SELECTED ESSAYS

A BOOKISH TOPIC

By R. K. Narayan

My blackest thoughts are reserved for those who borrow my books. I am unable to forgive a

man who fails to return a book he has taken from my shelf. I would not hesitate to tell him

precisely what I thought of him, if he would only give me a chance to speak, but as a general

rule the book pirate shows no inclination to continue his friendship with me; he stoops besides

his hedge and remains still until I have safely passed his gate : if he meets me on the road face

to face he doubles his pace with an air of one going desperately in search of doctor. It is a

matter of life and death to someone, and he has no time to engage himself in any conversation

centering round some miserable book in a weak moment. This is the worst of the book pirate.

He begins to feel that it was due to some weakness that he ever entertained the idea perusing

(reading carefully) such and such a book, while a busy man like him could find no time even to

read his(neighbor’s) newspaper fully. Later it develops into an aversion (dislike) both for the

book and the man who lent him it. For a few days he keeps saying, “I have not yet read it, but

I’d like to, if I may .” And the lender of the book, ever a generous brood, says, “Oh yes, by all

means keep it. You have kept it so long, it would be pointless if you returned it without going

through it keep it, keep it”.

At the next meeting the lender feels delicate to ask again about the book. A few months pass

and then a happy new year and another happy one, and suddenly you realize that the gap in

your bookshelf is still there. And then one day you abruptly begin the meeting with: ‘Where is

the book?’

‘Which book’ asks the gentleman?

When you have succeeded in stimulating his memory, he only says,’ oh, that! I will have to

search for it. Naturally you don’t like the tone, and say: ‘well, why not search now?’Your instinct

now tells you will never see you book. You will feel that you are now seeing humanity at its

worst. Words fail you. You cannot trust yourself further and you go away. At the next meeting

the man says brazenly (shamelessly), with an air of condescending to give a thought to your

subject : ‘I’ve not found your book. I was out of town for a while on business. I believe it must

be with my brother-in-law. You know my brother-in-law?’

‘I don’t. Why don’t you get it back from him?’

‘I will, I will ,certainly ,’ he replies mechanically.

‘Or I will myself go and and beg him to return it, where is he?’

‘That’s what I must find out. He has been a tour.’

‘Why not send him a letter? I will bear the postal expenses.’

‘Oh, letters are not good; he is a very bad correspondent.’

The whereabouts of the book, you feel, are already trailing away into indefiniteness. At the next

meeting- the gentleman goes behind his hedge and disowns you completely.

It is under this condition you became a misanthrope (hates humanity), and ask why it is that

you cannot complain to the police about the loss of your book. In a more perfectly arranged

world, it should be possible. At the next election, my vote goes to the party which pledges itself

to eliminate (along with illiteracy, poverty and disease) book-borrowing from our society. I am

scrutinizing every manifesto and party programme for this possible promise.

All of us love to keep our books, and also share the delight of good reading with others.

This is an impossible combination and turns out to be a painful experiment. If you love your

book, don’t lend it to anyone on earth. This really ought to be one’s guiding principle. You

cannot lend your books and yet have them just as you cannot your cake and have it.

I know only one person who has achieved both. He lends book and yet retains his library in

shape. He has an elaborately built up library at home, and he is most enthusiastic in lending out

books- provided the borrower, even if he happens to be his son-in-law, signs a ledger and

returns the book on the proper date. He levies a fine of six pies per day if the book is held over

beyond the due date and he ruthlessly demands replacement of any book that’s lost. If he

should be told : ‘My brother-in-law must have taken it and I don’t know where he is, ‘he would

have replied: ‘Surely you wouldn’t have allowed your brother-in-law to walk with one of chairs,

coats or spoons. How dare anyone think that he can be as irresponsible as he likes where a

book is concerned? Don’t tell me about your brother-in-law. ‘I am interested only in my books.

It costs nine rupees plus postage. Write at once to so and so, booksellers.’ This book lover has

been called rude, pugnacious (aggressive), petty minded, and so forth. But it does not bother

him. He knows where his favourite volumes are to be found at any given moment.

As an author my problem is a little more complicated. I have (or rather try to have), in my shelf,

not only books written by others but also those written by me. An author may be pardoned if

he likes to have his own books, too, in his library. It may not at all be vanity. He may have to

work further on it for a subsequent edition or he may value it for being the first copy to arrive

from his publishers. A publisher gives only six copies for presentation when a book come out.

While I am prepared to scatter five abroad I like to be free to keep the sixth. But where is it?

Whenever I wish to see any of my own books for any purpose, I borrow it from a library. I wish

others would also do the same thing instead of asking complacently, ‘Why should an author

want his own books? ’

How One Should Read a Book

By Virginia Woolf

In the first place, I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of my title. Even if

could answer the question for myself, the answer would apply only to me and not to you. The

only advice, indeed, that person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow

your own instincts, to use your own conclusions . If this is agreed between us, then I feel at

liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions, because you will not allow them to fetter

that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all,

what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloo was certainly fought on a

certain day; but is Hamlet a better play than Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that

question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our

libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we

read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere

else we may be bound by laws and conventions- there we have none.

But to enjoy freedom, if platitude is pardonable, we have of course to control ourselves. We

must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to

water a single rose bush; we must train them exactly and powerfully, here on the very spot .

This, it may be, is one of the first difficulties that faces us in a library. What is ‘the very spot’?

There may well seem to be nothing but a conglomeration and huddle of confusion. Poems and

novels, histories and memoirs, dictionaries and blue-books; books written in all languages by

men and women of all tempers, races, and ages jostle each other on the shelf. And outside the

donkey brays, the women gossip at the pump, the colts gallop across the field. Where are we to

begin? How are we to bring order into this multitudinous chaos and get the best and widest

pleasure from what we read?

It is simple enough to say that since books have classes – fiction, biography, poetry- we should

separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people take

from books what books can give us. Most commonly some come to books with blurred and

divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography

that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish

all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to

your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If u hang back, and

reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value

from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of

almost imperceptible fineness, from the twists and turns of the first sentences, will bring you

into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself

with this, and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you,

something far more definite.

How to Speak Correct English

By Bernard Shaw

Let me introduce myself, Bernard Shaw.

I am asked to give you a specimen of spoken English. But first let me give you a warning. You

think you are hearing my voice. But unless you know how to use your gramophone properly,

what you are hearing maybe grotesquely unlike any sound that has ever come from my lips.

A few days ago I heard a gramophone record of a speech by Mr. Ramsay MacDonald, the

parliamentary chief of the British Labour Party, who has a fine deep Scottish voice and a

remarkably musical and dignified delivery. What I heard was a high pitched, sharp, cackling

voice, most unmusical, suggesting a small, egotistical, very ill mannered man, complaining of

something. I said, "That is not Mr. MacDonald, I know his voice as well as I know my own." The

gramophone operator assured me that it was and showed me the label on the record to prove

it. I said, "No, that is not Ramsay MacDonald. But let me see whether I cannot find him for you."

