Chapter 25 (5)

“You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he
drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I
engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the
proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
to dinner.

We were all lions and _recherchés_.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,
Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill
Health.”

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homoömeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à
la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange
jellies _en mosaïques_.

There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.
George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
green horns.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four
orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;
of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of
Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all
about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aëriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist
and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about
blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about
cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about
antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of
myself;—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up
my nose, and I spoke of myself.

“Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.

“Superb!” said his guests;—and next morning her Grace of
Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

“Will you go to Almack’s, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me
under the chin.

“Upon honor,” said I.

“Nose and all?” she asked.

“As I live,” I replied.

“Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

“Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”

“Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two,
and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to
suffocation.

“He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.

“He is coming!” said somebody farther up.

“He is coming!” said somebody farther still.

“He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little
love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice
upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.

“_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti.

“_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto.

“_Mille tonnerres!_” ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.

“_Tousand teufel!_” growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.

It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
Bluddennuff.

“Sir!” said I to him, “you are a baboon.”

“Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “_Donner und Blitzen!_”

This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called
upon my friends.

“_Bête!_” said the first.

“Fool!” said the second.

“Dolt!” said the third.

“Ass!” said the fourth.

“Ninny!” said the fifth.

“Noodle!” said the sixth.

“Be off!” said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.

“Father,” I asked, “what is the chief end of my existence?”

“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in
hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.
You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none.
You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant
you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to
the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no
competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”

X-ING A PARAGRAB

As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and
as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows
that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of
the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor.
Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of
which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he
justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his
virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to
convince him that it was ‘anything else.’

I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and
the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when,
abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he
migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some
place of a similar title, out West.

I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up
his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the
impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed
in that particular section of the country. In establishing ‘The
Tea-Pot’ he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel
confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence
in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John
Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there
quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the
‘Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.’ It was solely,
therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr.
Bullet-head found himself in Alex—— suppose we call it Nopolis,
‘for short’—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to
keep up his character for obst—for firmness, and remain. So
remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,
etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the
‘Gazette,’ and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued
the first number of ‘The Alexan’—that is to say, of ‘The Nopolis
Tea-Pot’—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the
new paper.

The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say
severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as
for the editor of ‘The Gazette,’ he was torn all to pieces in
particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery
that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon
John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I
cannot pretend to give all the ‘Tea-Pot’s’ paragraphs verbatim,
but one of them runs thus:

‘Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way
is a genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world
coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’

A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a
bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups
of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets.
Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the
dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:

‘We quote from “The Tea-Pot” of yesterday the subjoined
paragraph: “Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh,
goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” Why, the fellow is all O! That
accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is
neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We
really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t
an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he
came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as
much there as he does here? “O! it is pitiful.”’

The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous
insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the
eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much
incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have
imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to
desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write
a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see
that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was
mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of
Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he,
Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole
paragraph—aye! a whole article—in which that contemptible vowel
should not once—not even once—make its appearance. But no;—that
would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He,
Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the
caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a
thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as
O-wy as O-wy could be.

Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great
Touch-and-go, in the next ‘Tea-Pot,’ came out merely with this
simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy
affair:

‘The editor of the “Tea-Pot” has the honor of advising the editor
of the “Gazette” that he (the “Tea-Pot”) will take an opportunity
in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the “Gazette”)
that he (the “Tea-Pot”) both can and will be _his own master_, as
regards style;—he (the “Tea-Pot”) intending to show him (the
“Gazette”) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with
which the criticism of him (the “Gazette”) inspires the
independent bosom of him (the “Tea-Pot”) by composing for the
especial gratification (?) of him (the “Gazette”) a leading
article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—the emblem
of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of
him (the “Gazette”) shall most certainly not be avoided by his
(the “Gazette’s”) most obedient, humble servant, the “Tea-Pot.”
“So much for Buckingham!”’

In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather
than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf
ear to all entreaties for ‘copy,’ and simply requesting his
foreman to ‘go to the d——l,’ when he (the foreman) assured him
(the ‘Tea-Pot’!) that it was high time to ‘go to press’: turning
a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up
until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the
composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—

‘So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another
time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know
you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your
odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl—go!
You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John don’t do so! You’ve _got_ to go,
you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you
here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re no
homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a
poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or
frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you
fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t frown so—don’t! Don’t
hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord, John, how
you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of
an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!’

Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great
Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly,
composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS.
to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,
retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.

Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs
to his ‘case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a
commencement at ‘setting’ the MS. ‘up.’

In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was ‘So,’—he
made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph
with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw
himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but
who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without
the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his
astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles,
that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the
bottom of an empty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o
hole; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he
found _that_, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar
predicament. Awe-stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the
foreman.

‘Sir!’ said he, gasping for breath, ‘I can’t never set up nothing
without no o’s.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ growled the foreman, who was in a
very ill humor at being kept so late.

‘Why, sir, there beant an o in the office, neither a big un nor a
little un!’

‘What—what the d—l has become of all that were in the case?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but one of them ere “G’zette”
devils is bin prowling ’bout here all night, and I spect he’s
gone and cabbaged ‘em every one.’

‘Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt of it,’ replied the foreman,
getting purple with rage ‘but I tell you what you do, Bob, that’s
a good boy—you go over the first chance you get and hook every
one of their i’s and (d——n them!) their izzards.’

‘Jist so,’ replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—‘I’ll be into
‘em, I’ll let ‘em know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that
ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know—else there’ll be the
d—l to pay, and—’

‘And not a bit of pitch hot,’ interrupted the foreman, with a
deep sigh, and an emphasis on the ‘bit.’ ‘Is it a long paragraph,
Bob?’

‘Shouldn’t call it a _wery_ long paragrab,’ said Bob.

‘Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to
press,’ said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work;
‘just stick in some other letter for o; nobody’s going to read
the fellow’s trash anyhow.’

‘Wery well,’ replied Bob, ‘here goes it!’ and off he hurried to
his case, muttering as he went: ‘Considdeble vell, them ere
expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to
gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their gizzards! Vell!
this here’s the chap as is just able for to do it.’ The fact is
that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he
was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way.

The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in
printing-offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but
the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it
almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the
letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather
the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in
the old times—long enough to render the substitution in question
an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have
considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case
of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed.

‘I shell have to x this ere paragrab,’ said he to himself, as he
read it over in astonishment, ‘but it’s jest about the awfulest
o-wy paragrab I ever did see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and
to press it went x-ed.

Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by
reading in ‘The Tea-Pot,’ the following extraordinary leader:

‘Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther
time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw
yxu’re xut? Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur
xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx!
Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, yxu
knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here,
yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t gx yxu’re nx
hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a
pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr
frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu
fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t
hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw
yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse
xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a
bxwl!’

The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article,
is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by
the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in
the hieroglyphics; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head’s
residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that
gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could
tell how; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.

Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at
length subsided; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a
medley of opinion about this unhappy affair.

One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.

Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-uberance
of fancy.

A third admitted him X-entric, but no more.

A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee’s design to X-press, in
a general way, his X-asperation.

‘Say, rather, to set an X-ample to posterity,’ suggested a fifth.

That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to
all; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was
some talk about lynching the other one.

The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was,
simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town
mathematician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a
problem. X, everybody knew, was an unknown quantity; but in this
case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of
X.

The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having
‘X-ed the paragrab’), did not meet with so much attention as I
think it deserved, although it was very openly and very
fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt
about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr.
Bullet-head ‘never could be persuaded fur to drink like other
folks, but vas continually a-svigging o’ that ere blessed XXX
ale, and as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage,
and made him X (cross) in the X-treme.’

METZENGERSTEIN

Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.
—_Martin Luther_

Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why
then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to
say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the
interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the
doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that
is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I
assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says
of all our unhappiness—“_vient de ne pouvoir être seuls_.” {*1}

But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which
were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very
essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The
soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and
intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps
sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que
la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux._”

The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at
variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so
illustrious, mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. The
origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an
ancient prophecy—“A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as
the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall
triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”

To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But
more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to
consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were
contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs
of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom
friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might
look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the
palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal
magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable
feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What
wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,
should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of
hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied
anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful
house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter
animosity by the weaker and less influential.

