This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong; Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause. 220 And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break.


Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand, Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground; 224 Sometimes her arms infold him like a band: She would, he will not in her arms be bound; And when from thence he struggles to be gone, She locks her lily fingers one in one. 228


"Fondling," she saith, "since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: 232 Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.


"Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom grass and high delightful plain, 236 Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain: Then be my deer, since I am such a park, 239 No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark."


At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple; Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple; 244 Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why there love liv'd, and there he could not die.


These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking. 248 Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn! 252


Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing; The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge releasing: 256 "Pity," she cries; "some favour, some remorse!" Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.


But lo from forth a copse that neighbours by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, 260 Adonis' tramping courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. 264


Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder; The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth, 269 Controlling what he was controlled with.


His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end; 272 His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 276


Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, With gentle majesty and modest pride; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who should say, "Lo thus my strength is tried; And this I do to captivate the eye 281 Of the fair breeder that is standing by."


What recketh he his rider's angry stir, His flattering "Holla", or his "Stand, I say"? 284 What cares he now for curb or pricking spur? For rich caparisons or trappings gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 288


Look when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, His art with nature's workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed: 292 So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.


Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300


Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather: To bid the wind a base he now prepares, And where he run or fly they know not whether; 304 For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.


He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her; She answers him as if she knew his mind, 308 Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels. 312


Then like a melancholy malcontent, He vails his tail that like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent: He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. 316 His love, perceiving how he was enrag'd, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.


His testy master goeth about to take him, When lo the unback'd breeder, full of fear, 320 Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there: As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them. 324


All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boisterous and unruly beast; And now the happy season once more fits That love-sick love by pleading may be blest; 328 For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong, When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.


An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: 332 So of concealed sorrow may be said, Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage; But when the heart's attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. 336


He sees her coming, and begins to glow, Even as a dying coal revives with wind, And with his bonnet hides his angry brow, Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, 340 Taking no notice that she is so nigh, For all askance he holds her in his eye.


O what a sight it was, wistly to view How she came stealing to the wayward boy, 344 To note the fighting conflict of her hue, How white and red each other did destroy: But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky. 348


Now was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels; With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels: 352 His tend'rer cheek receives her soft hand's print, As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.


Oh what a war of looks was then between them, Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing, 356 His eyes saw her eyes, as they had not seen them, Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing: And all this dumb play had his acts made plain With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.


Full gently now she takes him by the hand, 361 A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow, Or ivory in an alabaster band, So white a friend engirts so white a foe: 364 This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.


Once more the engine of her thoughts began: "O fairest mover on this mortal round, 368 Would thou wert as I am, and I a man, My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound, For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee."


"Give me my hand," saith he, "why dost thou feel it?" "Give me my heart," saith she, "and thou shalt have it. O give it me lest thy hard heart do steel it, And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it. 376 Then love's deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard."


"For shame," he cries, "let go, and let me go, My day's delight is past, my horse is gone, 380 And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so, I pray you hence, and leave me here alone, For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my palfrey from the mare." 384


Thus she replies: "Thy palfrey as he should, Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire, Affection is a coal that must be cool'd; Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire, 388 The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none; Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.


"How like a jade he stood tied to the tree, Servilely master'd with a leathern rein! 392 But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee, He held such petty bondage in disdain; Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. 396


"Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, But when his glutton eye so full hath fed, His other agents aim at like delight? 400 Who is so faint that dare not be so bold To touch the fire, the weather being cold?


"Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy, And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee, 404 To take advantage on presented joy, Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee. O learn to love, the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again." 408


"I know not love," quoth he, "nor will not know it, Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it; 'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it; My love to love is love but to disgrace it; 412 For I have heard, it is a life in death, That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.


"Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth? 416 If springing things be any jot diminish'd, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth; The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young, Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong. 420


"You hurt my hand with wringing. Let us part, And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat: Remove your siege from my unyielding heart, To love's alarms it will not ope the gate: 424 Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flatt'ry; For where a heart is hard they make no batt'ry."


