Chapter 25 (14)

That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would
result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly
lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely
permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was
demonstrated, that the density of the comet’s nucleus was far
less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a
similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point
strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror.
Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the
biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a
directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been
known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought
about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced every where conviction; and that the comets were of no
fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved
all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great
calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices
and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors which
were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet—were now
altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion,
reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The
feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.

What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of
elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological
disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and
consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic and electric
influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would
in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on,
their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent
diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as
it came. All human operations were suspended.

There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when
the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all
the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was
gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge
even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no
longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its
historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a
hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical
phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and
a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable
rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame,
extending from horizon to horizon.

Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear
that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we
lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity
of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was
apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through
it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we
gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight
of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown
before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.

Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was
now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change
had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild
signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of
pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and
an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that
our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this
atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be
subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of
investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror
through the universal heart of man.

It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a
compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of
twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in
every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the
principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely
necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most
powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the
contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or
flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we
had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of
the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a
total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,
all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;—the entire fulfilment,
in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy
Book.

Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of
mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired
us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In
its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the
consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away
with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid
modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously
through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all
men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening
heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the
destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I
speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and
penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before
the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a
shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM;
while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed,
burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose
surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the
high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.

SHADOW—A PARABLE

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow._
—_Psalm of David_.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall
have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For
indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known,
and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen
of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and
some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in
the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense
than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many
prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea
and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad.
To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown
that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek
Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the
alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at
the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the
red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the
skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only
in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations,
and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a
noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a
company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save
by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the
artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened
from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut
out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless
streets—but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be
so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can
render no distinct account—things material and
spiritual—heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense of
suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that terrible state of
existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly
living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie
dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs—upon
the household furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and
all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all things save
only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel.
Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus
remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror
which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which
we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own
countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way—which
was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are madness;
and drank deeply—although the purple wine reminded us of blood.
For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of
young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the
genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in
our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague,
and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment
as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to
die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed
were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the
bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the
depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice
the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they
ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable
draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and
so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the
sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and
undefined shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And
quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length
rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But
the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the
shadow neither of man nor of God—neither God of Greece, nor God
of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the
brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the
door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became
stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young
Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen
the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not
steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually
into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos,
speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and
its appellation. And the shadow answered, “I am SHADOW, and my
dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those
dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian
canal.” And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the
tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one
being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in
the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand
departed friends.

VOLUME 5.

PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.

In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their
residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little
sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France, _meliora probant,
deteriora _sequuntur—the people are too much a race of gadabouts
to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a
delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The
Chinese and most of the eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy.
The Scotch are _poor _decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an
indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are _all
_curtains—a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The
Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are
preposterous.

How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aristocracy of
blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable
thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the _display
of wealth _has here to take the place and perform the office of the
heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a transition readily
understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been
brought to merge in simple _show_ our notions of taste itself.

To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of
costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an
impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves—or
of taste as regards the proprietor:—this for the reason, first, that
wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting
a nobility; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood,
confining itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather
avoids than affects that mere costliness in which a _parvenu _rivalry
may at any time be successfully attempted.

The people _will _imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough
diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being
the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general,
to be the sole means of the aristocratic distinction; and the populace,
looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two
entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of
an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole
test of its merit in a decorative point of view—and this test, once
established, has led the way to many analogous errors, readily traceable
to the one primitive folly.

There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist
than the interior of what is termed in the United States—that is to
say, in Appallachia—a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual
defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would
of the keeping of a picture—for both the picture and the room are
amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of
art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits
of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.

A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several
pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation
to use _Very _often the eye is offended by their inartistic
arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent—too uninterruptedly
continued—or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines
occur, they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision,
the appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.

Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other
decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place; and an
extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstance,
irreconcilable with good taste—the proper quantum, as well as the
proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect.

Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still
very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the
apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the
forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary
man; a good judge of a carpet _must be _a genius. Yet we have heard
discoursing of carpets, with the air “_d’un mouton qui reve,” _fellows
who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of their
own _moustaches. _Every one knows that a large floor _may _have
a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of
small—yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards
texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preterpluperfect
tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching
pattern—a carpet should _not _be bedizzened out like a Riccaree
Indian—all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock’s feathers. In brief—distinct
grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, _of no meaning, _are
here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of
well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of
Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or
ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be rigidly
Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth & still occasionally seen
in the dwellings of the rabble—cloths of huge, sprawling, and
radiating devises, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among
which no ground is intelligible—these are but the wicked invention
of a race of time-servers and money-lovers—children of Baal and
worshippers of Mammon—Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize
fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established
joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.

_Glare_ is a leading error in the philosophy of American household
decoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion
of taste just specified., We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass.
The former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady
light offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or
what artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do
wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely
thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass
shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is
a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted
it, partly on account of its _flashiness,_ but principally on account
of its _greater rest,_ is a good commentary on the proposition with
which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of
a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly
subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of
these gaudy abominations is unequal broken, and painful. It alone is
sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its
influence. Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half
disenchanted beneath its evil eye.

In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its
leading feature is _glitter—_and in that one word how much of
all that is detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are _sometimes
_pleasing—to children and idiots always so—but in the
embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth,
even strong _steady _lights are inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning
glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle
in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of
all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.

The rage for _glitter-_because its idea has become as we before
observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract—has
led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our
dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine
thing. Now the slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one
who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and
especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror
presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,—a thing
always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent
in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here
aggravated, not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of its
sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four
or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show,
a room of no shape at all. If we add to this evil, the attendant glitter
upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing
effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened,
would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be
altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the
same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be
startled into an exclamation of pleasure and surprise.

It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man
of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The
corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture.
As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among _our
_aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia), for the
spirituality of a British _boudoir. _But we have seen apartments in
the tenure of Americans of moderns [possibly “modest” or “moderate”]
means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the _or-molu’d
_cabinets of our friends across the water. Even _now_, there is
present to our mind’s eye a small and not, ostentatious chamber with whose
decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa—the
weather is cool—the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of
the room during his slumber.

It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth—a
shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of
furniture. It has but one door—by no means a wide one—which is
at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the
other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor—have deep
recesses—and open on an Italian _veranda. _Their panes are of a
crimson-tinted glass, set in rose-wood framings, more massive than usual.
They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to
the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the
recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a
deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which is the material
of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the whole
fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy appearance),
issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles
the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown
open also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping
it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such
devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains and their fringe—the
tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere in profusion, and
determine the _character _of the room. The carpet—of Saxony
material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson
ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that
festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the _ground,
_and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a succession of short
irregular curves—one occasionally overlaying the other. The walls
are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small
Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many
paintings relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an
imaginative cast—such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the
lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or
four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits in the manner of Sully.
The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no “brilliant
effects.” _Repose _speaks in all. Not one is of small size.
Diminutive paintings give that _spotty _look to a room, which is the
blemish of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad
but not deep, and richly carved, without being _dulled _or filagreed.
They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls,
and do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to
better advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of
the chamber is injured. But one mirror—and this not a very large one—is
visible. In shape it is nearly circular—and it is hung so that a
reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary
sitting-places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson
silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two light
conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood,
also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed
altogether of the richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near one of the
sofas. This is also without cover—the drapery of the curtains has
been thought sufficient.. Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which
bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded
angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with
highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some
light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk
cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred magnificently bound
books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand
lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from
He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a
tranquil but magical radiance over all.

A TALE OF JERUSALEM

Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos
Passus erat——
—Lucan—_De Catone_

——a bristly _bore_.
_Translation._

“Let us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and Simeon
the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of the
world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one—“let us hasten to the
ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David,
and overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of
the fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the
promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the
sacrifices.”

Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or
sub-collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.

“Verily,” replied the Pharisee; “let us hasten: for this generosity in the
heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of
the worshippers of Baal.”