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at
the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,
remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal
antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of
horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,
nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the
dangers of the chase.

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet
of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the
Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that
time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long
period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in
a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.

From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of
his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,
entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were
seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were
without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the
“Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was
never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit
of fifty miles.

Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so
well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was
afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,
for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded
Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most
enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant
treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals
quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no
punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove
any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula.
On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle
Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous
opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to
the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and
enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young
nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast
and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of
Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which
swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and
majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,
rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly
seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the
wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal
supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the
dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular
war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled
the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,
again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days
gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the
strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the
gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or
perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of
audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an
enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the
tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his
rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood
motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited
rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became
aware of the direction which his glance had, without his
consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the
contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming
anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It
was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent
feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed
the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it
appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the
fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming
suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his
attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming
stables upon the windows of the apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned
mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,
the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its
position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in
compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now
extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The
eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human
expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and
the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full
view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.

Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door.
As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the
chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the
quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as
he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact
position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless
and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into
the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered
three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril
of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a
gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

“Whose horse? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a
querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware
that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very
counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

“He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,
“at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,
all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of
the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the
old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.
But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is
strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow
escape from the flames.

“The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his
forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of
course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at
the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,
and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,
as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as
you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable
character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,
“perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even
the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”

“You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,
is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the
case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence
of a noble of your family.”

“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of
the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and
a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account
of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,
in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,
into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but
from the low tone of voice in which these latter were
communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of
the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a
variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,
and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his
countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber
should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own
possession.

“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter
Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after
the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had
adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,
down the long avenue which extended from the château to the
stables of Metzengerstein.

“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead!
say you?”

“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will
be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How
died he?”

“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his
hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”

“I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and
deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

“Indeed;” repeated the vassal.

“Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the
château.

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward
demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von
Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every
expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of
many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still
less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the
neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the
limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was
utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,
and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually
bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long
time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our
festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a
hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”
“Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic
answers.

These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious
nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in
time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count
Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron
might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he
disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not
wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to
be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and
merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to
become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.

The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the
conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for
the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his
atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period
immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,
who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.
Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)
did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary
ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were
current among the multitude.

Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired
charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from
every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like
propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,
a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead
hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the
young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that
colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded
with his own spirit.

There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late
events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania
of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space
passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and
was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest
expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no
particular _name_ for the animal, although all the rest in his
collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His
stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with
regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the
owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the
enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed,
that although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he
fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in
arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no
one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had,
during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,
actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of
peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and
high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting
unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to
the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the
sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which
intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and
phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal
caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from
the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when
the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the
rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking
eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to
doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on
the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his
horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little
page, whose deformities were in everybody’s way, and whose
opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas
are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his
master never vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and
almost imperceptible shudder, and that, upon his return from
every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of
triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy
slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting
in hot haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An
occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his
return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his
domestics, when, after some hours’ absence, the stupendous and
magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were
discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under
the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a
progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building
were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly
around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful
object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved
how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings
of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought
about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the
main entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an
unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an
impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,
uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive
struggle of his frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but
no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated
lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of
terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded
sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the
shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge
the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering
staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid
the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm
sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building
like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere,
shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke
settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal
figure of—_a horse_.

THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER

During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme
southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles
of a certain _Maison de Santé_ or private mad-house, about which
I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had
never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too
good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a
gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days
before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look
through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in
the first place, and, in the second, a very usual horror at the
sight of a lunatic. He begged me, however, not to let any mere
courtesy towards himself interfere with the gratification of my
curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I
might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the
next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be
some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and
mentioned my fears on this point. He replied that, in fact,
unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur
Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty
might be found to exist, as the regulations of these private
mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws. For
himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the
acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride
up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the
subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.

I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a
grass-grown by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself
in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this
dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the _Maison de
Santé_ came in view. It was a fantastic château, much
dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and
neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,
checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,
grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.

As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and
the visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward,
this man came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him
cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur
Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the
old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity,
dignity, and authority which was very impressive.

