Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe
Page 113
given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric handkerchief
which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his swallow-tailed coat.
But what mainly occasioned a righteous indignation was, that the
scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a fandango here, and a whirligig
there, did not seem to have the remotest idea in the world of such a
thing as keeping time in his steps.
The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to get
their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a minute of
noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the midst of them;
gave a chassez here, and a balancez there; and then, after a
pirouette and a pas-de-zephyr, pigeon-winged himself right up into
the belfry of the House of the Town Council, where the
wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a state of dignity and
dismay. But the little chap seized him at once by the nose; gave it a
swing and a pull; clapped the big chapeau de-bras upon his head;
knocked it down over his eyes and mouth; and then, lifting up the big
fiddle, beat him with it so long and so soundly, that what with the
belfry-man being so fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would
have sworn that there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all
beating the devil's tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.
There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for the
important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon. The
bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his watch.
It was evident, however, that just at this moment the fellow in the
steeple was doing something that he had no business to do with the
clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had any time to attend
to his manoeuvres, for they had all to count the strokes of the bell
as it sounded.
"One!" said the clock.
"Von!" echoed every little old gentleman in every leather-bottomed
arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. "Von!" said his watch also; "von!"
said the watch of his vrow; and "von!" said the watches of the boys,
and the little gilt repeaters on the tails of the cat and pig.
"Two!" continued the big bell; and
"Doo!" repeated all the repeaters.
"Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!" said the bell.
"Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!" answered the
others.
"Eleven!" said the big one.
"Eleben!" assented the little ones.
"Twelve!" said the bell.
"Dvelf!" they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their voices.
"Und dvelf it is!" said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.
"Thirteen!" said he.
"Der Teufel!" gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale, dropping
their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from over their
left knees.
"Der Teufel!" groaned they, "Dirteen! Dirteen!! -- Mein Gott, it is
Dirteen o'clock!!"
Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of uproar.
"Vot is cum'd to mein pelly?" roared all the boys -- "I've been ongry
for dis hour!"
"Vot is com'd to mein kraut?" screamed all the vrows, "It has been
done to rags for this hour!"
"Vot is cum'd to mein pipe?" swore all the little old gentlemen,
"Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!" -- and
they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in their
arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the whole valley
was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.
Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it seemed
as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing in the
shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture took to
dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the mantel-pieces could
scarcely contain themselves for fury, and kept such a continual
striking of thirteen, and such a frisking and wriggling of their
pendulums as was really horrible to see. But, worse than all, neither
the cats nor the pigs could put up any longer with the behavior of
the little repeaters tied to their tails, and resented it by
scampering all over the place, scratching and poking, and squeaking
and screeching, and caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the
faces, and running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is possible
for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters still more
distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the steeple was
evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now and then one
might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the smoke. There he
sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was lying flat upon his
back. In his teeth the villain held the bell-rope, which he kept
jerking about with his head, raising such a clatter that my ears ring
again even to think of it. On his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he
was scraping, out of all time and tune, with both hands, making a
great show, the nincompoop! of playing "Judy O'Flannagan and Paddy
O'Rafferty."
Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in disgust,
and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and fine kraut.
Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore the ancient
order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting that little fellow
from the steeple.
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LIONIZING
-------- all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
--_ Bishop Hall's Satires_.
I AM - that is to say I was - a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe, is
Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius: my father wept
for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered
before I was breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspicuous
he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my
attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my
proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked me, one day, If I would step
with him into his study.
"My son," said he, when we were seated, "what is the chief end of
your existence?"
"My father," I answered, "it is the study of Nosology."
"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is Nosology?"
"Sir," I said, "it is the Science of Noses."
"And can you tell me," he demanded, "what is the meaning of a
nose?"
&n
bsp; "A nose, my father;" I replied, greatly softened, "has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors." [Here I
pulled out my watch.] "It is now noon or thereabouts - we shall have
time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To commence
then: - The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance --
that bump - that excrescence - that - "
"Will do, Robert," interrupted the good old gentleman. "I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information - I am positively --
upon my soul." [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his
heart.] "Come here!" [Here he took me by the arm.] "Your education
may now be considered as finished - it is high time you should
scuffle for yourself - and you cannot do a better thing than merely
follow your nose -- so - so - so - " [Here he kicked me down stairs
and out of the door] - "so get out of my house, and God bless you!"
As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by
the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull
or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith.
All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
"Wonderful genius!" said the Quarterly.
"Superb physiologist!" said the Westminster.
"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.
"Fine writer!" said the Edinburgh.
"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.
"Great man!" said Bentley.
"Divine soul!" said Fraser.
"One of us!" said Blackwood.
"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
"What can he be?" said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
"Where can he be?" said little Miss Bas-Bleu. - But I paid these
people no attention whatever - I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of
Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.
I approached the artist and turned up my nose.
"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.
"Oh my!" lisped the Marquis.
"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.
"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal Highness.
"What will you take for it?" asked the artist.
"For his nose!" shouted her Grace.
"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down.
"A thousand pounds?" inquired the artist, musingly.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Do you warrant it?" he asked, turning the nose to the light.
"I do," said I, blowing it well.
"Is it quite original?" he inquired; touching it with reverence.
"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one side.
"Has no copy been taken?" he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.
"None," said I, turning it up.
"Admirable!" he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty
of the manoeuvre.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Precisely," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Just so," said I.
"You shall have them," said he. "What a piece of virtu!" So he drew
me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged
rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition
of the "Nosology," with a portrait of the proboscis. - That sad
little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner.
We were all lions and recherchés.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price,
Priestly, Condorcet, De Stael, and the "Ambitious Student in Ill
Health."
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homöomeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton
of red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté sauce; veal à la St.
Menehoult; marinade à la St. Florentin; and orange jellies en
mosäiques.
There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrünnen;
upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon
Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grâve,
upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at
Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between
Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino - of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the
frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt,
Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from
Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses,