incumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter.
"I found myself at the foot of a high mountain, and looking down into
a vast plain, through which wound a majestic river. On the margin of
this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such as we read of in the
Arabian Tales, but of a character even more singular than any there
described. From my position, which was far above the level of the
town, I could perceive its every nook and corner, as if delineated on
a map. The streets seemed innumerable, and crossed each other
irregularly in all directions, but were rather long winding alleys
than streets, and absolutely swarmed with inhabitants. The houses
were wildly picturesque. On every hand was a wilderness of balconies,
of verandas, of minarets, of shrines, and fantastically carved
oriels. Bazaars abounded; and in these were displayed rich wares in
infinite variety and profusion -- silks, muslins, the most dazzling
cutlery, the most magnificent jewels and gems. Besides these things,
were seen, on all sides, banners and palanquins, litters with stately
dames close veiled, elephants gorgeously caparisoned, idols
grotesquely hewn, drums, banners, and gongs, spears, silver and
gilded maces. And amid the crowd, and the clamor, and the general
intricacy and confusion- amid the million of black and yellow men,
turbaned and robed, and of flowing beard, there roamed a countless
multitude of holy filleted bulls, while vast legions of the filthy
but sacred ape clambered, chattering and shrieking, about the
cornices of the mosques, or clung to the minarets and oriels. From
the swarming streets to the banks of the river, there descended
innumerable flights of steps leading to bathing places, while the
river itself seemed to force a passage with difficulty through the
vast fleets of deeply -- burthened ships that far and wide
encountered its surface. Beyond the limits of the city arose, in
frequent majestic groups, the palm and the cocoa, with other gigantic
and weird trees of vast age, and here and there might be seen a field
of rice, the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, a stray temple, a
gypsy camp, or a solitary graceful maiden taking her way, with a
pitcher upon her head, to the banks of the magnificent river.
"You will say now, of course, that I dreamed; but not so. What I saw
-- what I heard -- what I felt -- what I thought -- had about it
nothing of the unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream. All was
rigorously self-consistent. At first, doubting that I was really
awake, I entered into a series of tests, which soon convinced me that
I really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in the dream, suspects that
he dreams, the suspicion never fails to confirm itself, and the
sleeper is almost immediately aroused. Thus Novalis errs not in
saying that 'we are near waking when we dream that we dream.' Had the
vision occurred to me as I describe it, without my suspecting it as a
dream, then a dream it might absolutely have been, but, occurring as
it did, and suspected and tested as it was, I am forced to class it
among other phenomena."
"In this I am not sure that you are wrong," observed Dr. Templeton,
"but proceed. You arose and descended into the city."
"I arose," continued Bedloe, regarding the Doctor with an air of
profound astonishment "I arose, as you say, and descended into the
city. On my way I fell in with an immense populace, crowding through
every avenue, all in the same direction, and exhibiting in every
action the wildest excitement. Very suddenly, and by some
inconceivable impulse, I became intensely imbued with personal
interest in what was going on. I seemed to feel that I had an
important part to play, without exactly understanding what it was.
Against the crowd which environed me, however, I experienced a deep
sentiment of animosity. I shrank from amid them, and, swiftly, by a
circuitous path, reached and entered the city. Here all was the
wildest tumult and contention. A small party of men, clad in garments
half-Indian, half-European, and officered by gentlemen in a uniform
partly British, were engaged, at great odds, with the swarming rabble
of the alleys. I joined the weaker party, arming myself with the
weapons of a fallen officer, and fighting I knew not whom with the
nervous ferocity of despair. We were soon overpowered by numbers, and
driven to seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here we barricaded
ourselves, and, for the present were secure. From a loop-hole near
the summit of the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious
agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay palace that overhung the
river. Presently, from an upper window of this place, there descended
an effeminate-looking person, by means of a string made of the
turbans of his attendants. A boat was at hand, in which he escaped to
the opposite bank of the river.
