Chapter VI: Part 6

Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I
represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority; and you
can easily understand how a notion so absurd on its very face
must have operated to retard the progress of all true
knowledge—which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive
bounds. The ancient idea confined investigations to crawling; and
for hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog
especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking, properly
so called. No man dared utter a truth to which he felt himself
indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the truth was
even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the
time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They
would not even look at the end. “Let us see the means,” they
cried, “the means!” If, upon investigation of the means, it was
found to come under neither the category Aries (that is to say
Ram) nor under the category Hog, why then the savans went no
farther, but pronounced the “theorist” a fool, and would have
nothing to do with him or his truth.

Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system
the greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series
of ages, for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be
compensated for by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of
investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these
Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our
own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with
that of the wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an
object the better the more closely he holds it to his eyes. These
people blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded
Hoggishly, their “facts” were by no means always facts—a matter
of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they were
facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When
they proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely
as straight as a ram’s horn, for they never had an axiom which
was an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not to see
this, even in their own day; for even in their own day many of
the long “established” axioms had been rejected. For example—“Ex
nihilo nihil fit”; “a body cannot act where it is not”; “there
cannot exist antipodes”; “darkness cannot come out of light”—all
these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted
without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which I
speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to
persist in putting faith in “axioms” as immutable bases of Truth!
But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy
to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in
general. Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I
will go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we
have it! Here is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and
lately translated from the Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to
have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit says it is
decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, Logic. The
author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or
Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some
importance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us
glance at the treatise!

Ah!—“Ability or inability to conceive,” says Mr. Mill, very
properly, “is in no case to be received as a criterion of
axiomatic truth.” What modern in his senses would ever think of
disputing this truism? The only wonder with us must be, how it
happened that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at any
thing so obvious. So far good—but let us turn over another paper.
What have we here?—“Contradictories cannot both be true—that is,
cannot co-exist in nature.” Here Mr. Mill means, for example,
that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree—that it cannot be
at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask him
why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing else
than this—“Because it is impossible to conceive that
contradictories can both be true.” But this is no answer at all,
by his own showing, for has he not just admitted as a truism that
“ability or inability to conceive is in no case to be received as
a criterion of axiomatic truth.”

Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their
logic is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and
fantastic altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile
proscription of all other roads of Truth, of all other means for
its attainment than the two preposterous paths—the one of
creeping and the one of crawling—to which they have dared to
confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.

By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled
these ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their
two roads it was that the most important and most sublime of all
their truths was, in effect, attained? I mean the truth of
Gravitation. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his
three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all laws which led
the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of
all physical principle—to go behind which we must enter the
Kingdom of Metaphysics: Kepler guessed—that is to say imagined.
He was essentially a “theorist”—that word now of so much
sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have
puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by which of the
two “roads” a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than
usual secrecy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed
mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which
resulted from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics.

One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it
not passing strange that, with their eternal prattling about
roads to Truth, these bigoted people missed what we now so
clearly perceive to be the great highway—that of Consistency?
Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to deduce
from the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency
must be an absolute truth! How plain has been our progress since
the late announcement of this proposition! Investigation has been
taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task,
to the true and only true thinkers, the men of ardent
imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout
of scorn with which my words would be received by our progenitors
were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder?
These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply
corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared, little by little, of
their dross of inconsistency—until, finally, a perfect
consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit,
because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an
unquestionable truth.

April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the
new improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious,
manageable, and in every respect convenient are our modern
balloons! Here is an immense one approaching us at the rate of at
least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be crowded
with people—perhaps there are three or four hundred
passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile,
looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a
hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling
after all. Do you remember our flight on the railroad across the
Kanadaw continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—that was
travelling. Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but
flirt, feast and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you
remember what an odd sensation was experienced when, by chance,
we caught a glimpse of external objects while the cars were in
full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one mass. For my part,
I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow
train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have
glass windows—even to have them open—and something like a
distinct view of the country was attainable.... Pundit says that
the route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some
measure marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he goes
so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are still
discernible—traces referable to a period quite as remote as that
mentioned. The track, it appears was double only; ours, you know,
has twelve paths; and three or four new ones are in preparation.
The ancient rails were very slight, and placed so close together
as to be, according to modern notions, quite frivolous, if not
dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track—fifty
feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part,
I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in
very remote times, as Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer,
to my mind, than that, at some period—not less than seven
centuries ago, certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw
continents were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have been
driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent.