Then, as the record started again, I took the screw, which regulates the speed, and slowed the

record down gradually until the high pitched yapping changed to the deep tones of Mr.

MacDonald's voice. And the unmusical, quarrelsome self-assertion became the melodious

rhetoric of the Scottish orator. "There," I said, "that is Mr. MacDonald."

So you see what you are hearing now is not my voice unless your gramophone is turning at

exactly the right speed. I have records of famous singers and speakers who are dead; but whose

voices I can remember quite well: Adelina Patti, Sarah Bernard, Charles Santley, Caruso,

Tamagno. But they sound quite horrible and silly until I have found the right speed for them as I

found it for Mr. MacDonalds.

Now the worst of it is that I cannot tell you how to find the right speed for me. Those of you,

who have heard me speak, either face to face with me or over the wireless, will have no

difficulty. You have just to change the speed until you recognize the voice you remember. But

what are you to do, if you have never heard me? Well, I can give you a hint that will help you. If

what you hear is very disappointing and you feel instinctively, that must be a horrid man, you

may be quite sure the speed is wrong. Slow it down, until you feel that you are listening to an

amiable old gentleman of 71 with a rather pleasant Irish voice. Then that is me. All the other

people, whom you hear at the other speeds, are impostors, sham Shaws, phantoms who never

existed.

I am now going to suppose that you are a foreign student of the English language, and that you

desire to speak it well enough to be understood when you travel in the British Commonwealth

or in America or when you meet a native of those countries. Or it may be that you are yourself

a native, but that you speak in a provincial or Cockney dialect of which you are a little ashamed

or which perhaps prevents you from obtaining some employment, which is open to those only

who speak what is called correct English.

Now whether you are a foreigner or a native the first thing I must impress on you is that there is

no such thing as ideally correct English. No two British subjects speak exactly alike.

I am a member of a committee established by the British Broadcasting Corporation, for the

purpose of deciding how the utterances of speakers employed by the corporation should be

pronounced, in order that they should be a model of correct English speech for the British

islands.

All the members of that committee are educated persons, whose speech would pass as correct

and refined in any society or any employment in London. Our chairman is the poet laureate

who is not only an artist, whose materials are the sounds of spoken English, but a specialist in

their pronunciation. One of our members is Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, famous not only as

an actor, but for the beauty of his speech. I was selected for service on the committee because

as a writer of plays I am accustomed to superintend their rehearsals. And to listen critically to

the way in which they are spoken by actors who are by profession trained speakers, being

myself a public speaker of long experience.

That committee knows as much as anyone knows about English speech. And yet its members

do not agree as to the pronunciation of some of the simplest and commonest words in the

English language.

The two simplest and commonest words in any language are yes and no. But no two members

of the committee pronounce them exactly alike. All that can be said is that every member

pronounces them in such a way that they would not only be intelligible in every English

speaking country, but would stamp the speaker as a cultivated person, as distinguished from an

ignorant and illiterate one.

You will say, "Well, that is good enough for me. That is how I desire to speak." But which

member of the committee will you take for your model? There are Irish members, Scottish

members, Welsh members, Oxford University members, American members. All recognizable

as such by their differences of speech. They differ also according to the country in which they

were born. Now as they all speak differently it is nonsense to say that they all speak correctly.

All we can claim is that they all speak presentably. And if you speak as they do you will be

understood in any English speaking country and accepted as a person of good social standing.

I wish I could offer you your choice among them all as a model. But for the moment I am afraid

you must put up with me, an Irish man.

I have said enough to you about the fact that no two native speakers of English speak it alike.

But perhaps you are clever enough to ask me whether I myself always speak it in the same way.

I must confess at once that I do not. Nobody does.

I am at present speaking to an audience of many thousands of gramophone listeners. Many of

whom are trying hard to follow my words syllable by syllable. If I were to speak to you as

carelessly as I speak to my wife at home this record would be useless. And if I were to speak to

my wife at home as carefully as I am speaking to you she would think that I was going mad. As a

public speaker I have to take care that every word I say is heard distinctfully at the far end of

large halls containing thousands of people.

But at home, when I have to consider only my wife sitting within six feet of me at breakfast, I

take so little pains with my speech, that very often, instead of giving me the expected answer,

she says, "Don't mumble and don't turn your head away when you speak. I can't hear a word

you are saying". And she also is a little careless. Sometimes I have to say, "What?" two or three

times during our meal. And she suspects me of growing deafer and deafer. So she does not say

so, because as I am now over 70 it might be true. No doubt I ought to speak to my wife as

carefully as I should speak to a queen and she to me as carefully as she would speak to a king.

We ought to, but we don't. Don't by the way is short for do not.

We all have company manners and home manners. If you were to call on a strange family and

to listen through the key hole, not that I would suggest for a moment that you are capable

doing of such a very unladylike or ungentlemanlike thing. But still, if in your enthusiasm for

studying languages you could bring yourself to do it, just for a few seconds to hear how a family

speaks to one another, when there is nobody else listening to them, and then walk into the

room and hear how very differently they speak in your presence, the change would surprise

you.

Even when our home manners are as good as our company manners, and of course they ought

to be much better, they are always different. And the difference is greater in speech than in

anything else.

Suppose I forget to wind my watch and it stops. I have to ask somebody to tell me the time. If I

ask a stranger I say, "What o'clock is it?" The stranger hears every syllable distinctly. But if I ask

my wife all she hears is "Clock's it". That is good enough for her, but it would not be good

enough for you.

So I am speaking to you now much more carefully than I speak to her. But please don't tell her.

I am now going to address myself especially to my foreign hearers. I have to give them another

warning of quite a different type. If you are learning English, because you intend to travel in

England and wish to be understood there do not try to speak English perfectly. Because if you

do no one will understand you.

I have already explained that 'though there is no such thing as perfectly correct English, there is

presentable English, which we call good English. But in London 999 out of every thousand

people not only speak bad English, but speak even that very badly. You may say, that even if

they do not speak English well themselves, they can at least understand it when it is well

spoken. They can when the speaker is English. But when the speaker is a foreigner, the better

he speaks, the harder it is to understand him.

No foreigner can ever stress the syllables and make the voice rise and fall in question and

answer, assertion and denial, in refusal and consent, in inquiry or information, exactly as a

native does. Therefore the first thing you have to do is to speak with a strong foreign accent

and speak broken English. That is English without any grammar. Then every English person, to

whom you speak, will at once know that you are a foreigner and try to understand you and be

ready to help you. He will not expect you to be polite and to use elaborate grammatical

phrases. He will be interested in you, because you are a foreigner and pleased by his own

cleverness in making out your meaning and being able to tell you what you want to know.

If you say, "Will you have the goodness, sir, to direct me to the railway terminus at Charing

Cross," pronouncing all the vowels and consonants beautifully, he will not understand you. And

will suspect you of being a beggar or a confidence trickster. But if you shout, "Please, Charing

Cross, which way?" you will have no difficulty. Half a dozen people will immediately overwhelm

you with directions. Even in private intercourse with cultivated people you must not speak too

well.

Apply this to your attempts to learn foreign languages and never try to speak them too well.

And do not be afraid to travel, you will be surprised to find out how little you need to know or

how badly you may pronounce. Even among English people to speak too well is a pedantic

affectation. In a foreigner it is something worse than an affectation; it is an insult to the native

who cannot understand his own language when it is too well spoken.

That is all I can tell you. The record will hold no more. Good bye.

.....

This speech was recorded in 1927.

MAKING WRITING SIMPLE

BY J.B.PRIESTLEY

At the end of a long talk with a youngish critic, a sincere fellow whose personality (though not

his values) I respect, he stared at me and then slowly : ‘I don’t understand you. Your talk is so

much more complicated – subtle (noticable) – than your writing. Your writing always seems to

me too simple.’ And I replied : ‘But I’ve spent years trying to make my writing simple. What you

see as a fault, I regard as a virtue’.

There was now revealed to us the gulf between his generation and mine. He and his lot,

matured in the early thirties, wanted literature to be difficult. They grew up in revolt against the

Mass Communication antics of their age. They did not want to share anything with the crowd.

Writing that was hard to understand was like a password to their secret society. A good writer

to them was one who made his readers toil (hard work) and sweat. They admired extreme

cleverness and solemnity (serious), poets like political cardinals, critics who came to literature

like specialists summoned to consultation at a king’s beside.

A genuine author, an artist, as distinct from hacks who tried to please the mob, began with

some simple thoughts and impressions and then proceeded to complicate his account of them,

if only to keep away the fools. Difficulty was demanded, hence the vogue (fashion) to Donne

and Hopkins. Literature had to respond to something twisted, tormented, esoteric (unusual), in

their own secret natures. In all this there was no pose and here their elders went wrong about

them. They could be accused not unjustly of narrowness and arrogance, but not of insincerity.

They were desperately sincere in believing that the true artist must hide from the crowd behind

a thicket (dense) of briers. They grew up terrified of the crowd, who in this new Mass Age

seemed to them to be threatening all decent values.

But I was born in the Nineteenth century and my most impressionable years were those just

before 1914. Rightly or wrongly, I am not afraid of the crowd. And art to me is not synonymous

with introversion. (I regard this as the great critical fallacy of our time). Because I am what is

called ‘an intellectual’—and I am just as much ‘an intellectual’ as these younger chaps—I do not

feel that there is a glass wall between me and the people in the nearest factories, shops and

pubs. I prefer therefore a wide channel of communications. Deliberately I aim at simplicity and

not complexity in my writing. No matter what the subject in hand might be, I want to write

something that a pinch I could read aloud in a bar-parlour. (And the time came when I was

heard and understood in a thousand bar-parlours).

I do not pretend to be subtle and profound, but when I am at work I try to appear simpler than I

really am. Perhaps I make it too easy for the reader, do too much of the toiling and sweating

myself. No doubt I am altogether too obvious for the cleverest fellows, who want to beat their

brains against something hard and knotty. But then I am not impressed by this view of

literature as a cerebral activity.

Some contemporary critics would be better occupied solving chess problems and breaking

down cyphers. They are no customers of mine, and I do not display my goods to catch. But any

man who thinks the kind of simplicity I attempt is easy should try it for himself, if only in his

next letter to The Times. I find it much easier now than I used to do but that is because I have

kept this aim in view throughout years of hardwork. I do not claim to have achieved even now a

prose that is like an easy pursuasive voice, preferably my own at its best; but this is what I have

been trying to do for years, quite deliberately, and it is this that puzzled my friend, the youngish

critic who cannot help wanting something quite different.

This habit of simplification has its own little triumphs. Thus, I was asked to pay a birthday

tribute, on the air, to C. G. Jung, for whose work and personality I have massive admiration. To

explain Jung in thirteen and a half minutes so that the ordinary listener could understand what

the fuss was about! My friends said it could not be done. The psychologists said it could not be

done. But I can reasonably claim, backed by first class evidence, that I did it. It was a tough little

task, but when I had come to the end of it I found, like honey in the rock, a taste of delight.

OF REVENGE

By Francis Bacon

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man's nature runs to, the more ought law to

weed it out. For as for the first wrong, it doth but offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong

pulleth the law out of office. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but

in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon. And Salomon, I am sure,

saith, It is the glory of a man to pass by an offence.

That which is past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men have enough to do with things

present and to come: therefore they do but trifle with themselves, that labour in past matters.

There is no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake; but thereby to purchase himself profit, or

pleasure, or honour, or the like. There why should I be angry with a man for loving himself

better than me? And if any man should do wrong merely out of ill nature, why, yet it is but like

the thorn or briar, which prick and scratch, because they can do no other.

The most tolerable sort of revenge is for those wrongs which there is no law or remedy; but

then let a man take heed the revenge be such as there is no law to punish; else a man's enemy

is still beforehand, and it is two for one.

Some, when they take revenge, are desirous the party should know whence it cometh: this is

the more generous. For the delight seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt as in making

the party repent: but base and crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth in the dark.

Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a desperate saying against perfidious or neglecting friends, as if

those wrongs were unpardonable: You shall read (saith he) that we are commanded to forgive

our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: Shall we (saith he) take good at God's

hands, and not be content to take evil also? And so of friends in a proportion.

This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise

would heal and do well.

Public revenges are for the most part fortunate; as that for the death of Caesar; for the death of

Pertinax(1); for the death of Henry the Third of France (2); and many more. But in private

revenges it is not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live the life of witches; who as they are

mischievous, so end they unfortunate.

Notes:

(1) Publius Helvius Pertinax became emperor of Rome in 193 and was assassinated three

months after his accession to the throne by a soldier in his praetorian Guard.

(2) King of France, 1574-1589, assassinated during the Siege of Paris.

OF STUDIES

By Francis Bacon

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in

privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and

disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by

one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best from those

that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too much for

ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar.

They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience: for natural abilities are like natural

plants, that need pruning (trimming), by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions

too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men condemn studies,

simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is

wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and

confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and

consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed

and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not

curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also

may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less

important arguments and the meaner sort of books, else distilled books are like common

distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing

an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he

confer (talk) little, he had need have a present wit: and if he read little, he had need have much

cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the

mathematics subtle (fine); natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to

contend (argue). Abeunt studia in mores [Studies pass into and influence manners]. Nay, there

is no stond (stand) or impediment (barrier) in the wit but may be wrought out by fit studies; like

as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises. Bowling is good for the stone and

reins; shooting for the lungs and breast; gentle walking for the stomach; riding for the head;

and the like. So if a man’s wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics; for in

demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again. If his wit be not

apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the Schoolmen; for they are cymini sectores

[splitters of hairs]. If he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and

illustrate another, let him study the lawyers’ cases. So every defect of the mind may have a

special receipt.

SELECTED SHORT STORIES

THE BET

By Anton Chekhov

IT WAS a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and down his study and remembering

how, fifteen years before, he had given a party one autumn evening. There had been many clever

men there, and there had been interesting conversations. Among other things they had talked of

capital punishment. The majority of the guests, among whom were many journalists and

intellectual men, disapproved of the death penalty. They considered that form of punishment out

of date, immoral, and unsuitable for Christian States. In the opinion of some of them the death

penalty ought to be replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life.

"I don't agree with you," said their host the banker. "I have not tried either the death penalty or

imprisonment for life, but if one may judge _a priori_, the death penalty is more moral and more

humane than imprisonment for life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but lifelong

imprisonment kills him slowly. Which executioner is the more humane, he who kills you in a few

minutes or he who drags the life out of you in the course of many years?"

"Both are equally immoral," observed one of the guests, "for they both have the same object -- to

take away life. The State is not God. It has not the right to take away what it cannot restore when it

wants to."

Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was asked his

opinion, he said:

"The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but if I had to choose between the

death penalty and imprisonment for life, I would certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is

better than not at all."

A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervous in those days, was

suddenly carried away by excitement; he struck the table with his fist and shouted at the young

man:

"It's not true! I'll bet you two millions you wouldn't stay in solitary confinement for five years."

"If you mean that in earnest," said the young man, "I'll take the bet, but I would stay not five but

fifteen years."

"Fifteen? Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions!"

"Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!" said the young man.

And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt and frivolous (playful), with millions

beyond his reckoning (sums), was delighted at the bet. At supper he made fun of the young man,

and said:

"Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me two millions are a trifle, but you are

losing three or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, because you won't stay longer.

Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear

than compulsory. The thought that you have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will

poison your whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you."

And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and asked himself: "What was the

object of that bet? What is the good of that man's losing fifteen years of his life and my throwing

away two millions? Can it prove that the death penalty is better or worse than imprisonment for

life? No, no. It was all nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was the caprice (fancy) of a

pampered man, and on his part simple greed for money. . . ."

Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided that the young man should spend

the years of his captivity under the strictest supervision in one of the lodges in the banker's garden.

It was agreed that for fifteen years he should not be free to cross the threshold of the lodge, to see

human beings, to hear the human voice, or to receive letters and newspapers. He was allowed to

have a musical instrument and books, and was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to

smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he could have with the outer world were

by a little window made purposely for that object. He might have anything he wanted -- books,

music, wine, and so on -- in any quantity he desired by writing an order, but could only receive

them through the window. The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle that would

make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young man to stay there exactly fifteen

years, beginning from twelve o'clock of November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o'clock of

November 14, 1885. The slightest attempt on his part to break the conditions, if only two minutes

before the end, released the banker from the obligation to pay him two millions.

For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge from his brief notes, the prisoner

suffered severely from loneliness and depression. The sounds of the piano could be heard

continually day and night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites the

desires, and desires are the worst foes of the prisoner; and besides, nothing could be more dreary

than drinking good wine and seeing no one. And tobacco spoilt the air of his room. In the first year

the books he sent for were principally of a light character; novels with a complicated love plot,

sensational and fantastic stories, and so on.

In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisoner asked only for the classics. In

the fifth year music was audible again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him

through the window said that all that year he spent doing nothing but eating and drinking and lying

on his bed, frequently yawning and angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. Sometimes at

night he would sit down to write; he would spend hours writing, and in the morning tear up all that

he had written. More than once he could be heard crying.

In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously studying languages, philosophy,

and history. He threw himself eagerly into these studies -- so much so that the banker had enough

to do to get him the books he ordered. In the course of four years some six hundred volumes were

procured at his request. It was during this period that the banker received the following letter from

his prisoner:

"My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them to people who know the

languages. Let them read them. If they find not one mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the

garden. That shot will show me that my efforts have not been thrown away. The geniuses of all

ages and of all lands speak different languages, but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if you

only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feels now from being able to understand them!" The

prisoner's desire was fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the garden.

Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and read nothing but the Gospel.

It seemed strange to the banker that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred learned

volumes should waste nearly a year over one thin book easy of comprehension. Theology and

histories of religion followed the Gospels.

In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immense quantity of books quite

indiscriminately (haphazardly). At one time he was busy with the natural sciences, then he would

ask for Byron or Shakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at the same time books on

chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology. His

reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, and trying to save

his life by greedily clutching first at one spar (box) and then at another.

II

The old banker remembered all this, and thought:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By our agreement I ought to pay him two

millions. If I do pay him, it is all over with me: I shall be utterly ruined."

Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he was afraid to ask himself

which were greater, his debts (unpaid sums) or his assets (property). Desperate gambling on the

Stock Exchange, wild speculation and the excitability which he could not get over even in advancing

years, had by degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless, self-confident

millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling at every rise and fall in his

investments. "Cursed bet!" muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair "Why didn't the

man die? He is only forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will marry, will enjoy life, will

gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every

day the same sentence: 'I am indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!' No, it is

too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the death of that man!"

It struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the house and nothing could be

heard outside but the rustling of the chilled trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof

safe the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and

went out of the house.

It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind was racing about the

garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither

the earth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the lodge

stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought

shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or in the

greenhouse.

"If I had the pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old man, "Suspicion would fall first upon

the watchman."

He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the lodge. Then he

groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There was not a soul there. There was a

bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the

door leading to the prisoner's rooms were intact (unbroken).

When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through the little window.

A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could be

seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the

two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table.

Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years' imprisonment had taught him

to sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his finger, and the prisoner made no movement

whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off the door and put the key in

the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to

hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passed and it was as quiet as

ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.

At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a skeleton with the skin

drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman's and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow

with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which

his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was

already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no one would have

believed that he was only forty. He was asleep. . . . In front of his bowed head there lay on the table

a sheet of paper on which there was something written in fine handwriting.

"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely dreaming of the millions. And I

have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and

the most conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let us first read what he

has written here. . . ."

The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with other men, but

before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. With a

clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I despise freedom and life and

health, and all that in your books is called the good things of the world.

"For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth nor

men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild

boars in the forests, have loved women. . . . Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of

your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales

that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont

Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the

ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning

flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes,

towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have

touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God. . . . In your books I

have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new

religions, conquered whole kingdoms. . . .

"Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man has created in the ages is

compressed into a small compass in my brain. I know that I am wiser than all of you.

"And I despise (hate) your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this world. It is all

worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but

death will wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowing

under the floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze

together with the earthly globe.

"You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies for truth, and

hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to strange events of some sorts, frogs and

lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a

sweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. I don't want to understand you.

"To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I renounce the two millions of which I

once dreamed as of paradise and which now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money I

shall go out from here five hours before the time fixed, and so break the compact. . . ."

When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the strange man on the head,

and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other time, even when he had lost heavily on the Stock

Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, but his

tears and emotion kept him for hours from sleeping.

Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had seen the man who lived

in the lodge climb out of the window into the garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker

went at once with the servants to the lodge and made sure of the flight of his prisoner. To avoid

arousing unnecessary talk, he took from the table the writing in which the millions were

renounced, and when he got home locked it up in the fireproof safe.

THE HOME-COMING

By Rabindra Nath Tagore

Phatik Chakravorti was ringleader among the boys of the village. A new mischief got into his

head. There was a heavy log lying on the mud-flat of the river waiting to be shaped into a mast

for a boat. He decided that they should all work together to shift the log by main force from its

place and roll it away. The owner of the log would be angry and surprised, and they would all

enjoy the fun. Every one seconded the proposal, and it was carried unanimously.

But just as the fun was about to begin, Makhan, Phatik's younger brother, sauntered up, and

sat down on the log in front of them all without a word. The boys were puzzled for a moment.

He was pushed, rather timidly, by one of the boys and told to get up but he remained quite

unconcerned. He appeared like a young philosopher meditating on the futility of games. Phatik

was furious. "Makhan," he cried, "if you don't get down this minute I'll thrash you!"

Makhan only moved to a more comfortable position.

Now, if Phatik was to keep his regal dignity before the public, it was clear he ought to carry out

his threat. But his courage failed him at the crisis. His fertile brain, however, rapidly seized upon

a new manoeuvre (plan) which would discomfit his brother and afford his followers an added

amusement. He gave the word of command to roll the log and Makhan over together. Makhan

heard the order, and made it a point of honour to stick on. But he overlooked the fact, like

those who attempt earthly fame in other matters, that there was peril (risk) in it.

The boys began to heave at the log with all their might, calling out, "One, two, three, go," At the

word "go" the log went; and with it went Makhan's philosophy, glory and all.

All the other boys shouted themselves hoarse with delight. But Phatik was a little frightened. He

knew what was coming. And, sure enough, Makhan rose from Mother Earth blind as Fate and

screaming like the furies (anger). He rushed at Phatik and scratched his face and beat him and

kicked him, and then went crying home. The first act of the drama was over.

Phatik wiped his face, and sat down on the edge of a sunken barge (hurry) on the river bank,

and began to chew a piece of grass. A boat came up to the landing, and a middle-aged man,

with grey hair and dark moustache, stepped on shore. He saw the boy sitting there doing

nothing, and asked him where the Chakravortis lived. Phatik went on chewing the grass, and

said: "Over there," but it was quite impossible to tell where he pointed. The stranger asked him

again. He swung his legs to and fro on the side of the barge, and said; "Go and find out," and

continued to chew the grass as before.

But now a servant came down from the house, and told Phatik his mother wanted him. Phatik

refused to move. But the servant was the master on this occasion. He took Phatik up roughly,

and carried him, kicking and struggling in impotent (powerless) rage.

When Phatik came into the house, his mother saw him. She called out angrily: "So you have

been hitting Makhan again?"

Phatik answered indignantly: "No, I haven't; who told you that?"

His mother shouted: "Don't tell lies! You have."

Phatik said suddenly: "I tell you, I haven't. You ask Makhan!" But Makhan thought it best to

stick to his previous statement. He said: "Yes, mother. Phatik did hit me."

Phatik's patience was already exhausted. He could not hear this injustice. He rushed at Makban,

and hammered him with blows: "Take that" he cried, "and that, and that, for telling lies."

His mother took Makhan's side in a moment, and pulled Phatik away, beating him with her

hands. When Phatik pushed her aside, she shouted out: "What are you little villain! would you

hit your own mother?"

It was just at this critical juncture that the grey-haired stranger arrived. He asked what was the

matter. Phatik looked sheepish and ashamed.

But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her anger was changed to

surprise. For she recognised her brother, and cried: "Why, Dada! Where have you come from?

"As she said these words, she bowed to the ground and touched his feet. Her brother had gone

away soon after she had married, and he had started business in Bombay. His sister had lost her

husband while he was in Bombay. Bishamber had now come back to Calcutta, and had at once

made enquiries about his sister. He had then hastened to see her as soon as he found out

where she was.

The next few days were full of rejoicing. The brother asked after the education of the two boys.

He was told by his sister that Phatik was a perpetual nuisance. He was lazy, disobedient, and

wild. But Makhan was as good as gold, as quiet as a lamb, and very fond of reading, Bishamber

kindly offered to take Phatik off his sister's hands, and educate him with his own children in

Calcutta. The widowed mother readily agreed. When his uncle asked Phatik If he would like to

go to Calcutta with him, his joy knew no bounds, and he said; "Oh, yes, uncle! " In a way that

made it quite clear that he meant it.

It was an immense relief to the mother to get rid of Phatik. She had a prejudice against the boy,

and no love was lost between the two brothers. She was in daily fear that he would either

drown Makhan some day in the river, or break his head in a fight, or run him into some danger

or other. At the same time she was somewhat distressed to see Phatik's extreme eagerness to

get away.

Phatik, as soon as all was settled, kept asking his uncle every minute when they were to start.

He was on pins and needles all day long with excitement, and lay awake most of the night. He

bequeathed (leave) to Makhan, in perpetuity (infinity), his fishing-rod, his big kite and his

marbles. Indeed, at this time of departure his generosity towards Makhan was unbounded.

When they reached Calcutta, Phatik made the acquaintance of his aunt for the first time. She

was by no means pleased with this unnecessary addition to her family. She found her own three

boys quite enough to manage without taking any one else. And to bring a village lad of fourteen

into their midst was terribly upsetting. Bishamber should really have thought twice before

committing such an indiscretion (carelessness).

In this world of human affairs there is no worse nuisance than a boy at the age of fourteen. He

is neither ornamental, nor useful. It is impossible to shower affection on him as on a little boy;

and he is always getting in the way. If he talks with a childish lisp he is called a baby, and if he

answers in a grown-up way he is called impertinent (impolite). In fact any talk at all from him is

resented (disliked). Then he is at the unattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes with

indecent haste; his voice grows hoarse (rough) and breaks and quavers (shake); his face grows

suddenly angular (bony) and unsightly. It is easy to excuse the shortcomings of early childhood,

but it is hard to tolerate even unavoidable lapses (slip) in a boy of fourteen. The lad himself

becomes painfully self-conscious. When he talks with elderly people he is either unduly

forward, or else so unduly shy that he appears ashamed of his very existence.

Yet it is at this very age when in his heart of hearts a young lad (boy) most craves for

recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of any one who shows him

consideration. But none dare openly love him, for that would be regarded as undue indulgence,

and therefore bad for the boy. So, what with scolding and chiding, he becomes very much like a

stray (wandering) dog that has lost his master.

