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

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst, at a

  single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking across the

  room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents, and throwing

  open the sash to their extreme horror and disappointment,

  precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the window. this moment

  passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his execution

  in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long continued ill health

  had obtained him the privilege of remaining unmanacled; and habited

  in his gallows costume -- one very similar to my own, -- he lay at

  full length in the bottom of the hangman's cart (which happened to be

  under the windows of the surgeon at the moment of my precipitation)

  without any other guard than the driver, who was asleep, and two

  recruits of the sixth infantry, who were drunk.

  As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the vehicle.

  immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was out

  of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits, aroused by the

  bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of the transaction.

  Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart of the felon,

  standing upright in the cart before their eyes, they were of (so they

  expressed themselves,) and, having communicated this opinion to one

  another, they took each a dram, and then knocked me down with the

  butt-ends of their muskets.

  It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of course

  nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate.

  I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half stupid, half

  acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the sentiments of a

  dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose about my neck. The drop

  fell.

  I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although here,

  undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic upon which

  nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon such a theme it is

  necessary to have been hanged. Every author should confine himself to

  matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony composed a treatise upon

  getting drunk.

  I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but I

  had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my left

  ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that I should

  have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the jerk given to

  my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely proved a corrective

  to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman in the coach.

  For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the worth

  of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be extraordinary. My

  spasms it would have been difficult to beat. The populace encored.

  Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude of ladies were carried

  home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself of the opportunity to

  retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot, his admirable painting of

  the "Marsyas flayed alive."

  When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper to

  remove my body from the gallows; -- this the more especially as the

  real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized, a fact

  which I was so unlucky as not to know.

  Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no one

  made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be interred in

  a public vault.

  Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed, and I

  was left alone. A line of Marston's "Malcontent"-

  Death's a good fellow and keeps open house -- struck me at that

  moment as a palpable lie.

  I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out. The

  place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled with

  ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous coffins

  ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one, and breaking

  open their lids, busied myself in speculations about the mortality

  within.

  "This," I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and

  rotund -- "this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an

  unhappy -- an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to

  walk but to waddle -- to pass through life not like a human being,

  but like an elephant -- not like a man, but like a rhinoceros.

  "His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his

  circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward,

  it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right, and three

  toward the left. His studies have been confined to the poetry of

  Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a pirouette. To him a

  pas de papillon has been an abstract conception. He has never

  ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed from any steeple

  the glories of a metropolis. Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the

  dog-days his days have been the days of a dog. Therein, he has

  dreamed of flames and suffocation -- of mountains upon mountains --

  of Pelion upon Ossa. He was short of breath -- to say all in a word,

  he was short of breath. He thought it extravagant to play upon wind

  instruments. He was the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and

  ventilators. He patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died

  miserably in attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I

  feel a deep interest -- a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.

  "But here," -- said I -- "here" -- and I dragged spitefully from its

  receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable

  appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity -- "here

  is a wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration." Thus saying, in

  order to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I applied my

  thumb and forefinger to its nose, and causing it to assume a sitting

  position upon the ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm,

  while I continued my soliloquy.

  -"Entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed

  would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had his

  full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of

  tall monuments -- shot-towers -- lightning-rods -- Lombardy poplars.

  His treatise upon "Shades and Shadows" has immortalized him. He

  edited with distinguished ability the last edition of "South on the

  Bones." He went early to college and studied pneumatics. He then came

  home, talked eternally, and played upon the French-horn. He

  patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against Time,

  would not walk against him. Windham and Allbreath were his favorite

  writers, -- his favorite artist, Phiz. He died gloriously while

  inhaling gas -- levique flatu corrupitur, like the fama pudicitae in

  Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably a"--

  "How can you? -- how -- can -- you?" -- interrupted the object of my

  animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate

  exertion, the bandage around its jaws -- "how can you, Mr.