"What! canst thou talk?" quoth she, "hast thou a tongue? O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing; 428 Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong; I had my load before, now press'd with bearing: Melodious discord, heavenly tune, harsh-sounding, Ear's deep sweet music, and heart's deep sore wounding.


"Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 433 That inward beauty and invisible; Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible: 436 Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee.


"Say that the sense of feeling were bereft me, And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, 440 And nothing but the very smell were left me, Yet would my love to thee be still as much; For from the stillitory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfum'd, that breedeth love by smelling.


"But oh what banquet wert thou to the taste, 445 Being nurse and feeder of the other four; Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid suspicion double-lock the door, Lest jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, Should by his stealing in disturb the feast?" 448


Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd, Which to his speech did honey passage yield, 452 Like a red morn that ever yet betoken'd Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. 456


This ill presage advisedly she marketh: Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth, Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, 460 Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, His meaning struck her ere his words begun.


And at his look she flatly falleth down For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth; 464 A smile recures the wounding of a frown; But blessed bankrout, that by love so thriveth! The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red. 468


And all amaz'd brake off his late intent, For sharply he did think to reprehend her, Which cunning love did wittily prevent: Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her! 472 For on the grass she lies as she were slain, Till his breath breatheth life in her again.


He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, 476 He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd: He kisses her; and she, by her good will, Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 480


The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day: Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, Like the fair sun when in his fresh array He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth: 484 And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumin'd with her eye.


Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd, As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine. 488 Were never four such lamps together mix'd, Had not his clouded with his brow's repine; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light Shone like the moon in water seen by night. 492


"O where am I?" quoth she, "in earth or heaven? Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire? What hour is this? or morn or weary even? Do I delight to die, or life desire? 496 But now I liv'd, and life was death's annoy; But now I died, and death was lively joy.


"O thou didst kill me; kill me once again: Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, 500 Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain, That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. 504


"Long may they kiss each other for this cure! Oh never let their crimson liveries wear, And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year: 508 That the star-gazers, having writ on death, May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.


"Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted, What bargains may I make, still to be sealing? 512 To sell myself I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing; Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips, Set thy seal manual on my wax-red lips. 516


"A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one, What is ten hundred touches unto thee? Are they not quickly told and quickly gone? 520 Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?"


"Fair queen," quoth he, "if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years: 524 Before I know myself, seek not to know me; No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears: The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluck'd, is sour to taste. 528


"Look the world's comforter, with weary gait His day's hot task hath ended in the west; The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 'tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, 532 And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light Do summon us to part, and bid good night.


"Now let me say good night, and so say you; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss." 536 "Good night," quoth she; and ere he says adieu, The honey fee of parting tender'd is: Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace; Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face. 540


Till breathless he disjoin'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth, 544 He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth, Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.


Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth; 548 Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, Paying what ransom the insulter willeth; Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high, That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry. 552


And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, With blindfold fury she begins to forage; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage, 556 Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.


Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tir'd with chasing, 561 Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling: He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. 564


What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp'ring, And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass'd oft with vent'ring, Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: 568 Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.


When he did frown, O had she then gave over, Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. 572 Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover; What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd. Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.


For pity now she can no more detain him; 577 The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him, Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, 580 The which by Cupid's bow she doth protest, He carries thence encaged in his breast.


"Sweet boy," she says, "this night I'll waste in sorrow, For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. 584 Tell me, love's master, shall we meet tomorrow Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?" He tells her no, tomorrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. 588


"The boar!" quoth she; whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheek, she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws. 592 She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back.


Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion mounted for the hot encounter: 596 All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. 600


Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes, Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw: Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 604 The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.


But all in vain, good queen, it will not be, She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd; 608 Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee; She's love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd. "Fie, fie," he says, "you crush me; let me go; You have no reason to withhold me so." 612


"Thou hadst been gone," quoth she, "sweet boy, ere this, But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. Oh be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is, With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, 616 Whose tushes never sheath'd he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.