April 5.—I am almost devoured by _ennui_. Pundit is the only
conversible person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of
nothing but antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the
attempt to convince me that the ancient Amriccans governed
themselves!—did ever anybody hear of such an absurdity?—that they
existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the
fashion of the “prairie dogs” that we read of in fable. He says
that they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that
all men are born free and equal—this in the very teeth of the
laws of _gradation_ so visibly impressed upon all things both in
the moral and physical universe. Every man “voted,” as they
called it—that is to say meddled with public affairs—until at
length, it was discovered that what is everybody’s business is
nobody’s, and that the “Republic” (so the absurd thing was
called) was without a government at all. It is related, however,
that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly,
the self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this
“Republic,” was the startling discovery that universal suffrage
gave opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any
desired number of votes might at any time be polled, without the
possibility of prevention or even detection, by any party which
should be merely villainous enough not to be ashamed of the
fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery sufficed to render
evident the consequences, which were that rascality must
predominate—in a word, that a republican government could never
be any thing but a rascally one. While the philosophers, however,
were busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen
these inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new
theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of
the name of Mob, who took every thing into his own hands and set
up a despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous
Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This
Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said to have been the most
odious of all men that ever encumbered the earth. He was a giant
in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the gall of a bullock
with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He died,
at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him.
Nevertheless, he had his uses, as every thing has, however vile,
and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger
of forgetting—never to run directly contrary to the natural
analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it
upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the
“prairie dogs,” an exception which seems to demonstrate, if
anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of
government—for dogs.

April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk,
through our captain’s spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a
degree, looking very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a
misty day. Alpha Lyrae, although so very much larger than our
sun, by the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its
atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the
last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing
between these two orbs began even to be suspected. The evident
motion of our system in the heavens was (strange to say!)
referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of the
galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of
gravity common to all the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to
be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was
declared to be revolving, our own performing the circuit in a
period of 117,000,000 of years! We, with our present lights, our
vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it
difficult to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its
first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to
this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first instance; but,
this being the case, he should have at least adhered to analogy
in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested;
so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however,
dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding
orbs taken together. The question might then have been asked—“Why
do we not see it?”—we, especially, who occupy the mid region of
the cluster—the very locality near which, at least, must be
situated this inconceivable central sun. The astronomer, perhaps,
at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity;
and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the
central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its
failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of
glorious suns glaring in all directions about it? No doubt what
he finally maintained was merely a centre of gravity common to
all the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must have been let
fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of
gravity, but it does this in connection with and in consequence
of a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest
of the system. The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an
infinity of straight lines; but this idea of the circle—this idea
of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we consider as
merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the practical,
idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we
have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles
with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose
our system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the
centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human imaginations
but attempt to take a single step toward the comprehension of a
circuit so unutterable! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say
that a flash of lightning itself, travelling forever upon the
circumference of this inconceivable circle, would still forever
be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our sun along
such a circumference—that the direction of our system in such an
orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest
degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a
proposition not to be entertained; and yet these ancient
astronomers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into believing
that a decisive curvature had become apparent during the brief
period of their astronomical history—during the mere point—during
the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years! How
incomprehensible, that considerations such as this did not at
once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that of the
binary revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a common
centre of gravity!

April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a
fine view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much
interest the putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels
in the new temple at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think
that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so
little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a mechanical
ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult,
too, to conceive the vast masses which these people handle so
easily, to be as light as our own reason tells us they actually
are.