“That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the
Pentateuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that is only toward the people of
Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to their
own interests? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us
lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver
shekels per head!”

“Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that the
Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the Most High,
has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar,
to the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit.”

“Now, by the five corners of my beard!” shouted the Pharisee, who belonged
to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner of
_dashing _and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a
thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees—a stumbling-block to less
gifted perambulators)—“by the five corners of that beard which, as a
priest, I am forbidden to shave!—have we lived to see the day when a
blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of
appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated
elements? Have we lived to see the day when—”

“Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,” interrupted
Abel-Phittim, “for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or
by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings
should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not
extinguish, and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.”

That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and which
bore the name of its architect, King David, was esteemed the most strongly
fortified district of Jerusalem; being situated upon the steep and lofty
hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from the
solid rock, was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its
inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square
towers of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred and
twenty cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin, the
wall arose by no means from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary,
between the level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart sprang up a
perpendicular cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the
precipitous Mount Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived
on the summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the
turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the
besieging army—they looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an
eminence excelling by many feet that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by
several, that of the temple of Belus.

“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice,
“the uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore—as the locusts in the
wilderness! The valley of the King hath become the valley of Adommin.”

“And yet,” added Ben-Levi, “thou canst not point me out a Philistine—no,
not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the wilderness to the battlements—who
seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!”

“Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!” here shouted a Roman
soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the regions
of Pluto—“lower away the basket with the accursed coin which it has
broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince your
gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought
fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The god Phœbus, who is a
true god, has been charioted for an hour—and were you not to be on the
ramparts by sunrise? Ædepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the
world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every
kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say—and
see that your trumpery be bright in color and just in weight!”

“El Elohim!” ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the
centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against
the temple—“El Elohim!—who is the god Phœbus?—whom doth
the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of
the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!—is
it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?—or Ashimah?—or
Nibhaz,—or Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or
Succoth-Benith?—or Dagon?—or Belial?—or Baal-Perith?—or
Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?”

“Verily it is neither—but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too
rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on
the projection of yonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the
holy things of the sanctuary.”

By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the heavily laden
basket was now carefully lowered down among the multitude; and, from the
giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen gathering confusedly round it; but
owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of
their operations could be obtained.

Half an hour had already elapsed.

“We shall be too late!” sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration of this
period he looked over into the abyss—“we shall be too late! we shall be
turned out of office by the Katholim.”

“No more,” responded Abel-Phittim—“no more shall we feast upon the
fat of the land—no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense—our
loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple.”

“Raca!” swore Ben-Levi, “Raca! do they mean to defraud us of the purchase
money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?”

“They have given the signal at last!” cried the Pharisee—“they
have given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!—and thou,
Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either
still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to
place therein a beast of good weight!” And the Gizbarim pulled away, while
their burden swung heavily upward through the still increasing mist.

“Booshoh he!”—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the
extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—“Booshoh he!” was
the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.

“Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of
Engedi, and as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!”

“It is a firstling of the flock,” said Abel-Phittim, “I know him by the
bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are
more beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral, and his flesh is like the
honey of Hebron.”

“It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,” said the Pharisee, “the
heathen have dealt wonderfully with us——let us raise up our
voices in a psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm and on the
psaltery—on the harp and on the huggab—on the cythern and on the sackbut!”

It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the Gizbarim
that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a _hog_ of no common size.

“Now El Emanu!” slowly and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as,
letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the
Philistines, “El Emanu!—God be with us—it is _the unutterable
flesh!”_

THE SPHINX

During the dread reign of the cholera in New York, I had accepted the
invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement
of his _cottage ornée_ on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around
us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in
the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we
should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful
intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a
day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some
acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily
the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every
messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death.
That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of my soul. I could
neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less
excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted
himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at
any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was
sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which
I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which
I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into
germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my
bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he
was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been
made upon my fancy.

A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens—a belief
which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to
defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions—he
maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,—I
contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute
spontaneity—that is to say, without apparent traces of
suggestion—had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and
was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the
idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.

The fact is, that soon after my arrival at the cottage there had occurred
to myself an incident so entirely inexplicable, and which had in it so
much of the portentous character, that I might well have been excused for
regarding it as an omen. It appalled, and at the same time so confounded
and bewildered me, that many days elapsed before I could make up my mind
to communicate the circumstances to my friend.

Near the close of exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, at an
open window, commanding, through a long vista of the river banks, a view
of a distant hill, the face of which nearest my position had been denuded
by what is termed a land-slide, of the principal portion of its trees. My
thoughts had been long wandering from the volume before me to the gloom
and desolation of the neighboring city. Uplifting my eyes from the page,
they fell upon the naked face of the bill, and upon an object—upon
some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly made its
way from the summit to the bottom, disappearing finally in the dense
forest below. As this creature first came in sight, I doubted my own
sanity—or at least the evidence of my own eyes; and many minutes
passed before I succeeded in convincing myself that I was neither mad nor
in a dream. Yet when I described the monster (which I distinctly saw, and
calmly surveyed through the whole period of its progress), my readers, I
fear, will feel more difficulty in being convinced of these points than
even I did myself.

Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the diameter of the
large trees near which it passed—the few giants of the forest which
had escaped the fury of the land-slide—I concluded it to be far
larger than any ship of the line in existence. I say ship of the line,
because the shape of the monster suggested the idea—the hull of one
of our seventy-four might convey a very tolerable conception of the
general outline. The mouth of the animal was situated at the extremity of
a proboscis some sixty or seventy feet in length, and about as thick as
the body of an ordinary elephant. Near the root of this trunk was an
immense quantity of black shaggy hair—more than could have been
supplied by the coats of a score of buffaloes; and projecting from this
hair downwardly and laterally, sprang two gleaming tusks not unlike those
of the wild boar, but of infinitely greater dimensions. Extending forward,
parallel with the proboscis, and on each side of it, was a gigantic staff,
thirty or forty feet in length, formed seemingly of pure crystal and in
shape a perfect prism,—it reflected in the most gorgeous manner the
rays of the declining sun. The trunk was fashioned like a wedge with the
apex to the earth. From it there were outspread two pairs of wings—each
wing nearly one hundred yards in length—one pair being placed above
the other, and all thickly covered with metal scales; each scale
apparently some ten or twelve feet in diameter. I observed that the upper
and lower tiers of wings were connected by a strong chain. But the chief
peculiarity of this horrible thing was the representation of a Death’s
Head, which covered nearly the whole surface of its breast, and which was
as accurately traced in glaring white, upon the dark ground of the body,
as if it had been there carefully designed by an artist. While I regarded
the terrific animal, and more especially the appearance on its breast,
with a feeling or horror and awe—with a sentiment of forthcoming
evil, which I found it impossible to quell by any effort of the reason, I
perceived the huge jaws at the extremity of the proboscis suddenly expand
themselves, and from them there proceeded a sound so loud and so
expressive of woe, that it struck upon my nerves like a knell and as the
monster disappeared at the foot of the hill, I fell at once, fainting, to
the floor.

Upon recovering, my first impulse, of course, was to inform my friend of
what I had seen and heard—and I can scarcely explain what feeling of
repugnance it was which, in the end, operated to prevent me.

At length, one evening, some three or four days after the occurrence, we
were sitting together in the room in which I had seen the apparition—I
occupying the same seat at the same window, and he lounging on a sofa near
at hand. The association of the place and time impelled me to give him an
account of the phenomenon. He heard me to the end—at first laughed
heartily—and then lapsed into an excessively grave demeanor, as if
my insanity was a thing beyond suspicion. At this instant I again had a
distinct view of the monster—to which, with a shout of absolute
terror, I now directed his attention. He looked eagerly—but
maintained that he saw nothing—although I designated minutely the
course of the creature, as it made its way down the naked face of the
hill.

I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision either as an
omen of my death, or, worse, as the fore-runner of an attack of mania. I
threw myself passionately back in my chair, and for some moments buried my
face in my hands. When I uncovered my eyes, the apparition was no longer
apparent.