"On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; 620 His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret; His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes; Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 624


"His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture: 628 The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.


"Alas! he naught esteems that face of thine, To which love's eyes pay tributary gazes; 632 Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes; But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread! Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.


"Oh let him keep his loathsome cabin still, 637 Beauty hath naught to do with such foul fiends: Come not within his danger by thy will; They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.


"Didst thou not mark my face, was it not white? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? 644 Grew I not faint, and fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.


"For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy 649 Doth call himself affection's sentinel; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry "Kill, kill!" 652 Distemp'ring gentle love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire.


"This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, This canker that eats up love's tender spring, 656 This carry-tale, dissentious jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear, That if I love thee, I thy death should fear. 660


"And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry chafing boar, Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore; 664 Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.


"What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That tremble at th'imagination? 668 The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination: I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar tomorrow. 672


"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox which lives by subtilty, Or at the roe which no encounter dare: 676 Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.


"And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 680 How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. 684


"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, 688 And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer; Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.


"For there his smell with others being mingled, 691 The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; Then do they spend their mouths: echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies. 696


"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with list'ning ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still. Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; 700 And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing bell.


"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way, 704 Each envious briar his weary legs do scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never reliev'd by any. 708


"Lie quietly, and hear a little more; Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise: To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize, 712 Applying this to that, and so to so, For love can comment upon every woe.


"Where did I leave?" "No matter where," quoth he "Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: 716 The night is spent." "Why, what of that?" quoth she. "I am," quoth he, "expected of my friends; And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall." "In night," quoth she, "desire sees best of all." 720


But if thou fall, oh then imagine this, The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. 723 Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.


"Now of this dark night I perceive the reason: Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine 728 Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven, that were divine; Wherein she fram'd thee, in high heaven's despite, To shame the sun by day and her by night. 732


"And therefore hath she brib'd the destinies, To cross the curious workmanship of nature, To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, 736 Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad mischances and much misery.


"As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, 740 The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood; Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear nature's death, for framing thee so fair. 744


"And not the least of all these maladies But in one minute's fight brings beauty under: Both favour, savour, hue and qualities, Whereat th'impartial gazer late did wonder, 748 Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done, As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.


"Therefore despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, 752 That on the earth would breed a scarcity And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. 756


"What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity, Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity? 760 If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.


"So in thyself thyself art made away; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, 764 Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher sire that reeves his son of life. Foul cank'ring rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that's put to use more gold begets." 768


"Nay then," quoth Adon, "you will fall again Into your idle over-handled theme; The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream; 772 For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.


"If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, 776 Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown; For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there. 780


"Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast, And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest. 784 No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.


"What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger; 790 I hate not love, but your device in love That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase: O strange excuse! When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse. 792


"Call it not, love, for love to heaven is fled, Since sweating lust on earth usurp'd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; 796 Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves.


"Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But lust's effect is tempest after sun; 800 Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done. Love surfeits not, lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies. 804


"More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness, now I will away; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen, 808 Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended Do burn themselves for having so offended."


With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace 811 Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, And homeward through the dark laund runs apace; Leaves love upon her back deeply distress'd. Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus' eye. 816


Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: 820 So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight.


Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood, 824 Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. 828


And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: 832 "Ay me!" she cries, and twenty times, "Woe, woe!" And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.


She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemporally a woeful ditty; 836 How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote, How love is wise in folly foolish witty: Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. 840


Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short, If pleas'd themselves, others they think, delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport: 844 Their copious stories oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done.


For who hath she to spend the night withal, But idle sounds resembling parasites; 848 Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says, "'Tis so:" they answer all, "'Tis so;" And would say after her, if she said "No." 852


Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; 856 Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.


Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow: "Oh thou clear god, and patron of all light, 860 From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other."


This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 865 Musing the morning is so much o'erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love; She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn. 868 Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.


