

the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which

are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to

remember them.

One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most

singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had

always for me an inexpressible charm:—

O saw ye not fair Ines?

She’s gone into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down,

And rob the world of rest;

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalltd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whisper’d thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,

With bands of noble gentlemen,

And banners waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And snowy plumes they wore;

It would have been a beauteous dream,

If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With music waiting on her steps,

And shootings of the throng;

But some were sad and felt no mirth,

But only Music’s wrong,

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

To her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,—

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shorel

The smile that blest one lover’s heart

Has broken many more!

“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever

written,—one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of

the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It

is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length

renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it

permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;—

Fashion’d so slenderly,

Young and so fair!

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,

Loving not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;

Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;

Not of the stains of her,

All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver,

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life’s history,

Glad to death’s mystery,

Swift to be hurl’d—

Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,—

Over the brink of it,

Picture it,—think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve’s family—

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily,

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God’s providence

Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly;

Lift her with care;

Fashion’d so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently,—kindly,—

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.

Perhishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest,—

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The

versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the

fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is

the thesis of the poem.

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from

the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—

Though the day of my destiny’s over,

And the star of my fate bath declined

Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit bath painted

It never bath found but in _thee._

Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,

I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of shine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,

If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from _thee._

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Though I feel that my soul is delivered

To pain—it shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn—

They may torture, but shall not subdue me—

’Tis of _thee _that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—

Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly,

Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,

Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with one—

If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

’Twas folly not sooner to shun:

And if dearly that error bath cost me,

And more than I once could foresee,

I have found that whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of _thee._

From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,

Thus much I at least may recall,

It bath taught me that which I most cherished

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._

Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification

could scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever engaged the pen of

poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself

entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the

unwavering love of woman.

From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the

noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very

brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the noblest of poets, _not

_because the impressions he produces are at _all _times the most

profound—_not _because the poetical excitement which he induces

is at _all _times the most intense—but because it is at all

times the most ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and most

pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read

is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:—

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember’d kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored

to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my

purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and

simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the

Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul, _quite

independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of

that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard to

passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul.

Love, on the contrary—Love—the true, the divine Eros—the

Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus—is unquestionably

the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if,

to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a

harmony where none was apparent before, we experience at once the true

poetical effect; but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and

not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the

harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what

the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements

which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the

ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven—in

the volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies—in

the waving of the grain-fields—in the slanting of tall eastern trees—in

the blue distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in

the twinkling of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in

the repose of sequestered lakes—in the star-mirroring depths of

lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds—in the harp of

Bolos—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the repining voice

of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the

fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the

voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odour that

comes to him at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim

oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts—in

all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses—in all chivalrous,

generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman—in

the grace of her step—in the lustre of her eye—in the melody

of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her sigh—in the harmony

of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning

endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities—in

her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah, far above

all, he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in

the strength, in the altogether divine majesty—of her love.

Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one

very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by

Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern and

altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are

not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the

sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do

this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old

cavalier:—

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine:

Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call

No shrewish teares shall fill your eye

When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—

Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and poling crye,

Our business is like men to fight.

OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)

It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with

which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to

what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love

of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic

sentiment inspired_by their writings should be ascribed to a fact

which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and

with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a

merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout

admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,

would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,

wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on being

required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be

apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. This

quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the

case in question it arises independently of the author’s will, and is

altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied.

Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in

many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have

worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,

of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against

the poets _thew. _There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old

English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,

still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough

confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley

metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With

the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet

of the “Creation” wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he

supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the

Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished

by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the

other, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a

triumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane

eyes of the multitude. But in this view even the “metaphysical verse” of

Cowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the

man. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well

designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up

in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very

perceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Their

writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of that

soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this _abandon-to

elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle

the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the

lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a

matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a school will be

found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris _paribus) more

artificial.

We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the “Book of

Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible

idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to

show the school’s character, the attempt might have been considered

successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of

the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their

antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us.

His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,

for example, of Sir Henry Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bohemia"-that

“there are few finer things in our language,” is untenable and absurd.

In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy

which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here

every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession

for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other

prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,

a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,

apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without

even an attempt at adaptation.

In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with “The

Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a remarkable

degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.” Speaking of Poesy the

author says:

“By the murmur of a spring,

Or the least boughs rustleling,

By a daisy whose leaves spread,

Shut when Titan goes to bed,

Or a shady bush or tree,

She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature’s beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Something that may sweeten gladness

In the very gall of sadness—

The dull loneness, the black shade,

That these hanging vaults have made

The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den which rocks emboss,

Overgrown with eldest moss,

The rude portals that give light

More to terror than delight,

This my chamber of neglect

Walled about with disrespect;

From all these and this dull air

A fit object for despair,

She hath taught me by her might

To draw comfort and delight.”

But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general

character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in

Corbet’s “Farewell to the Fairies!” We copy a portion of Marvell’s “Maiden

lamenting for her Fawn,” which we prefer-not only as a specimen of the

elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,

exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its

species:

“It is a wondrous thing how fleet

’Twas on those little silver feet,

With what a pretty skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race,

And when’t had left me far away

’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown,

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes.

For in the flaxen lilies’ shade

It like a bank of lilies laid;

Upon the roses it would feed

Until its lips even seemed to bleed,

And then to me ’twould boldly trip,

And print those roses on my lip,

But all its chief delight was still

With roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been

Lilies without, roses within.”