My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect
the establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance
that he would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw
him no more.

When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of
refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical
instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,
singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful
woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me
with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner
subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in
her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not
unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited
in my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and
admiration.

I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard
was managed upon what is vulgarly termed the “system of
soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—that even confinement
was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,
were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were
permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the ordinary
apparel of persons in right mind.

Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said
before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane;
and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her
eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my
remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought
would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She
replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and
even her original observations were marked with the soundest good
sense, but a long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had
taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity, and I
continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with
which I commenced it.

Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit,
wine, and other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon
afterward leaving the room. As she departed I turned my eyes in
an inquiring manner toward my host.

“No,” he said, “oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most
accomplished woman.”

“I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of
course you will know how to excuse me. The excellent
administration of your affairs here is well understood in Paris,
and I thought it just possible, you know—”

“Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you
for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find
so much of forethought in young men; and, more than once, some
unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence of
thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former
system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the
privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused
to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to
inspect the house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system
of exclusion; and none obtained access to the premises upon whose
discretion I could not rely.”

“While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating
his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing
system’ of which I have heard so much is no longer in force?”

“It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded
to renounce it forever.”

“Indeed! you astonish me!”

“We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary
to return to the old usages. The danger of the soothing system
was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages have been much
overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a
fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational
humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid
us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for
yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing
practice—with its details.”

“Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth
hand.”

“I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which
the patients were _menagés_—humored. We contradicted no fancies
which entered the brains of the mad. On the contrary, we not only
indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent
cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so
touches the feeble reason of the madman as the argumentum ad
absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied themselves
chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to
accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it
to be a fact—and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week
than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this manner
a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”

“But was this species of acquiescence all?”

“By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind,
such as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards,
certain classes of books, and so forth. We affected to treat each
individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the
word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each
lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose
confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to
gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense
with an expensive body of keepers.”

“And you had no punishments of any kind?”

“None.”

“And you never confined your patients?”

“Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing
to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to
a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect the rest, and
there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with
the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to
the public hospitals.”

“And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?”

“Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its
dangers. It is now, happily, exploded throughout all the _Maisons
de Santé_ of France.”

“I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I
made sure that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for
mania existed in any portion of the country.”

“You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time
will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is
going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others.
Believe nothing you hear, and only one-half that you see. Now
about our _Maisons de Santé_, it is clear that some ignoramus has
misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently
recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take
you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my
opinion, and in that of every one who has witnessed its
operation, is incomparably the most effectual as yet devised.”

“Your own?” I inquired—“one of your own invention?”

“I am proud,” he replied, “to acknowledge that it is—at least in
some measure.”

In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or
two, during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of
the place.

“I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To
a sensitive mind there is always more or less of the shocking in
such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil your appetite for
dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal a la Menehoult,
with cauliflowers in _velouté_ sauce—after that a glass of Clos
de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied.”

At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a
large _salle à manger_, where a very numerous company were
assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They were, apparently,
people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their
habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking
somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the _vielle
cour_. I noticed that at least two-thirds of these guests were
ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what
a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many
females, for example, whose age could not have been less than
seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,
bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms
shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very few of the dresses
were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the
wearers. In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to
whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but
my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,
with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much
too large for her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive
expression. When I had first seen her, she was attired, most
becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in
short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,
caused me to recur to my original idea of the “soothing system,”
and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive
me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable
feelings during the repast, at finding myself dining with
lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris, that
the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people,
with a vast number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon
conversing with several members of the company, my apprehensions
were immediately and fully dispelled.

The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable
and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about
it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a
carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were
without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely
fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of
our ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in
itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three
sides of the parallelogram, the door being at the other. There
were no less than ten windows in all.

The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and
more than loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely
barbaric. There were meats enough to have feasted the Anakim.
Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an
expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little
taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to
quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a
multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were
deposited upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was
possible to find a place. There were several active servants in
attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of the
apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes,
trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at
intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises,
which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford much
entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.

Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of
the bizarre about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up
of all kinds of persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts
of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be
quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly
at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent appetite,
did justice to the good cheer set before me.