Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them twenty

  stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason) being

  considered as especially precious just in this vicinity. The

  disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally uprooted

  and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to be called a

  village) that the most indefatigable of our antiquarians have never

  yet been able to obtain from the site any sufficient data (in the

  shape of coins, medals or inscriptions) wherewith to build up even

  the ghost of a theory concerning the manners, customs, &c., &c., &c.,

  of the aboriginal inhabitants. Nearly all that we have hitherto known

  of them is, that they were a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of

  savages infesting the continent at its first discovery by Recorder

  Riker, a knight of the Golden Fleece. They were by no means

  uncivilized, however, but cultivated various arts and even sciences

  after a fashion of their own. It is related of them that they were

  acute in many respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for

  building what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated "churches" --

  a kind of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by

  the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the island

  became, nine tenths of it, church. The women, too, it appears, were

  oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the region just below the

  small of the back -- although, most unaccountably, this deformity was

  looked upon altogether in the light of a beauty. One or two pictures

  of these singular women have in fact, been miraculously preserved.

  They look very odd, very -- like something between a turkey-cock and

  a dromedary.

  Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us

  respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that while

  digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you know,

  covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a cubical and

  evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several hundred pounds.

  It was in good preservation, having received, apparently, little

  injury from the convulsion which entombed it. On one of its surfaces

  was a marble slab with (only think of it!) an inscription -- a

  legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies. Upon detaching the slab,

  a cavity appeared, containing a leaden box filled with various coins,

  a long scroll of names, several documents which appear to resemble

  newspapers, with other matters of intense interest to the

  antiquarian! There can be no doubt that all these are genuine

  Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe called Knickerbocker. The

  papers thrown on board our balloon are filled with fac-similes of the

  coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c. I copy for your amusement the

  Knickerbocker inscription on the marble slab:-

  This Corner Stone of a Monument to

  The Memory of

  GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies

  on the

  19th Day of October, 1847

  The anniversary of the surrender of

  Lord Cornwallis

  to General Washington at Yorktown

  A. D. 1781

  Under the Auspices of the

  Washington Monument Association of

  the city of New York

  This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit himself,

  so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words thus

  preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge, not the

  least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand years ago

  actual monuments had fallen into disuse -- as was all very proper --

  the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a mere

  indication of the design to erect a monument at some future time; a

  corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself "solitary and alone"

  (excuse me for quoting the great American poet Benton!), as a

  guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We ascertain, too, very

  distinctly, from this admirable inscription, the how as well as the

  where and the what, of the great surrender in question. As to the

  where, it was Yorktown (wherever that was), and as to the what, it

  was General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). He was

  surrendered. The inscription commemorates the surrender of -- what?

  why, "of Lord Cornwallis." The only question is what could the

  savages wish him surrendered for. But when we remember that these

  savages were undoubtedly cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that

  they intended him for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no

  language can be more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for

  sausage) "under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association"

  -- no doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of

  corner-stones. -- But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I see

  -- the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into the

  sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a hasty

  inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I find that

  the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were one John, a

  smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.

  Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter or

  not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for my own

  amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however, and throw it

  into the sea.

  Yours everlastingly,

  PUNDITA.

  ~~~ End of Text ~~~

  ======

  THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.

  And stepped at once into a cooler clime. -- Cowper

  KEATS fell by a criticism. Who was it died of "The Andromache"? {*1}

  Ignoble souls! -- De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en

  est breve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!

  A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,

  indolent, to the Chaussee D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From

  its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six

  peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.

  That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau he

  reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his

  loyalty in outbidding his king -- the notorious ottoman of Cadet.

  He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to

  restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment

  the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most

  delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what

  inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc? --

  "Horreur! -- chien! -- Baptiste! -- l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet

  oiseau modeste que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, et que tu as servi

  sans papier!" It is superfluous to say more: -- the Duc expired in a

  paroxysm of disgust.

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

  "He! he! he!" replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an

  air of hauteur.

  "Why, surely you are not serious," retorted De L'Omelette. "I have

  sinned -- c'est vrai -- but, my good sir, consider! -- you have no<
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  actual intention of putting such -- such barbarous threats into

  execution."

  "No what?" said his majesty -- "come, sir, strip!"

  "Strip, indeed! very pretty i' faith! no, sir, I shall not strip. Who

  are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just

  come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy,

  should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever

  made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put together by

  Rombert -- to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper -- not

  to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"

  "Who am I? -- ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took

  thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast

  curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee, --

  my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were

  made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy

  robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."

  "Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!- Sir!

  I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!- Sir!

  you shall hear from me! in the meantime au revoir!" -- and the Duc

  was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was

  interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his

  Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected.

  Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of

  his whereabouts.

  The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien comme

  il faut. It was not its length nor its breadth, -- but its height --

  ah, that was appalling! -- There was no ceiling -- certainly none-

  but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain

  reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a chain of an unknown

  blood-red metal -- its upper end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi

  les nues. From its nether extremity swung a large cresset. The Duc

  knew it to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense, so

  still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such -- Gheber never

  imagined such -- Mussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with

  opium, he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers,

  and his face to the God Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath,

  decidedly approbatory.

  The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were

  filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was

  Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In the

  fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was not colossal. But then

  there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette pressed his

  hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his

  Satanic Majesty -- in a blush.

  But the paintings! -- Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth! -- a thousand and

  the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,

  for did he not paint the ---? and was he not consequently damned? The

  paintings -- the paintings! O luxury! O love! -- who, gazing on those

  forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the

  golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and the

  porphyry walls?

  But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as

  you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic

  breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces

  choses il a pense beaucoup -- mais! The Duc De L'Omelette is

  terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which a single

  uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all

  fires!

  Le pauvre Duc! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the

  voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as

  they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the

  enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the

  hopeless and the damned! And there, too! -- there! -- upon the

  ottoman! -- who could he be? -- he, the petitmaitre -- no, the Deity

  -- who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale

  countenance, si amerement?

  Mais il faut agir -- that is to say, a Frenchman never faints

  outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene -- De L'Omelette is

  himself again. There were some foils upon a table -- some points

  also. The Duc s'echapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace

  inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does

  not fence!

  Mais il joue! -- how happy a thought! -- but his Grace had always an

  excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of Abbe Gualtier.

  Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'ecarte."

  But the chances -- the chances! True -- desperate: but scarcely more

  desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret? -- had he

  not skimmed over Pere Le Brun? -- was he not a member of the Club

  Vingt-un? "Si je perds," said he, "je serai deux fois perdu -- I

  shall be doubly dammed -- voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his

  shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans -- que les

  cartes soient preparees!"

  His Grace was all care, all attention -- his Majesty all confidence.

  A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace

  thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The Duc

  cut.

  The cards were dealt. The trump is turned -- it is -- it is -- the

  king! No -- it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine

  habiliments. De L'Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.

  They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts

  heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

  "C'est a vous a faire," said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace bowed,

  dealt, and arose from the table en presentant le Roi.

  His Majesty looked chagrined.

  Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and

  the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, "que s'il n'eut ete