For a boy of fourteen his own home is the only Paradise. To live in a strange house with strange

people is little short of torture, while the height of bliss is to receive the kind looks of women,

and never to be slighted (insulted) by them.

It was anguish to Phatik to be the unwelcome guest in his aunt's house, despised by this elderly

woman, and slighted, on every occasion. If she ever asked him to do anything for her, he would

be so overjoyed that he would overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to

get on with his lessons.

The cramped atmosphere of neglect in his aunt's house oppressed Phatik so much that he felt

that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out into the open country and fill his lungs and

breathe freely. But there was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta

houses and walls, be would dream night after night of his village home, and long to be back

there. He remembered the glorious meadow where he used to fly his kite all day long; the

broad river-banks where he would wander about the livelong day singing and shouting for joy;

the narrow brook where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought of his

band of boy companions over whom he was despot (dictator); and, above all, the memory of

that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice against him, occupied him day and night. A

kind of physical love like that of animals; a longing to be in the presence of the one who is

loved; an inexpressible wistfulness during absence; a silent cry of the inmost heart for the

mother, like the lowing of a calf in the twilight;-this love, which was almost an animal instinct,

agitated (restless) the shy, nervous, lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it,

but it preyed upon his mind continually.

There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He gaped and remained

silent when the teacher asked him a question, and like an over laden ass patiently suffered all

the blows that came down on his back. When other boys were out at play, he stood wistfully by

the window and gazed at the roofs of the distant houses. And if by chance he espied (see)

children playing on the open terrace of any roof, his heart would ache (pain) with longing

(wish).

One day he summoned up all his courage, and asked his uncle: "Uncle, when can I go home?"

His uncle answered; "Wait till the holidays come."But the holidays would not come till

November, and there was a long time still to wait.

One day Phatik lost his lesson-book. Even with the help of books he had found it very difficult

indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it was impossible. Day after day the teacher would cane him

unmercifully. His condition became so abjectly miserable that even his cousins were ashamed

to own him. They began to jeer and insult him more than the other boys. He went to his aunt at

last, and told her that he had lost his book.

His aunt pursed her lips in contempt, and said: "You great clumsy, country lout (thug). How can

I afford, with all my family, to buy you new books five times a month?"

That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache with a fit of shivering. He

felt he was going to have an attack of malarial fever. His one great fear was that he would be a

nuisance to his aunt.

The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. All searches in the neighbourhood proved

futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents all night, and those who went out in search of the

boy got drenched through to the skin. At last Bishamber asked help from the police.

At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door before the house. It was still raining and

the streets were all flooded. Two constables brought out Phatik in their arms and placed him

before Bishamber. He was wet through from head to foot, muddy all over, his face and eyes

flushed red with fever, and his limbs all trembling. Bishamber carried him in his arms, and took

him into the inner apartments. When his wife saw him, she exclaimed; "What a heap of trouble

this boy has given us. Hadn't you better send him home ?"

Phatik heard her words, and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just going home; but they dragged

me back again,"

The fever rose very high, and all that night the boy was delirious (hot). Bishamber brought in a

doctor. Phatik opened his eyes flushed with fever, and looked up to the ceiling, and said

vacantly: "Uncle, have the holidays come yet? May I go home?"

Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes, and took Phatik's lean and burning hands in his

own, and sat by him through the night. The boy began again to mutter. At last his voice became

excited: "Mother," he cried, "don't beat me like that! Mother! I am telling the truth!"

The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned his eyes about the room, as if

expecting someone to come. At last, with an air of disappointment, his head sank back on the

pillow. He turned his face to the wall with a deep sigh.

Bishamber knew his thoughts, and, bending down his head, whispered: "Phatik, I have sent for

your mother." The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was

very critical.

Phatik began to cry out; "By the mark! --three fathoms (measuring water). By the mark-- four

fathoms. By the mark-." He had heard the sailor on the river- steamer calling out the mark on

the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing an unfathomable sea.

Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind, and began to toss from

side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice.

Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed, and cried: "Phatik, my

darling, my darling."

Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased beating up and down.

He said: "Eh?"

The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."

Phatik very slowly turned his head and, without seeing anybody, said: "Mother, the holidays

have come."

A Predicament

By Edgar Allan Poe

What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?

--COMUS.

IT was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina. The confusion

and bustle in the streets were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children

were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they bellowed. Cows they lowed.

Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they danced. Danced! Could it then be

possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a host of

gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative

contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting and eternal, and continual,

and, as one might say, the -- continued -- yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing,

disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression, the very disturbing influence of the serene,

and godlike, and heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what may be

rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable -- nay! the most benignly beautiful,

the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold an

expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world -- but I am always led away by my

feelings. In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs

danced! I -- I could not! They frisked -- I wept. They capered -- I sobbed aloud. Touching

circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the recollection of the classical reader that

exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the commencement

of the third volume of that admirable and venerable Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but faithful companions. Diana, my

poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband

tied fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her head

was somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of

injured innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite with all.

And Pompey, my negro! -- sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I had taken Pompey's

arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty,

years of age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called small, nor his

ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white.

Nature had endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in

the middle of the upper portion of the feet. He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole

garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly -- new drab overcoat which had

formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good

overcoat. It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up out of

the dirt with both hands.

There were three persons in our party, and two of them have already been the subject of

remark. There was a third -- that person was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not

Suky Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I

was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had

trimmings of green agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored auricula. I thus

formed the third of the party. There was the poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We

were three. Thus it is said there were originally but three Furies -- Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty --

Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.

Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a respectable distance by Diana, I

proceeded down one of the populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On

a sudden, there presented itself to view a church -- a Gothic cathedral -- vast, venerable, and

with a tall steeple, which towered into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I

rush upon my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the giddy pinnacle, and

then survey the immense extent of the city. The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My

destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my guardian angel? -- if

indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning,

and doubt, and uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the ominous archway!

I entered; and, without injury to my orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and

emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river Alfred passed, unscathed, and

unwetted, beneath the sea.__

I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they went round and up, and

round and up and round and up, until I could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey,

upon whose supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early affection -- I could not help

surmising that the upper end of the continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps

designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime, an accident occurred of too

momentous a nature in a moral, and also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over

without notice. It appeared to me -- indeed I was quite confident of the fact -- I could not be

mistaken -- no! I had, for some moments, carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my

Diana -- I say that I could not be mistaken -- Diana smelt a rat! At once I called Pompey's

attention to the subject, and he -- he agreed with me. There was then no longer any reasonable

room for doubt. The rat had been smelled -- and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the

intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted intellect of man? The rat! -- it

was there -- that is to say, it was somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I -- I could not! Thus it is

said the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to

others it is perfectly scentless.

The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three or four more upward steps

intervening between us and the summit. We still ascended, and now only one step remained.

