Chapter I: Part 1

The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven Edition

VOLUME IV.

Contents

THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY LIONIZING X-ING A PARAGRAB METZENGERSTEIN THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE A PREDICAMENT MYSTIFICATION DIDDLING THE ANGEL OF THE ODD MELLONTA TAUTA THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE THE OBLONG BOX LOSS OF BREATH THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP THE BUSINESS MAN THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER THE POWER OF WORDS THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION SHADOW—A PARABLE

THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY

What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.

Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the
world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of
Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the
main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there
are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.
For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only
proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is
indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public
sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a
history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred
within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty
thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,
with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination
into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should
ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.

By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am
enabled to say, positively, that the borough of
Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely
the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of
this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that
species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at
times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The
date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its
antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
whatsoever.

Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I
confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude
of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,
some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which
ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege
Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro
Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the
summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not
choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,
and must refer the reader desirous of information to the
“Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,
also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,
Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;
wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of
Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,
there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always
existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the
borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion
of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the
village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a
mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,
over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For
this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe
there is anything at all on the other side.

Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved
throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty
little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,
of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards
from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small
garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and
twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely
alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.
Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is
somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,
red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board
upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there
are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves
and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with
very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,
is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a
trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of
Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two
objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly
well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever
they find room for the chisel.

The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture
is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs
and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy
feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only
time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real
time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the
time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach
with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the
dial-plate of a watch.

The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking
fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot
over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of
the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old
lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a
sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress
is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and
very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,
not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,
and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings
to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In
her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right
she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there
stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its
tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.

The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden
attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have
three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to
their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes
with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of
mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and
then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is
occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the
cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,
which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him
look as handsome as the cat.

Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed
chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is
seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly
puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge
double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is
somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like
them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To
say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch
to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits
with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,
and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon
a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.

This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town
Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,
intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and
have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger
than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my
sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,
and have adopted these three important resolutions:

“That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:”

“That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”
and—

“That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages.”

Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the
steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of
mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the
borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which
the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the
leather-bottomed arm-chairs.

The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of
the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its
faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There
is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty
is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the
matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a
thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of
antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have
been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the
borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When
the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its
obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and
responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond
of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.

All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less
respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the
most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of
any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,
and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.
His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other
old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only
double, but triple.

I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:
alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!

There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that
“no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that
the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It
wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when
there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the
ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a
leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of
dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the
clock in the steeple.

By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll
object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive
foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great
rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was
really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark
snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide
mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed
anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What
with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his
face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done
up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed
black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of
white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black
stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black
satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge
_chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times
as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from
which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of
fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the
greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a
sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!

To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an
audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right
into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited
no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day
would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric
handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous
indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a
fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the
remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his
steps.

The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to
get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a
minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the
midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and
then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged
himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town
Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a
state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at
once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big
_chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it
so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so
fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that
there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the
devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.

There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for
the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.
The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his
watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business
to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had
any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count
the strokes of the bell as it sounded.

“One!” said the clock.

“Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every
leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said
his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”
said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on
the tails of the cat and pig.

“Two!” continued the big bell; and

“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.

“Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell.

“Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the
others.

“Eleven!” said the big one.

“Eleben!” assented the little ones.

“Twelve!” said the bell.

“Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their
voices.

“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.

“Thirteen!” said he.

“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,
dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from
over their left knees.

“Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is
Dirteen o’clock!!”

Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of
uproar.

“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been
ongry for dis hour!”

“Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has
been done to rags for this hour!”

“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,
“Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and
they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in
their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the
whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.

Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it
seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing
in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture
took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the
mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and
kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking
and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.
But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up
any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to
their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,
scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and
running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is
possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters
still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the
steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now
and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the
smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was
lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the
bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising
such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On
his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all
time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the
nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”

Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in
disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and
fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore
the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting
that little fellow from the steeple.

LIONIZING

—— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.

I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
mastered before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
a half dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
with him into his study.

“My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
your existence?”

“My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”

“And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”

“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”

“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
nose?”

“A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”

“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]
“Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God
bless you!”

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.

“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.

“Great man!” said Bentley.

“Divine soul!” said Fraser.

“One of us!” said Blackwood.

“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

“What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.

“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.

“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.

“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

“What will you take for it?” asked the artist.

“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.

“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.

“A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.

“I do,” said I, blowing it well.

“Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.

“Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.

“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.

“None,” said I, turning it up.

“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
beauty of the manœuvre.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Precisely,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Just so,” said I.

“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.”