April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw
spoke us to-day and threw on board several late papers; they
contain some exceedingly curious information relative to
Kanawdian or rather Amriccan antiquities. You know, I presume,
that laborers have for some months been employed in preparing the
ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor’s principal
pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally
speaking, an island time out of mind—that is to say, its northern
boundary was always (as far back as any record extends) a
rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was
gradually widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile.
The whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies
materially. The entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight
hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them
twenty stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason)
being considered as especially precious just in this vicinity.
The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally
uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to
be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our
antiquarians have never yet been able to obtain from the site any
sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions)
wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the
manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants.
Nearly all that we have hitherto known of them is, that they were
a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the
continent at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, a knight of
the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilized, however,
but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of
their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many
respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for building
what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated “churches”—a kind
of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by
the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the
island became, nine tenths of it, church. The women, too, it
appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the
region just below the small of the back—although, most
unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the
light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women
have in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd,
very—like something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary.

Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us
respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that
while digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you
know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a
cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several
hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received,
apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it.
On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!)
an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies.
Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden
box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several
documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters
of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt
that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe
called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are
filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c.
I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the
marble slab:—

This Corner Stone of a Monument to
The Memory of
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies
on the
19th Day of October, 1847
The anniversary of the surrender of
Lord Cornwallis
to General Washington at Yorktown
A. D. 1781
Under the Auspices of the
Washington Monument Association of
the city of New York

This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit
himself, so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words
thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge,
not the least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand
years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse—as was all very
proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a
mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future
time; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself “solitary
and alone” (excuse me for quoting the great American poet
Benton!), as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We
ascertain, too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription,
the how as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender
in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that
was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt
some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription
commemorates the surrender of—what?—why, “of Lord Cornwallis.”
The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered
for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly
cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him
for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be
more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage)
“under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association”—no
doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of
corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I
see—the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into
the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a
hasty inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I
find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were
one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.

Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter
or not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for
my own amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however,
and throw it into the sea.

Yours everlastingly,
PUNDITA.

THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE.

And stepped at once into a cooler clime.—_Cowper_.

Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “The Andromache”?
{*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan.
_L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru.
From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De
L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau
he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo!
the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men!
But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of
the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as
servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc
expired in a paroxysm of disgust.

“Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

“He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
an air of _hauteur_.

“Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I
have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no
actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into
execution.”

“No _what?_” said his majesty—“come, sir, strip!”

“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_
strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de
Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and
Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of
the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest
_robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of
the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I
should have in drawing off my gloves?”

“Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou
wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou
sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen
drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty
dimensions.”

“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with
impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging
this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au
revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman
in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged
his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his
identity, he took a bird’s eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L’Omelette pronounced it _bien
comme il faut_. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its
height—ah, that was appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly
none—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His
Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a
chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the
city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung
a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there
poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never
worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never
dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a
bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God
Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these
were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty
was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_
French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was _not_
colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De
L’Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes,
raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.

But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the
same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,
for did he not paint the—? and was he not consequently damned?
The paintings—the paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on
those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices
of the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth
and the porphyry walls?

But the Duc’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,
as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the
ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C’est vrai que de
toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!_ The Duc De
L’Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which
a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most
ghastly of all fires!

_Le pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious,
the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that
hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy
of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings
of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!—there!—upon the
ottoman!—who could _he_ be?—he, the _petitmaître_—no, the
Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
pale countenance, _si amèrement?_

_Mais il faut agir_—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints
outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L’Omelette is
himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points
also. The Duc had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six
hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. He measures two points,
and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.
_Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!

_Mais il joue!_—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an
excellent memory. He had dipped in the “_Diable_” of Abbé
Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un
jeu d’écarté._”

But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more
desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he
not skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club
Vingt-un? “_Si je perds_,” said he, “_je serai deux fois perdu_—I
shall be doubly damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les
cartes soient préparées!_”

His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence.
A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace
thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The
Duc cut.

The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king!
No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine
habiliments. De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts
heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

“_C’est à vous à faire_,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes;
and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “_que s’il
n’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le
Diable._”

THE OBLONG BOX.

Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the
city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain
Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),
weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to
arrange some matters in my state-room.

I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a
more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my
acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that
of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained
feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student
at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the
ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of
misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he
united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human
bosom.