And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 872 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. 876


By this she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder Wreath'd up in fatal folds just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder; 880 Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.


For now she knows it is no gentle chase, But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, 884 Because the cry remaineth in one place, Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud, Finding their enemy to be so curst, They all strain court'sy who shall cope him first. 888


This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprise her heart; Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part; 892 Like soldiers when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly and dare not stay the field.


Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy, Till cheering up her senses sore dismay'd, 896 She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy, And childish error, that they are afraid; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more: And with that word, she spied the hunted boar. 900


Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: 904 This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires, to rate the boar for murther.


A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways, She treads the path that she untreads again; 908 Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet naught at all respecting, In hand with all things, naught at all effecting.


Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound, 913 And asks the weary caitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster. 916 And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.


When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, 920 Against the welkin volleys out his voice; Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.


Look how the world's poor people are amazed 925 At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies; 928 So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath, And sighing it again, exclaims on death.


"Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, 931 Hateful divorce of love," thus chides she death, "Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean? To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet. 936


"If he be dead, O no, it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it, O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. 940 Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.


"Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing him, thy power had lost his power. 944 The destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower. Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not death's ebon dart to strike him dead. 948


"Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? 952 Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour."


Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vail'd her eyelids, who like sluices stopp'd 956 The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. 960


O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow; Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; 964 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.


Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; 968 All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best, then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. 972


By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; 976 For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.


Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass; 980 Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.


O hard-believing love, how strange it seems 985 Not to believe, and yet too credulous; Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous, 988 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.


Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought, Adonis lives, and death is not to blame; 992 It was not she that call'd him all to naught; Now she adds honours to his hateful name. She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 996


"No, no," quoth she, "sweet death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; 1000 Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess— I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.


"'Tis not my fault, the boar provok'd my tongue; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander; 1004 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he's author of my slander. Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet, Could rule them both, without ten women's wit."


Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 1009 Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate; 1012 Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories.


"O love!" quoth she, "how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind, 1016 To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind; For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. 1020


"Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves, Trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves." 1024 Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.


As falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light, 1028 And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew.


Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 1033 Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain, And there all smother'd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again: 1036 So at his bloody view her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head.


Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain, 1040 Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again; Who like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. 1044


Whereat each tributary subject quakes, As when the wind imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise 1049 That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes.


And being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank, whose wonted lily white 1053 With purple tears that his wound wept, was drench'd. No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed, But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.


This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth, 1057 Over one shoulder doth she hang her head, Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead: 1060 Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow, Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.


Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye, 1065 That makes more gashes, where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled, For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.


"My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 1069 And yet," quoth she, "behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead: 1072 Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire! So shall I die by drops of hot desire.


"Alas poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? 1078 The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim, But true sweet beauty liv'd and died with him.


"Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! 1081 Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you. But when Adonis liv'd, sun and sharp air 1085 Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.


"And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; 1088 The wind would blow it off, and being gone, Play with his locks; then would Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears.


"To see his face the lion walk'd along 1093 Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him. 1096 If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the silly lamb that day.


"When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; 1100 When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries, He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.


"But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, 1105 Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave. 1108 If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.


"'Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain: He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, 1112 Who did not whet his teeth at him again, But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheath'd unaware the tusk in his soft groin. 1116


"Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill'd him first; But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst." 1120 With this she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood.


She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold, 1124 She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woeful words she told; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies.


Two glasses where herself herself beheld 1129 A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect. 1132 "Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite, That thou being dead, the day should yet be light.


"Since thou art dead, lo here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: 1136 It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end; Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.


"It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, 1141 Bud, and be blasted in a breathing while; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile. 1144 The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.


"It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; 1148 The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 1152


"It shall suspect where is no cause of fear, It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; 1156 Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.


"It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire; 1160 Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire, Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, They that love best their love shall not enjoy." 1164


By this the boy that by her side lay kill'd Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white, 1168 Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.


She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath; 1172 And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death; She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.