"And now a new object took possession of my soul. I spoke a few
hurried but energetic words to my companions, and, having succeeded
in gaining over a few of them to my purpose made a frantic sally from
the kiosk. We rushed amid the crowd that surrounded it. They
retreated, at first, before us. They rallied, fought madly, and
retreated again. In the mean time we were borne far from the kiosk,
and became bewildered and entangled among the narrow streets of tall,
overhanging houses, into the recesses of which the sun had never been
able to shine. The rabble pressed impetuously upon us, harrassing us
with their spears, and overwhelming us with flights of arrows. These
latter were very remarkable, and resembled in some respects the
writhing creese of the Malay. They were made to imitate the body of a
creeping serpent, and were long and black, with a poisoned barb. One
of them struck me upon the right temple. I reeled and fell. An
instantaneous and dreadful sickness seized me. I struggled -- I
gasped -- I died." "You will hardly persist now," said I smiling,
"that the whole of your adventure was not a dream. You are not
prepared to maintain that you are dead?"
When I said these words, I of course expected some lively sally from
Bedloe in reply, but, to my astonishment, he hesitated, trembled,
became fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I looked toward
Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in his chair -- his teeth
chattered, and his eyes were starting from their sockets. "Proceed!"
he at length said hoarsely to Bedloe.
"For many minutes," continued the latter, "my sole sentiment -- my
sole feeling -- was that of darkness and nonentity, with the
consciousness of death. At length there seemed to pass a violent and
sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it came the
sense of elasticity and of light. This latter I felt -- not saw. In
an instant I seemed to rise from the ground. But I had no bodily, no
visible, audible, or palpable presence. The crowd had departed. The
tumult had ceased. The city was in comparative repose. Beneath me lay
my corpse, with the arrow in my temple, the whole head greatly
&
nbsp; swollen and disfigured. But all these things I felt -- not saw. I
took interest in nothing. Even the corpse seemed a matter in which I
had no concern. Volition I had none, but appeared to be impelled into
motion, and flitted buoyantly out of the city, retracing the
circuitous path by which I had entered it. When I had attained that
point of the ravine in the mountains at which I had encountered the
hyena, I again experienced a shock as of a galvanic battery, the
sense of weight, of volition, of substance, returned. I became my
original self, and bent my steps eagerly homeward -- but the past had
not lost the vividness of the real -- and not now, even for an
instant, can I compel my understanding to regard it as a dream."
"Nor was it," said Templeton, with an air of deep solemnity, "yet it
would be difficult to say how otherwise it should be termed. Let us
suppose only, that the soul of the man of to-day is upon the verge of
some stupendous psychal discoveries. Let us content ourselves with
this supposition. For the rest I have some explanation to make. Here
is a watercolor drawing, which I should have shown you before, but
which an unaccountable sentiment of horror has hitherto prevented me
from showing."
We looked at the picture which he presented. I saw nothing in it of
an extraordinary character, but its effect upon Bedloe was
prodigious. He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet it was but a
miniature portrait -- a miraculously accurate one, to be sure -- of
his own very remarkable features. At least this was my thought as I
regarded it.
"You will perceive," said Templeton, "the date of this picture -- it
is here, scarcely visible, in this corner -- 1780. In this year was
the portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend -- a Mr.
Oldeb -- to whom I became much attached at Calcutta, during the
administration of Warren Hastings. I was then only twenty years old.
When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Saratoga, it was the miraculous
similarity which existed between yourself and the painting which
induced me to accost you, to seek your friendship, and to bring about
those arrangements which resulted in my becoming your constant
companion. In accomplishing this point, I was urged partly, and
perhaps principally, by a regretful memory of the deceased, but also,
in part, by an uneasy, and not altogether horrorless curiosity
respecting yourself.
"In your detail of the vision which presented itself to you amid the
hills, you have described, with the minutest accuracy, the Indian
city of Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the combat, the
massacre, were the actual events of the insurrection of Cheyte Sing,
which took place in 1780, when Hastings was put in imminent peril of
his life. The man escaping by the string of turbans was Cheyte Sing
himself. The party in the kiosk were sepoys and British officers,
headed by Hastings. Of this party I was one, and did all I could to
prevent the rash and fatal sally of the officer who fell, in the
crowded alleys, by the poisoned arrow of a Bengalee. That officer was
my dearest friend. It was Oldeb. You will perceive by these
manuscripts," (here the speaker produced a note-book in which several
pages appeared to have been freshly written,) "that at the very
period in which you fancied these things amid the hills, I was
engaged in detailing them upon paper here at home."