I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,
upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he
had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.
The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,
one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so
exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one
person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three
state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in
one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally
inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I
busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous
conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It
was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less
pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the
enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of
course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of
so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but
here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,
although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring
one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then
overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to
myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something
to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and
this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the
Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my
curiosity for the nonce.

Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever
girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never
yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,
however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her
as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,
therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.

On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt
and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I
waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of
being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.
was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until
to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”

The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the
wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to
circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather
thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and
that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This
I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as
“the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for
them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return
home and digest my impatience at leisure.

I did not receive the expected message from the captain for
nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went
on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing
was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party
arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two
sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to
these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not
even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,
upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in
a few hurried words, made us acquainted.

Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,
in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly
astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not
long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a
reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,
when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When
beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared
into the regions of the purely ideal.

The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a
decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was
not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in
exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated
my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her
state-room with Mr. W.

My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that
was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.
After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong
pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.
Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time
were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.

The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet
in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it
attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;
and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the
accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be
remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,
would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he
had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now
here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain
nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and
a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at
Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of
Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently
settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It
was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of
his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a
march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my
very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved
to quiz him well, now and hereafter.

One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go
into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and
there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On
the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New
York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled
with care.”

Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the
artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address
as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my
mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get
farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in
Chambers Street, New York.

For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although
the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,
immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers
were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I
must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,
and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,
even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I
was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could
make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms
during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,
although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any
person on board.

Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she
was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.
She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to
my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to
coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say
“amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I
soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The
gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little
while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent
looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great
wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.
Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution
at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a
dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had
married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride
was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these
expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt
indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking
leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so
intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of
the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be
sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in
his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent
quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.
Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own
delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the
meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in
the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up
alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said
to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse
herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main
cabin.

My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,
by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of
enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite
himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the
natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,
quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last
Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.

One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my
wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,
however (which I considered quite natural under the
circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and
that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,
and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I
thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put
on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series
of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just
to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the
butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My
first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said
something about the “peculiar shape of _that_ box”; and, as I
spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him
gently with my forefinger in the ribs.

The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry
convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me
as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my
remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his
brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from
their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as
if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and
boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with
gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In
conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to
uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.

I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to
himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At
length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was
quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of
his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest
of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide
with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me
to say nothing on this head to any person on board.

Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of
Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I
was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been
nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at
night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to
sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or
dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s
three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the
main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As
we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a
little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and
whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door
between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the
trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a
position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as
the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on
account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite
distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were
situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights
(not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about
eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the
state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she
remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and
went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had
separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent
divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the
extra state-room.

There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.
During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after
the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was
attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of
her husband. After listening to them for some time, with
thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in
translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the
artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and
mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some
soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.

In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment
when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine
when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the
lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,
by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the
wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very
gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there
was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either
occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a
low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be
nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were
not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to
resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have
been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.
Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein
to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic
enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his
eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,
however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have
been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain
Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of
which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon
the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by
means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his
state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from
hers.

We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,
when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We
were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had
been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made
snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay
to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.

In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship
proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and
shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,
however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our
after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough
of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one
immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men
overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard
bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the
foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail
and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading
the sea much more steadily than before.

The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its
abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly
strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the
afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by
the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of
it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before
we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet
of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps
choked and nearly useless.

All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to
lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as
could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that
remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable
to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak
gained on us very fast.

At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as
the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of
saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke
away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece
of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping
spirits.

After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the
longboat over the side without material accident, and into this
we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This
party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,
finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day
after the wreck.

Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,
resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.
We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a
miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the
water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.
Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and
myself, with a negro valet.

We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively
necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our
backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing
more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when
having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up
in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that
the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his
oblong box!

“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,
“you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale
is almost in the water now.”

“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!
Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight
will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother
who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I
implore you to put back for the box!”

The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal
of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely
said:

“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,
or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about
to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”

As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the
boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by
almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung
from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and
rushing frantically down into the cabin.

In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being
quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea
which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the
tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate
artist was sealed.