"Poor flower," quoth she, "this was thy father's guise, Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire, For every little grief to wet his eyes, To grow unto himself was his desire, 1180 And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood.


"Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: 1184 Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."


Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 1189 And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies, In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; 1192 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.


Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2


Author: Edgar Allan Poe


Release date: April 1, 2000 [eBook #2148] Most recently updated: May 19, 2024


The Works of Edgar Allan Poe


The Raven Edition


[Redactor's Note—Some endnotes are by Poe and some were added by Griswold. In this volume the notes are at the end.]


At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisième, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Parisian police.


We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G.'s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.


"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark."


"That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities."


"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a comfortable chair.


"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?"


"Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd."


"Simple and odd," said Dupin.


"Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether."


"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault," said my friend.


"What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.


"Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin.


"Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?"


"A little too self-evident."


"Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!" roared our visitor, profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!"


"And what, after all, is the matter on hand?" I asked.


"Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. "I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any one."


"Proceed," said I.


"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession."


"How is this known?" asked Dupin.


"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's possession; that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it."


"Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.


"No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized."


"But this ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—"


"The thief," said G., "is the Minister D——, who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question—a letter, to be frank—had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister D——. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognises the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter—one of no importance—upon the table."


"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy complete—the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber."


"Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me."


"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined."


"You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained."


"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs."


"True," said G.; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design."


"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before."


"Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D—— Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed."


"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?"


"This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D—— is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document—its susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice—a point of nearly equal importance with its possession."


"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I.


"That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin.


"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of the question."


"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own inspection."


"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. "D——, I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course."


"Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool."


"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggrel myself."


"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search."


"Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a 'secret' drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops."


"Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way."


"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked.


"By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise."


"But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs?"


"Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the glueing—any unusual gaping in the joints—would have sufficed to insure detection."


"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as the curtains and carpets."


"That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before."


"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have had a great deal of trouble."


"We had; but the reward offered is prodigious!"


"You include the grounds about the houses?"


"All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed."


"You looked among D——'s papers, of course, and into the books of the library?"


"Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles."


"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?"


"Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope."


"And the paper on the walls?"


"You looked into the cellars?"


"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose."


"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do?"


"To make a thorough re-search of the premises."


"That is absolutely needless," replied G——. "I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel."


"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?"


"Oh yes!"—And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before.


In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said,—


"Well, but G——, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the Minister?"


"Confound him, say I—yes; I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested—but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be."


"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin.


"Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don't like to say how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done."


"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his meerschaum, "I really—think, G——, you have not exerted yourself—to the utmost in this matter. You might—do a little more, I think, eh?"


"How?—in what way?"


"Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, puff—employ counsel in the matter, eh?—puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy?"


"To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual.


"'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?'


"'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice, to be sure.'"


"But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "I am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter."


"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter."


I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.


When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.


"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G—— detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D——, I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation—so far as his labors extended."


"So far as his labors extended?" said I.


"Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it."


I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.


"The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, and well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of 'even and odd' attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed hand, asks, 'are they even or odd?' Our schoolboy replies, 'odd,' and loses; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself, 'the simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess odd;'—he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even;'—he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed 'lucky,'—what, in its last analysis, is it?"


"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent."


"It is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.' This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella."


"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured."


"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; "and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default of this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much—that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency—by some extraordinary reward—they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D——, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches—what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter,—not exactly in a gimlet hole bored in a chair-leg—but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also, that such recherchés nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché manner,—is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers; and where the case is of importance—or, what amounts to the same thing in the political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,—the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect's examination—in other words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect—its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are fools."


"But is this really the poet?" I asked. "There are two brothers, I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet."


"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect."


"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence."


"'Il y a à parièr,'" replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'que toute idée publique, toute convention reçue est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.' The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term 'analysis' into application to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular deception; but if a term is of any importance—if words derive any value from applicability—then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in Latin, 'ambitus' implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 'religion,' or 'homines honesti' a set of honorable men."


