 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
LOSS OF BREATH.
O breathe not, &c.
Moore's Melodies.
The most notorious ill-fortune must, in the end,
yield to the untiring courage of philosophy—as the
most stubborn city to the ceaseless vigilance of an
enemy. Salmanezer, as we have it in the holy
writings, lay three year before Samaria; yet it fell.
Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself
seven in Nineveh; but to no purpose. Troy expired
at the close of the second lustrum; and Azoth, as
Aristæus declares upon his honor as a gentleman,
opened at last her gates to Psammitticus, after
having barred them for the fifth part of a century.
* * * * * *
“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!”
—said I to my wife on the morning after our wedding—“thou
witch!—thou hag!—thou whippersnapper!—thou
sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—
thou—” here standing upon tiptoe, seizing her by
I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail,
if ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance,
when, to my extreme horror and astonishment, I
discovered that I had lost my breath.
The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost
my breath,” &c., are often enough repeated in common
conversation; but it had never occurred to me
that the terrible accident of which I speak could
bonâ fide and actually happen! Imagine—that is if
you have a fanciful turn—imagine I say, my wonder
—my consternation—my despair!
There is a good genius, however, which has never,
at any time, entirely deserted me. In my most ungovernable
moods I still retain a sense of propriety,
et le chemin des passions me conduit—as Rousseau
says it did him—à la philosophie veritable.
Although I could not at first precisely ascertain
to what degree the occurrence had affected me, I
unhesitatingly determined to conceal at all events
the matter from my wife until farther experience
should discover to me the extent of this my unheard of
calamity. Altering my countenance, therefore, in a
moment, from its bepuffed and distorted appearance,
to an expression of arch and coquettish benignity, I
gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on
the other, and without saying one syllable, (Furies!
I could not,) left her astonished at my drollery, as I
pirouetted out of the room in a Pas de Zephyr.
Behold me then safely ensconced in my private
attending upon irascibility—alive with the qualifications
of the dead—dead with the propensities of the
living—an anomaly on the face of the earth—being
very calm, yet breathless.
Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that
my breath was entirely gone. I could not have
stirred with it a feather if my life had been at issue,
or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!
—yet there was some alleviation to the first overwhelming
paroxysm of my sorrow. I found upon
trial that the powers of utterance which, upon my
inability to proceed in the conversation with my
wife, I then concluded to be totally destroyed, were
in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered that
had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to
a singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued
to her the communication of my sentiments;
this pitch of voice (the guttural) depending, I find,
not upon the current of the breath, but upon a certain
spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for
some time absorbed in meditation. My reflections,
be sure, were of no consolatory kind. A thousand
vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession of
my soul—and even the phantom suicide flitted across
my brain; but it is a trait in the perversity of human
nature to reject the obvious and the ready, for the
far-distant and equivocal. Thus I shuddered at self-murder
as the most decided of atrocities, while the
tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the
each taking to itself much merit for the strength of
its lungs, and all obviously done in derision of my
own pulmonary incapacity.
Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears,
I at length heard the footstep of my wife descending
the staircase. Being now assured of her absence,
I returned with a palpitating heart to the
scene of my disaster.
Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced
a vigorous search. It was possible, I
thought, that concealed in some obscure corner, or
lurking in some closet or drawer, might be found the
lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory
—it might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers,
upon many points of philosophy, are still
very unphilosophical. William Godwin, however,
says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things are
the only realities.” This, all will allow, is a case
in point. I would have the judicious reader pause
before accusing such asseverations of an undue
quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras—it will be remembered—maintained
that snow is black. This
I have since found to be the case.
Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation:
but the contemptible reward of my industry
and perseverance proved to be only a set of false
teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle of billetsdoux
from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might
as well here observe that this confirmation of my
lady's partiality for Mr. W. occasioned me little
any thing so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust
and corpulent appearance, and at the same time somewhat
diminutive in stature. What wonder then that
the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance, and his
altitude which has grown into a proverb, should have
met with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs.
Lack-o'Breath? It is by logic similar to this that
true philosophy is enabled to set misfortune at defiance.
But to return.
My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless.
Closet after closet—drawer after drawer—
corner after corner—were scrutinized to no purpose.