One step! One little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great staircase of human life

how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey,

and then of the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I thought of Pompey!

-- alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many false steps which have been taken, and may be

taken again. I resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm of Pompey,

and, without his assistance, surmounted the one remaining step, and gained the chamber of

the belfry. I was followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone remained

behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth

to me his hand, and unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold upon the

overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution? The overcoat is dropped, and, with one

of his feet, Pompey stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He stumbled and

fell -- this consequence was inevitable. He fell forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me

full in the -- in the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon the hard,

filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my revenge was sure, sudden, and complete.

Seizing him furiously by the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black, and crisp,

and curling material, and tossed it from me with every manifestation of disdain. It fell among

the ropes of the belfry and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me

piteously with his large eyes and -- sighed. Ye Gods -- that sigh! It sunk into my heart. And the

hair -- the wool! Could I have reached that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in

testimony of regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled among the cordage

of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-

dandy Flos Aeris of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live when pulled up by the

roots. The natives suspend it by a cord from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.

Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an aperture through which

to survey the city of Edina. Windows there were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy

chamber proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a height of about

seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to

clamber up to this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic -- looking

machinery stood opposite the hole, close to it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod

from the machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay there was barely

room for my body -- yet I was desperate, and determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my

side.

"You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it. You will stand here just beneath

the hole -- so. Now, hold out one of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it -- thus. Now,

the other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your shoulders."

He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I could easily pass my head and

neck through the aperture. The prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I

merely paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey that I would be

considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of

his feelings -- ossi tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful friend, I gave

myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly

spread itself out before my eyes.

Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not describe the city of Edinburgh.

Every one has been to the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh -- the classic

Edina. I will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable adventure. Having,

in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in regard to the extent, situation, and general

appearance of the city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the delicate

architecture of the steeple. I observed that the aperture through which I had thrust my head

was an opening in the dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the street, as

a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the French watches. No doubt the true object

was to admit the arm of an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock from

within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of these hands, the longest of which

could not have been less than ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in

breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges appeared to be sharp. Having

noticed these particulars, and some others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect

below, and soon became absorbed in contemplation.__

From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of Pompey, who declared that he

could stand it no longer, and requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was

unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He replied, but with an evident

misunderstanding of my ideas upon the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain

words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus e-clench-eye, that his notions

were mere insommary Bovis, and his words little better than an ennemywerrybor'em. With this

he appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.

It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I was deeply absorbed in the

heavenly scenery beneath me, I was startled by something very cold which pressed with a

gentle pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I felt inexpressibly alarmed. I

knew that Pompey was beneath my feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit

directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the room. What could it be? Alas! I but

too soon discovered. Turning my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,

that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock had, in the course of its hourly

revolution, descended upon my neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back

at once -- but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my head through the mouth of

that terrible trap in which it was so fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a

rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment is not to be imagined. I threw

up my hands and endeavored, with all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I

might as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down it came, closer and yet

closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him 'an

ignorant old squint-eye:' I yelled to Diana; but she only said 'bow-wow-wow,' and that I had

told her 'on no account to stir from the corner.' Thus I had no relief to expect from my

associates.

Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now discovered the literal import of

that classical phrase) had not stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career. Down and still

down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch in my flesh, and my sensations

grew indistinct and confused. At one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr.

Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood receiving his invaluable

instructions. And then again the sweet recollection of better and earlier times came over me,

and I thought of that happy period when the world was not all a desert, and Pompey not

altogether cruel.

The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my sensations now bordered

upon perfect happiness, and the most trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal

click-clak, click-clak, click-clak of the clock was the most melodious of music in my ears, and

occasionally even put me in mind of the graceful sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod. Then there

were the great figures upon the dial-plate -- how intelligent how intellectual, they all looked!

And presently they took to dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who performed

the most to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady of breeding. None of your swaggerers, and

nothing at all indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette to admiration -- whirling round

upon her apex. I made an endeavor to hand her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued

with her exertions -- and it was not until then that I fully perceived my lamentable situation.

Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a sense of

exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the moment, could not help repeating

those exquisite verses of the poet Miguel De Cervantes:

Vanny Buren, tan escondida

Query no te senty venny

Pork and pleasure, delly morry

Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!

But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient to startle the strongest

nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the machine, were absolutely starting from their

sockets. While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them, one actually tumbled

out of my head, and, rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which

ran along the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so much as the insolent air

of independence and contempt with which it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the

gutter just under my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been ridiculous had they not

been disgusting. Such a winking and blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part

of my eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its manifest insolence and shameful

ingratitude, but was also exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always

exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I was forced, in a manner, to

wink and to blink, whether I would or not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay

just under my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping out of the other eye. In

falling it took the same direction (possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of the

gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.

The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there was only a little bit of skin to

cut through. My sensations were those of entire happiness, for I felt that in a few minutes, at

farthest, I should be relieved from my disagreeable situation. And in this expectation I was not

at all deceived. At twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge minute-

hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible revolution to sever the small remainder of my

neck. I was not sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much embarrassment at

length make a final separation from my body. It first rolled down the side of the steeple, then

lodge, for a few seconds, in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge, into the middle of

the street.

I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most singular -- nay, of the most

mysterious, the most perplexing and incomprehensible character. My senses were here and

there at one and the same moment. With my head I imagined, at one time, that I, the head,

was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia -- at another I felt convinced that myself, the body, was

the proper identity. To clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for my snuff-box, but,

upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch of its grateful contents in the ordinary

manner, I became immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency, and threw the box at once

down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction, and smiled me an acknowledgement

in return. Shortly afterward it made me a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without

ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it was astonished at my wishing to remain alive

under such circumstances. In the concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto--

Il pover hommy che non sera corty

And have a combat tenty erry morty; thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the

combat, not perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest the battle with inextinguishable

valor. There was nothing now to prevent my getting down from my elevation, and I did so.

What it was that Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet been able to

find out. The fellow opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were

endeavoring to crack nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he made one

spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after the scoundrel these vehement words of

Demosthenes-

Andrew O'Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly, and then turned to the darling of my heart,

to the one-eyed! the shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my eyes? Was

that a rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are these the picked bones of the little angel who has

been cruelly devoured by the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold -- is that the departed

spirit, the shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I perceive sitting with a grace so

melancholy, in the corner? Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of

Schiller-

"Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun

Duk she! duk she!" Alas! and are not her words too true?

"And if I died, at least I died

For thee -- for thee." Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf. Dogless,

niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas --

nothing! I have done.

THE MAN OF THE CROWD

by Edgar Allan Poe

IT WAS well said of a certain German book that "er lasst sich nicht lesen"–it does not permit

itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die

nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in

the eyes–die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of

mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience

of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave.