"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the algebraists of Paris; but proceed."


"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation—of form and quantity—is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applicability—as the world indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,' mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that 'although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities.' With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the 'Pagan fables' are believed, and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x2+px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x2+px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down.


"I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, "that if the Minister had been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I know him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate—and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G——, in fact, did finally arrive—the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of policial action in searches for articles concealed—I felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being so very self-evident."


"Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions."


"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertiæ, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of attention?"


"I have never given the matter a thought," I said.


"There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of town, river, state or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the Minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it.


"But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating ingenuity of D——; upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary search—the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.


"Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel. I found D—— at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being now alive—but that is only when nobody sees him.


"To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host.


"I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.


"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle—as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the D—— cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D——, the minister, himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.


"No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D—— cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S—— family. Here, the address, to the Minister, diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D——, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document—these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.


"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I maintained a most animated discussion with the Minister upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.


"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D—— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards externals,) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings—imitating the D—— cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread.


"The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D—— came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay."


"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly, and departed?"


"D——," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has now him in hers—since, being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy—at least no pity—for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain personage' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack."


"How? did you put any thing particular in it?"


"Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank—that would have been insulting. D——, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words—


They are to be found in Crébillon's 'Atrée.'"


Truth is stranger than fiction.—Old Saying


Having had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental investigations, to consult the Tellmenow Isitsöornot, a work which (like the Zohar of Simeon Jochaides) is scarcely known at all, even in Europe; and which has never been quoted, to my knowledge, by any American—if we except, perhaps, the author of the "Curiosities of American Literature";—having had occasion, I say, to turn over some pages of the first-mentioned very remarkable work, I was not a little astonished to discover that the literary world has hitherto been strangely in error respecting the fate of the vizier's daughter, Scheherazade, as that fate is depicted in the "Arabian Nights"; and that the dénouement there given, if not altogether inaccurate, as far as it goes, is at least to blame in not having gone very much farther.


For full information on this interesting topic, I must refer the inquisitive reader to the "Isitsöornot" itself; but in the meantime, I shall be pardoned for giving a summary of what I there discovered.


It will be remembered, that, in the usual version of the tales, a certain monarch having good cause to be jealous of his queen, not only puts her to death, but makes a vow, by his beard and the prophet, to espouse each night the most beautiful maiden in his dominions, and the next morning to deliver her up to the executioner.


Having fulfilled this vow for many years to the letter, and with a religious punctuality and method that conferred great credit upon him as a man of devout feeling and excellent sense, he was interrupted one afternoon (no doubt at his prayers) by a visit from his grand vizier, to whose daughter, it appears, there had occurred an idea.


Her name was Scheherazade, and her idea was, that she would either redeem the land from the depopulating tax upon its beauty, or perish, after the approved fashion of all heroines, in the attempt.


Accordingly, and although we do not find it to be leap-year (which makes the sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes her father, the grand vizier, to make an offer to the king of her hand. This hand the king eagerly accepts—(he had intended to take it at all events, and had put off the matter from day to day, only through fear of the vizier),—but, in accepting it now, he gives all parties very distinctly to understand, that, grand vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slightest design of giving up one iota of his vow or of his privileges. When, therefore, the fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the king, and did actually marry him despite her father's excellent advice not to do any thing of the kind—when she would and did marry him, I say, will I, nill I, it was with her beautiful black eyes as thoroughly open as the nature of the case would allow.


It seems, however, that this politic damsel (who had been reading Machiavelli, beyond doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in her mind. On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I forget what specious pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch sufficiently near that of the royal pair to admit of easy conversation from bed to bed; and, a little before cock-crowing, she took care to awaken the good monarch, her husband (who bore her none the worse will because he intended to wring her neck on the morrow),—she managed to awaken him, I say, (although on account of a capital conscience and an easy digestion, he slept well) by the profound interest of a story (about a rat and a black cat, I think) which she was narrating (all in an undertone, of course) to her sister. When the day broke, it so happened that this history was not altogether finished, and that Scheherazade, in the nature of things could not finish it just then, since it was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung—a thing very little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel!