In about a week after this conversation, the following paragraphs
appeared in a Charlottesville paper:
"We have the painful duty of announcing the death of Mr. Augustus
Bedlo, a gentleman whose amiable manners and many virtues have long
endeared him to the citizens of Charlottesville.
"Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to neuralgia, which
has often threatened to terminate fatally; but this can be regarded
only as the mediate cause of his decease. The proximate cause was one
of especial singularity. In an excursion to the Ragged Mountains, a
few days since, a slight cold and fever were contracted, attended
with great determination of blood to the head. To relieve this, Dr.
Templeton resorted to topical bleeding. Leeches were applied to the
temples. In a fearfully brief period the patient died, when it
appeared that in the jar containing the leeches, had been introduced,
by accident, one of the venomous vermicular sangsues which are now
and then found in the neighboring ponds. This creature fastened
itself upon a small artery in the right temple. Its close resemblance
to the medicinal leech caused the mistake to be overlooked until too
late.
"N. B. The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville may always be
distinguished from the medicinal leech by its blackness, and
especially by its writhing or vermicular motions, which very nearly
resemble those of a snake."
I was speaking with the editor of the paper in question, upon the
topic of this remarkable accident, when it occurred to me to ask how
it happened that the name of the deceased had been given as Bedlo.
"I presume," I said, "you have authority for this spelling, but I
have always supposed the name to be written with an e at the end."
"Authority? -- no," he replied. "It is a mere typographical error.
The name is Bedlo with an e, all the world over, and I never knew it
to be spelt otherwise in my life."
"Then," said I mutteringly, as I turned upon my heel, "then indeed
has it come to pass that one truth is stranger than any fiction --
for Bedloe, without the e, what is it but Oldeb conversed! And this
man tells me that it is a typographical error."
~~~ End of Text ~~~
======
THE SPECTACLES
MANY years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of "love at
first sight;" but those who think, not less than those who feel
deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern discoveries,
indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or magnetoesthetics,
render it probable that the most natural, and, consequently, the
truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise
in the heart as if by electric sympathy -- in a word, that the
brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters are those which
are riveted by a glance. The confession I am about to make will add
another to the already almost innumerable instances of the truth of
the position.
My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am still a very
young man -- not yet twenty-two years of age. My name, at present, is
a very usual and rather plebeian one -- Simpson. I say "at present;"
for it is only lately that I have been so called -- having
legislatively adopted this surname within the last year in order to
receive a large inheritance left me by a distant male relative,
Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was conditioned upon my taking the
name of the testator, -- the family, not the Christian name; my
Christian name is Napoleon Bonaparte -- or, more properly, these are
my first and middle appellations.
I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my true
patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride -- believing that
I could trace a descent from the immortal author of the "Chronicles."
While on the subject of names, by the bye, I may mention a singular
coincidence of sound attending the names of some of my immediate
predecessors. My father was a Monsieur Froissart, of Paris. His wife
-- my mother, whom he married at fifteen -- was a Mademoiselle
Croissart, eldest daughter of Croissart the banker, whose wife,
again, being only sixteen when married, was the eldest daughter of
one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Voissart, very singularly, had married
a lady of similar name -- a Mademoiselle Moissart. She, too, was
quite a child when married; and her mother, also, Madame Moissart,
was only fourteen when led to the altar. These early marriages are
usual in France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart,
and Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My own name,
though, as I say, became Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so
much repugnance on my part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated
about accepting the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso
attached.
As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On the
contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine tenths
of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am five feet
eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is sufficiently good.
My eyes are large and gray; and although, in fact they are weak a
very inconvenient degree, still no defect in this regard would be
suspected from their appearance. The weakness itself, however, has
always much annoyed me, and I have resorted to every remedy -- short
of wearing glasses. Being youthful and good-looking, I naturally
dislike these, and have resolutely refused to employ them. I know
nothing, indeed, which so disfigures the countenance of a young
person, or so impresses every feature with an air of demureness, if
Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe Page 105