My host, however, had in some degree resumed the calmness of his demeanor,
and questioned me very rigorously in respect to the conformation of the
visionary creature. When I had fully satisfied him on this head, he sighed
deeply, as if relieved of some intolerable burden, and went on to talk,
with what I thought a cruel calmness, of various points of speculative
philosophy, which had heretofore formed subject of discussion between us.
I remember his insisting very especially (among other things) upon the
idea that the principle source of error in all human investigations lay in
the liability of the understanding to under-rate or to over-value the
importance of an object, through mere misadmeasurement of its
propinquity. “To estimate properly, for example,” he said, “the influence
to be exercised on mankind at large by the thorough diffusion of
Democracy, the distance of the epoch at which such diffusion may possibly
be accomplished should not fail to form an item in the estimate. Yet can
you tell me one writer on the subject of government who has ever thought
this particular branch of the subject worthy of discussion at all?”

He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and brought forth one
of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. Requesting me then to
exchange seats with him, that he might the better distinguish the fine
print of the volume, he took my armchair at the window, and, opening the
book, resumed his discourse very much in the same tone as before.

“But for your exceeding minuteness,” he said, “in describing the monster,
I might never have had it in my power to demonstrate to you what it was.
In the first place, let me read to you a schoolboy account of the genus
Sphinx, of the family Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera, of the class
of Insecta—or insects. The account runs thus:

“‘Four membranous wings covered with little colored scales of metallic
appearance; mouth forming a rolled proboscis, produced by an elongation of
the jaws, upon the sides of which are found the rudiments of mandibles and
downy palpi; the inferior wings retained to the superior by a stiff hair;
antennæ in the form of an elongated club, prismatic; abdomen pointed. The
Death’s-headed Sphinx has occasioned much terror among the vulgar,
at times, by the melancholy kind of cry which it utters, and the insignia
of death which it wears upon its corslet.’”

He here closed the book and leaned forward in the chair, placing himself
accurately in the position which I had occupied at the moment of beholding
“the monster.”

“Ah, here it is,” he presently exclaimed—“it is reascending the face
of the hill, and a very remarkable looking creature I admit it to be.
Still, it is by no means so large or so distant as you imagined it,—for
the fact is that, as it wriggles its way up this thread, which some spider
has wrought along the window-sash, I find it to be about the sixteenth of
an inch in its extreme length, and also about the sixteenth of an inch
distant from the pupil of my eye.”

HOP-FROG

I never knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He seemed
to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke kind, and to
tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus it happened that his
seven ministers were all noted for their accomplishments as jokers. They
all took after the king, too, in being large, corpulent, oily men, as well
as inimitable jokers. Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there
is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been
quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara
avis in terris.

About the refinements, or, as he called them, the “ghost” of wit, the king
troubled himself very little. He had an especial admiration for breadth in
a jest, and would often put up with length, for the sake of it.
Over-niceties wearied him. He would have preferred Rabelais’ “Gargantua”
to the “Zadig” of Voltaire: and, upon the whole, practical jokes suited
his taste far better than verbal ones.

At the date of my narrative, professing jesters had not altogether gone
out of fashion at court. Several of the great continental “powers” still
retain their “fools,” who wore motley, with caps and bells, and who were
expected to be always ready with sharp witticisms, at a moment’s notice,
in consideration of the crumbs that fell from the royal table.

_Our_ king, as a matter of course, retained his “fool.” The fact is, he
_required_ something in the way of folly—if only to counterbalance the
heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were his ministers—not to
mention himself.

His fool, or professional jester, was not only a fool, however. His value
was trebled in the eyes of the king, by the fact of his being also a dwarf
and a cripple. Dwarfs were as common at court, in those days, as fools;
and many monarchs would have found it difficult to get through their days
(days are rather longer at court than elsewhere) without both a jester to
laugh with, and a dwarf to laugh at. But, as I have already observed, your
jesters, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are fat, round, and
unwieldy—so that it was no small source of self-gratulation with our
king that, in Hop-Frog (this was the fool’s name), he possessed a
triplicate treasure in one person.