The king's curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say, even over his sound religious principles, induced him for this once to postpone the fulfilment of his vow until next morning, for the purpose and with the hope of hearing that night how it fared in the end with the black cat (a black cat, I think it was) and the rat.


The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only put the finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat was blue) but before she well knew what she was about, found herself deep in the intricacies of a narration, having reference (if I am not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse (with green wings) that went, in a violent manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indigo key. With this history the king was even more profoundly interested than with the other—and, as the day broke before its conclusion (notwithstanding all the queen's endeavors to get through with it in time for the bowstringing), there was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as before, for twenty-four hours. The next night there happened a similar accident with a similar result; and then the next—and then again the next; so that, in the end, the good monarch, having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to keep his vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one nights, either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time, or gets himself absolved of it in the regular way, or (what is more probable) breaks it outright, as well as the head of his father confessor. At all events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally descended from Eve, fell heir, perhaps, to the whole seven baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all know, picked up from under the trees in the garden of Eden; Scheherazade, I say, finally triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.


Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it upon record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant—but alas! like a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than true, and I am indebted altogether to the "Isitsöornot" for the means of correcting the error. "Le mieux," says a French proverb, "est l'ennemi du bien," and, in mentioning that Scheherazade had inherited the seven baskets of talk, I should have added that she put them out at compound interest until they amounted to seventy-seven.


"My dear sister," said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I quote the language of the "Isitsöornot" at this point, verbatim) "my dear sister," said she, "now that all this little difficulty about the bowstring has blown over, and that this odious tax is so happily repealed, I feel that I have been guilty of great indiscretion in withholding from you and the king (who I am sorry to say, snores—a thing no gentleman would do) the full conclusion of Sinbad the sailor. This person went through numerous other and more interesting adventures than those which I related; but the truth is, I felt sleepy on the particular night of their narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short—a grievous piece of misconduct, for which I only trust that Allah will forgive me. But even yet it is not too late to remedy my great neglect—and as soon as I have given the king a pinch or two in order to wake him up so far that he may stop making that horrible noise, I will forthwith entertain you (and him if he pleases) with the sequel of this very remarkable story."


Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, as I have it from the "Isitsöornot," expressed no very particular intensity of gratification; but the king, having been sufficiently pinched, at length ceased snoring, and finally said, "Hum!" and then "Hoo!" when the queen, understanding these words (which are no doubt Arabic) to signify that he was all attention, and would do his best not to snore any more—the queen, I say, having arranged these matters to her satisfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into the history of Sinbad the sailor:


"'At length, in my old age,' [these are the words of Sinbad himself, as retailed by Scheherazade]—'at length, in my old age, and after enjoying many years of tranquillity at home, I became once more possessed of a desire of visiting foreign countries; and one day, without acquainting any of my family with my design, I packed up some bundles of such merchandise as was most precious and least bulky, and, engaging a porter to carry them, went with him down to the sea-shore, to await the arrival of any chance vessel that might convey me out of the kingdom into some region which I had not as yet explored.


"'Having deposited the packages upon the sands, we sat down beneath some trees, and looked out into the ocean in the hope of perceiving a ship, but during several hours we saw none whatever. At length I fancied that I could hear a singular buzzing or humming sound; and the porter, after listening awhile, declared that he also could distinguish it. Presently it grew louder, and then still louder, so that we could have no doubt that the object which caused it was approaching us. At length, on the edge of the horizon, we discovered a black speck, which rapidly increased in size until we made it out to be a vast monster, swimming with a great part of its body above the surface of the sea. It came toward us with inconceivable swiftness, throwing up huge waves of foam around its breast, and illuminating all that part of the sea through which it passed, with a long line of fire that extended far off into the distance.