  Lackobreath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by


  the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth -- and

  you must know -- if you know any thing -- how vast a superfluity of

  breath I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however, sit down

  and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be

  able to open ones mouth -- to be able to expatiate -- to be able to

  communicate with a person like yourself, who do not think yourself

  called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman's

  discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should undoubtedly be

  abolished -- don't you think so? -- no reply, I beg you, -- one

  person is enough to be speaking at a time. -- I shall be done by and

  by, and then you may begin. -- How the devil sir, did you get into

  this place? -- not a word I beseech you -- been here some time myself

  -- terrible accident! -- heard of it, I suppose? -- awful calamity!

  -- walking under your windows -- some short while ago -- about the

  time you were stage-struck -- horrible occurrence! -- heard of

  "catching one's breath," eh? -- hold your tongue I tell you! -- I

  caught somebody elses! -- had always too much of my own -- met Blab

  at the corner of the street -- wouldn't give me a chance for a word

  -- couldn't get in a syllable edgeways -- attacked, consequently,

  with epilepsis -- Blab made his escape -- damn all fools! -- they

  took me up for dead, and put me in this place -- pretty doings all of

  them! -- heard all you said about me -- every word a lie -- horrible!

  -- wonderful -- outrageous! -- hideous! -- incomprehensible! -- et

  cetera -- et cetera -- et cetera -- et cetera-"

  It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a

  discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced that

  the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I soon

  recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the identical

  expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with my wife. Time,

  place, and circumstances rendered it a matter beyond question. I did

  not at least during the long period in which the inventor of Lombardy

  poplars continued to favor me with his explanations.

  In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which has

  ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many difficulties

  might still lie in the path of my preservation which only extreme

  exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many persons, I

  considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their possession --

  however valueless to the then proprietor -- however troublesome, or

  distressing -- in direct ratio with the advantages to be derived by

  others from their attainment, or by themselves from their

  abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr. Windenough? In

  displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was at present so

  willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to the exactions of

  his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world, I remembered with a

  sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair opportunities with even a

  next door neighbor, and (this remark is from Epictetus) it is

  precisely at that time when men are most anxious to throw off the

  burden of their own calamities that they feel the least desirous of

  relieving them in others.

  Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my grasp

  upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to model my

  reply.

  "Monster!" I began in a tone of the deepest indignation -- "monster

  and double-winded idiot! -- dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it

  has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion -- dost

  thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an old

  acquaintance? -- 'I lie,' forsooth! and 'hold my tongue,' to be sure!

  -- pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single breath!

  -- all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the calamity

  under which thou dost so justly suffer -- to curtail the

  superfluities of thine unhappy respiration."

  Like Brutus, I paused for a reply -- with which, like a tornado, Mr.

  Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon

  protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with

  which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I

  failed to take the fullest advantage.

  Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered me

  the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I gave him

  afterward a receipt.

  I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in a

  manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be thought

  that I should have entered more minutely, into the details of an

  occurrence by which -- and this is very true -- much new light might

  be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of physical philosophy.

  To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only answer

  which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances -- but I think

  it much safer upon consideration to say as little as possible about

  an affair so delicate -- so delicate, I repeat, and at the time

  involving the interests of a third party whose sulphurous resentment

  I have not the least desire, at this moment, of incurring.

  We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an

  escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of our

  resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors, the

  Whig editor, republished a treatise upon "the nature and origin of

  subterranean noises." A reply -- rejoinder -- confutation -- and

  justification -- followed in the columns of a Democratic Gazette. It

  was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,

  that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both parties

  to have been decidedly in the wrong.

  I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in a

  life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again recalling to

  the attention of the reader the merits of that indiscriminate

  philosophy which is a sure and ready shield against those shafts of

  calamity which can neither be seen, felt nor fully understood. It was

  in the spirit of this wisdom that, among the ancient Hebrews, it was

  believed the gates of Heaven would be inevitably opened to that

  sinner, or saint, who, with good lungs and implicit confidence,

  should vociferate the word "Amen!" It was in the spirit of this