University of Virginia Library

THE SCYTHE OF TIME.

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 exalting, 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 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 third 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 Singing.

Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and
attended at a respectful 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 thence 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 a 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 Alceus passed unscathed, and unwetted, beneath
the sea.

I thought the staircases 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 incident 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!

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 that 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 often depends! I
thought of myself, and 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 the 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
afterwards 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

it 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 forwards, and, with his accursed
head, striking me full in the—in the breast, precipitated
me headlong, together with himself, upon
the hard, the filthy, the 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 the 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 still 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 everything 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
Zaire. 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 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 keyhole,
such as we see in the face of 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 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 enemy-werrybor'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 upon
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 upwards
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 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-clack, click-clack,
click-clack, of the clock was the most melodious
of music in my ears—and occasionally even
put me in mind of the grateful sermonic harangues
of Dr. Morphine. 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:

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 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 three 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
lodged 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 upon
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 acknowledgment in return. Shortly afterwards
it made me a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly
without my 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 compared me to the hero in
Ariosto, who, in the heat of combat, not perceiving
that he was dead, continued to fight valiantly dead
as he was. I remember that it used the precise words
of the poet:
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 was endeavoring to crack nuts between
the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat,
he made one spring for the staircase and—I never
saw him again. I hurled after the scoundrel those
vehement words of Demosthenes—
and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the
curtailed, the one-eyed, the shaggy-haired Diana.
Alas! what 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—is that the departed spirit,
the shade, the ghost of my beloved puppy, which I
perceive sitting with a grace and face so melancholy,
in the corner? Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens!
it is in the German of Schiller—
Alas!—and are not her words too true?
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.