And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged. Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening

in autumn, I sat at the large bow–window of the D-–Coffee-House in London. For some months

I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in

one of those happy moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui-moods of the keenest

appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs–achlus os prin epeen- and the

intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its everyday condition, as does the vivid yet candid

reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment;

and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm

but inquisitive interest in everything. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I

had been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over

advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering

through the smoky panes into the street. This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the

city, and had been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the

throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and

continuous tides of population were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the

evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads

filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things

within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without.

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers in

masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to

details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait,

visage, and expression of countenance. By far the greater number of those who went by had a

satisfied, business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through

the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-

wayfarers they evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on.

Others, still a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked

and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very denseness of the

company around. When impeded in their progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering;

but redoubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon their

lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers,

and appeared overwhelmed with confusion. There was nothing very distinctive about these two

large classes beyond what I have noted. Their habiliments belonged to that order which is

pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,

tradesmen, stock-jobbers–the Eupatrids and the common-places of society–men of leisure and

men actively engaged in affairs of their own–conducting business upon their own responsibility.

They did not greatly excite my attention.

The tribe of clerks was an obvious one; and here I discerned two remarkable divisions. There

were the junior clerks of flash houses- young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-

oiled hair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may be

termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to be an exact

facsimile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before.

They wore the castoff graces of the gentry;–and this, I believe, involves the best definition of

the class. The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steady old fellows," it was

not possible to mistake. These were known by their coats and pantaloons of black or brown,

made to sit comfortably, with white cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and

thick hose or gaiters. They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to

pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that they always removed or

settled their hats with both bands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial

and ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability–if indeed there be an

affectation so honorable.

There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily understood as belonging to

the race of swell pick-pockets, with which all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry

with much inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be mistaken

for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of wristband, with an air of

excessive frankness, should betray them at once. The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few,

were still more easily recognizable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate

thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and filigreed buttons, to

that of the scrupulously inornate clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to

suspicion. Still all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy

dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were two other traits, moreover, by

which I could always detect them: a guarded lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than

ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers. Very often, in

company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, but still

birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They

seem to prey upon the public in two battalions–that of the dandies and that of the military

men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks and smiles; of the second, frogged

coats and frowns. Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and deeper

themes for speculation. I saw Jew peddlers, with hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose

every other feature wore only an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street

beggars scowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into

the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and

who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if in

search of some chance consolation, some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long

and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the

glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of all

kinds and of all ages– the unequivocal beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in

mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth–

the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags–the wrinkled, bejewelled, and paint-begrimed

beldame, making a last effort at youth–the mere child of immature form, yet, from long

association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition

to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable–some in

shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes–some in

whole although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-

looking rubicund faces–others clothed in materials which had once been good, and which even

now were scrupulously well brushed-men who walked with a more than naturally firm and

springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, and whose eyes were hideously wild

and red; and who clutched with quivering fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every

object which came within their reach; beside these, pic-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps;

organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and ballad-mongers, those who vended with those who

sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all full of a noisy and

inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the

eye.

As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for not only did the

general character of the crowd materially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual

withdrawal of the more orderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into

bolder relief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den), but the rays

of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the dying day, had now at length gained

ascendancy, and threw over everything a fitful and garish luster. All was dark yet splendid–as

that ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.

The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual faces; and although

the rapidity with which the world of light flitted before the window prevented me from casting

more than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I

could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of long years. With my

brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob, when suddenly there came into

view a countenance (that of a decrepit old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age)–a

countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the

absolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Anything even remotely resembling that expression I

had never seen before. I well remember that my first thought, upon beholding it, was that

Retszch, had he viewed it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pectoral incarnations of

the fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis

of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas

of vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of

bloodthirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense–of supreme despair. I

felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "is written

within that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view–to know more of him.

Hurriedly putting on all overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, I made my way into the street,

and pushed through the crowd in the direction which I had seen him take; for he had already

disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within sight of him, approached, and

followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to attract his attention.

I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in stature, very thin, and

apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and

then, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of

beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely buttoned and

evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a glimpse both of a

diamond and of a dagger. These observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow

the stranger whithersoever he should go. It was now fully night-fall and a thick humid fog hung

over the city, soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd effect

upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed

by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For

my own part I did not much regard the rain–the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering

the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief about my mouth, I kept

on. For half an hour the old man held his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I

here walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never once turning his head

to look back, he did not observe me. By and by he passed into a cross street, which, although

densely filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted.

Here a change in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with less object

than before- more hesitatingly. He crossed and recrossed the way repeatedly, without apparent

aim; and the press was still so thick, that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him

closely. The street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for nearly an hour,

during which the passengers had gradually diminished to about that number which is ordinarily

seen at noon in Broadway near the park–so vast a difference is there between a London

populace and that of the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a

square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the stranger

reappeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows,

in every direction, upon those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and

perseveringly. I was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the square,

that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him repeat the same

walk several times–once nearly detecting me as he came around with a sudden movement.

In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with far less interruption

from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast, the air grew cool; and the people were retiring

to their homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street

comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I

could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit.

A few minutes brought us to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger

appeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he

forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and sellers.

During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place, it required much

caution on my part to keep him within reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a

pair of caoutchouc overshoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he

see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word, and looked

at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly

resolved that we should not part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.

A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting the bazaar. A

shopkeeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a strong

shudder come over his frame. He hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an

instant, and then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people less lanes,

until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started–the street of

the D--- Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but

the rain fell fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked

moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned in the

direction of the river, and, plunging through a great variety of devious ways, came out, at

length, in view of one of the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience was

thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid

the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in some measure,

abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed

that he now took the course in which had gone the greater number of the audience but, upon

the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his actions.

As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness and vacillation

were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but

from this number one by one dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and

gloomy lane, little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in

thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which brought us to the

verge of the city, amid regions very different from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the

most noisome quarter of London, where everything wore the worst impress of the most

deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an accidental lamp,

tall, antique, wormeaten, wooden tenements were seen tottering to their fall, in directions so

many and capricious, that scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them.

The paving-stones lay at random, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass.

Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with

desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at

length large bands of the most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro.

The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death-hour. Once more

he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon

our sight, and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance–one of the

palaces of the fiend, Gin. It was now nearly daybreak; but a number of wretched inebriates still

pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy the old man forced a

passage within, resumed at once his original bearing, and stalked backward and forward,

without apparent object, among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however,

before a rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was

something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the countenance of the

singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but,

with a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and

swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a

scrutiny in which I now felt an interest allabsorbing.

The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most thronged

mart of the populous town, the street of the D-–Hotel, it presented an appearance of human

bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long,

amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as

usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street.

And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping

fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but

resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation.

"The old man," I said at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be

alone.

He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow, for I shall learn no more of him, nor of

his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animae,'* and

perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that "er lasst sich nicht lesen."