I believe the name “Hop-Frog” was _not_ that given to the dwarf by his
sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of
the seven ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men
do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional
gait—something between a leap and a wriggle—a movement that
afforded illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king,
for (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional
swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a
capital figure.

But although Hop-Frog, through the distortion of his legs, could move only
with great pain and difficulty along a road or floor, the prodigious
muscular power which nature seemed to have bestowed upon his arms, by way
of compensation for deficiency in the lower limbs, enabled him to perform
many feats of wonderful dexterity, where trees or ropes were in question,
or any thing else to climb. At such exercises he certainly much more
resembled a squirrel, or a small monkey, than a frog.

I am not able to say, with precision, from what country Hop-Frog
originally came. It was from some barbarous region, however, that no
person ever heard of—a vast distance from the court of our king.
Hop-Frog, and a young girl very little less dwarfish than himself
(although of exquisite proportions, and a marvellous dancer), had been
forcibly carried off from their respective homes in adjoining provinces,
and sent as presents to the king, by one of his ever-victorious generals.

Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a close
intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed, they soon became
sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made a great deal of sport, was
by no means popular, had it not in his power to render Trippetta many
services; but she, on account of her grace and exquisite beauty (although
a dwarf), was universally admired and petted; so she possessed much
influence; and never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit
of Hop-Frog.

On some grand state occasion—I forgot what—the king determined
to have a masquerade, and whenever a masquerade or any thing of that kind,
occurred at our court, then the talents, both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta
were sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, in especial, was so inventive
in the way of getting up pageants, suggesting novel characters, and
arranging costumes, for masked balls, that nothing could be done, it
seems, without his assistance.

The night appointed for the fete had arrived. A gorgeous hall had been
fitted up, under Trippetta’s eye, with every kind of device which could
possibly give eclat to a masquerade. The whole court was in a fever of
expectation. As for costumes and characters, it might well be supposed
that everybody had come to a decision on such points. Many had made up
their minds (as to what roles they should assume) a week, or even a month,
in advance; and, in fact, there was not a particle of indecision anywhere—except
in the case of the king and his seven minsters. Why they hesitated I never
could tell, unless they did it by way of a joke. More probably, they found
it difficult, on account of being so fat, to make up their minds. At all
events, time flew; and, as a last resort they sent for Trippetta and
Hop-Frog.

When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they found him
sitting at his wine with the seven members of his cabinet council; but the
monarch appeared to be in a very ill humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was not
fond of wine, for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and
madness is no comfortable feeling. But the king loved his practical jokes,
and took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it)
“to be merry.”

“Come here, Hop-Frog,” said he, as the jester and his friend entered the
room; “swallow this bumper to the health of your absent friends, [here
Hop-Frog sighed,] and then let us have the benefit of your invention. We
want characters—characters, man—something novel—out of
the way. We are wearied with this everlasting sameness. Come, drink! the
wine will brighten your wits.”

Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to these advances
from the king; but the effort was too much. It happened to be the poor
dwarf’s birthday, and the command to drink to his “absent friends” forced
the tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter drops fell into the goblet as he
took it, humbly, from the hand of the tyrant.

“Ah! ha! ha! ha!” roared the latter, as the dwarf reluctantly
drained the beaker. “See what a glass of good wine can do! Why,
your eyes are shining already!”

Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the effect of
wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than instantaneous. He
placed the goblet nervously on the table, and looked round upon the
company with a half-insane stare. They all seemed highly amused at
the success of the king’s ‘joke.’

“And now to business,” said the prime minister, a very fat man.

“Yes,” said the King; “Come, Hop-Frog, lend us your
assistance. Characters, my fine fellow; we stand in need of
characters—all of us—ha! ha! ha!” and as this was
seriously meant for a joke, his laugh was chorused by the seven.

Hop-Frog also laughed, although feebly and somewhat vacantly.

“Come, come,” said the king, impatiently, “have you nothing to suggest?”

“I am endeavoring to think of something novel,” replied the dwarf,
abstractedly, for he was quite bewildered by the wine.