"'As the thing drew near we saw it very distinctly. Its length was equal to that of three of the loftiest trees that grow, and it was as wide as the great hall of audience in your palace, O most sublime and munificent of the Caliphs. Its body, which was unlike that of ordinary fishes, was as solid as a rock, and of a jetty blackness throughout all that portion of it which floated above the water, with the exception of a narrow blood-red streak that completely begirdled it. The belly, which floated beneath the surface, and of which we could get only a glimpse now and then as the monster rose and fell with the billows, was entirely covered with metallic scales, of a color like that of the moon in misty weather. The back was flat and nearly white, and from it there extended upwards of six spines, about half the length of the whole body.


"'This horrible creature had no mouth that we could perceive; but, as if to make up for this deficiency, it was provided with at least four score of eyes, that protruded from their sockets like those of the green dragon-fly, and were arranged all around the body in two rows, one above the other, and parallel to the blood-red streak, which seemed to answer the purpose of an eyebrow. Two or three of these dreadful eyes were much larger than the others, and had the appearance of solid gold.


"'Although this beast approached us, as I have before said, with the greatest rapidity, it must have been moved altogether by necromancy—for it had neither fins like a fish nor web-feet like a duck, nor wings like the seashell which is blown along in the manner of a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself forward as do the eels. Its head and its tail were shaped precisely alike, only, not far from the latter, were two small holes that served for nostrils, and through which the monster puffed out its thick breath with prodigious violence, and with a shrieking, disagreeable noise.


"'Our terror at beholding this hideous thing was very great, but it was even surpassed by our astonishment, when upon getting a nearer look, we perceived upon the creature's back a vast number of animals about the size and shape of men, and altogether much resembling them, except that they wore no garments (as men do), being supplied (by nature, no doubt) with an ugly uncomfortable covering, a good deal like cloth, but fitting so tight to the skin, as to render the poor wretches laughably awkward, and put them apparently to severe pain. On the very tips of their heads were certain square-looking boxes, which, at first sight, I thought might have been intended to answer as turbans, but I soon discovered that they were excessively heavy and solid, and I therefore concluded they were contrivances designed, by their great weight, to keep the heads of the animals steady and safe upon their shoulders. Around the necks of the creatures were fastened black collars, (badges of servitude, no doubt,) such as we keep on our dogs, only much wider and infinitely stiffer, so that it was quite impossible for these poor victims to move their heads in any direction without moving the body at the same time; and thus they were doomed to perpetual contemplation of their noses—a view puggish and snubby in a wonderful, if not positively in an awful degree.


"'When the monster had nearly reached the shore where we stood, it suddenly pushed out one of its eyes to a great extent, and emitted from it a terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a dense cloud of smoke, and a noise that I can compare to nothing but thunder. As the smoke cleared away, we saw one of the odd man-animals standing near the head of the large beast with a trumpet in his hand, through which (putting it to his mouth) he presently addressed us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable accents, that, perhaps, we should have mistaken for language, had they not come altogether through the nose.


"'Being thus evidently spoken to, I was at a loss how to reply, as I could in no manner understand what was said; and in this difficulty I turned to the porter, who was near swooning through affright, and demanded of him his opinion as to what species of monster it was, what it wanted, and what kind of creatures those were that so swarmed upon its back. To this the porter replied, as well as he could for trepidation, that he had once before heard of this sea-beast; that it was a cruel demon, with bowels of sulphur and blood of fire, created by evil genii as the means of inflicting misery upon mankind; that the things upon its back were vermin, such as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only a little larger and more savage; and that these vermin had their uses, however evil—for, through the torture they caused the beast by their nibbling and stingings, it was goaded into that degree of wrath which was requisite to make it roar and commit ill, and so fulfil the vengeful and malicious designs of the wicked genii.