At one time, however, I thought myself sure
of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
accidentally demolished a bottle (I had a remarkably
sweet breath) of Hewitt's “Seraphic and Highly-Scented
Extract of Heaven or Oil of Archangels”
—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
liberty of recommending.
With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—
there to ponder upon some method of eluding my wife's
penetration, until I could make arrangements prior
to my leaving the country, for to this I had already
made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown,
I might, with some probability of success, endeavor
to conceal my unhappy calamity—a calamity
calculated, even more than beggary, to estrange the
affections of the multitude, and to draw down upon
the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous
naturally quick, I committed to memory the
entire tragedies of —,and—. I had the good
fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of these
dramas, or at least of such portion of them as is
allotted to their heroes, the tones of voice in which I
found myself deficient were altogether unnecessary,
and that the deep guttural was expected to reign
monotonously throughout.
I practised for some time by the borders of a well-frequented
marsh—herein, however, having no reference
to a similar proceeding of Demosthenes, but
from a design peculiarly and conscientiously my
own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten
with a passion for the stage. In this I succeeded to
a miracle; and to every question or suggestion found
myself at liberty to reply in my most frog-like and
sepulchral tones with some passage from the tragedies
—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure
in observing, would apply equally well to any particular
subject. It is not to be supposed, however,
that in the delivery of such passages I was found at
all deficient in the looking asquint—the showing my
teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet
—or in any of those unmentionable graces which
are now justly considered the characteristics of a
popular performer. To be sure they spoke of confining
me in a straight-jacket—but, good God! they
never suspected me of having lost my breath.
Having at length put my affairs in order, I took
for—, giving it to be understood among my acquaintances
that business of the last importance
required my immediate personal attendance in that
city.
The coach was crammed to repletion—but in the
uncertain twilight the features of my companions
could not be distinguished. Without making any
effectual resistance I suffered myself to be placed
between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while
a third, of a size larger, requesting pardon for the
liberty he was about to take, threw himself upon my
body at full length, and falling asleep in an instant,
drowned all my guttural ejaculations for relief, in a
snore which would have put to the blush the roarings
of a Phalarian bull. Happily the state of my
respiratory faculties rendered suffocation an accident
entirely out of the question.
As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our
approach to the outskirts of the city, my tormentor
arising and adjusting his shirt-collar, thanked me in
a very friendly manner for my civility. Seeing that
I remained motionless, (all my limbs were dislocated,
and my head twisted on one side,) his apprehensions
began to be excited; and, arousing the rest of the
passengers, he communicated, in a very decided
manner, his opinion that a dead man had been
palmed upon them during the night for a living and
responsible fellow-traveller—here giving me a thump
on the right eye, by way of evidencing the truth of
his suggestion.
Thereupon all, one after another, (there were nine
in company) believed it their duty to pull me by the
ear. A young practising physician, too, having applied
a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and found me
without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed
their determination to endure tamely no such impositions
for the future, and to proceed no farther
with any such carcases for the present.
I was here accordingly thrown out at the sign of
the “Crow,” (by which tavern the coach happened
to be passing) without meeting with any farther accident
than the breaking of both my arms under the
left hind-wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
driver the justice to state that he did not forget to
throw after me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately
falling on my head, fractured my skull
in a manner at once interesting and extraordinary.
The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable
man, finding that my trunk contained sufficient to
indemnify him for any little trouble he might take in
my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon of his acquaintance,
and delivered me to his care with a bill
and receipt for five-and-twenty dollars.
The purchaser took me to his apartments and
commenced operations immediately. Having, however,
cut off my ears, he discovered signs of animation.
He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency.
In case, however, of his suspicions with regard to
my existence proving ultimately correct, he, in the
several of my viscera for private dissection.
The apothecary had an idea that I was actually
dead. This idea I endeavored to confute, kicking
and plunging with all my might, and making the
most furious contortions—for the operations of the
surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession
of my faculties. All, however, was attributed
to the effects of a new galvanic battery, wherewith
the apothecary, who is really a man of information,
performed several curious experiments, in which,
from my personal share in their fulfilment, I could
not help feeling deeply interested. It was a source
of mortification to me nevertheless, that although I
made several attempts at conversation, my powers
of speech were so entirely in abeyance, that I could
not even open my mouth; much less then make reply
to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which,
under other circumstances, my minute acquaintance
with the Hippocratian pathology would have afforded
me a ready confutation.
Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
remanded me for further examination. I
was taken up into a garret; and the surgeon's lady
having accommodated me with drawers and stockings,
the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
tied up my jaws with a pocket handkerchief—then
bolted the door on the outside as he hurried to his
dinner, leaving me alone to silence and to meditation.
I now discovered to my extreme delight that I
by the pocket-handkerchief. Consoling myself with
this reflection, I was mentally repeating some passages
of the—, as is my custom before resigning
myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped
up with a flourish à la Catalani, and alighting opposite
one another on my visage, betook themselves
to unseemly and indecorous contention for the paltry
consideration of my nose.
But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of
elevating to the throne of Cyrus, the Magian or
Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the cutting off his nose
gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the loss of a
few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation
of my body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with
indignation, I burst, at a single effort, the fastenings
and the bandage. Stalking across the room I cast
a glance of contempt at the belligerents, and throwing
open the sash to their extreme horror and disappointment,
precipitated myself—very dexterously
—from the window.
The mail-robber W—, to whom I bore a
singular resemblance, was at this moment passing
from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his execution
in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity, and
long-continued ill health, had obtained him the privilege
of remaining unmanacled; and habited in his
gallows costume—a dress very similar to my own
—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman's
cart (which happened to be under the windows
without any other guard than the driver who was
asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry, who
were drunk.
As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within
the vehicle. W—, who was an acute fellow,
perceived his opportunity. Leaping up immediately,
he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was
out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend
the merits of the transaction. Seeing, however, a
man, the precise counterpart of the felon, standing
upright in the cart before their eyes, they were of
opinion that the rascal (meaning W—) was
after making his escape, (so they expressed themselves,)
and, having communicated this opinion to one
another, they took each a dram and then knocked
me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.
It was not long ere we arrived at the place of
destination. Of course nothing could be said in my
defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate. I resigned
myself thereto with a feeling half stupid, half
acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted
the noose about my neck. The drop fell.
My convulsions were said to be extraordinary.
Several gentlemen swooned, and some ladies were
carried home in hysterics. Pinxit, too, availed himself
of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch
taken upon the spot, his admirable painting of the
“Marsyas flayed alive.”
I will endeavor to depict my sensations upon the
gallows. To write upon such a theme it is necessary
to have been hanged. Every author should confine
himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
wrote a treatise upon drunkenness.
Die I certainly did not. The sudden jerk given to
my neck upon the falling of the drop, merely proved
a corrective to the unfortunate twist afforded me by
the gentleman in the coach. Although my body certainly
was, I had, alas! no breath to be suspended;
and but for the chafing of the rope, the pressure of
the knot under my ear, and the rapid determination
of blood to the brain, I should, I dare say, have experienced
very little inconvenience.
The latter feeling, however, grew momently
more painful. I heard my heart beating with violence—the
veins in my hands and wrists swelled
nearly to bursting—my temples throbbed tempestuously—and
I felt that my eyes were starting from
their sockets. Yet when I say that in spite of all
this my sensations were not absolutely intolerable, I
will not be believed.
There were noises in my ears—first like the
tolling of huge bells—then like the beating of a thousand
drums—then, lastly, like the low, sullen murmurs
of the sea. But these noises were very far from
disagreeable.
Although, too, the powers of my mind were confused
and distorted, yet I was—strange to say!—
well aware of such confusion and distortion. I could,
with unerring promptitude determine at will in what
what particulars I wandered from the path. I could
even feel with accuracy how far—to what very
point, such wanderings had misguided me, but still
without the power of correcting my deviations. I
took besides, at the same time, a wild delight in analyzing
my conceptions.*
Memory, which, of all other faculties, should have
first taken its departure, seemed on the contrary to
have been endowed with quadrupled power. Each
incident of my past life flitted before me like a shadow.
There was not a brick in the building where I was
born—not a dog-leaf in the primer I had thumbed
over when a child—not a tree in the forest where I
hunted when a boy—not a street in the cities I had
traversed when a man—that I did not at that time
most palpably behold. I could repeat to myself entire
lines, passages, chapters, books, from the studies
of my earlier days; and while, I dare say, the
crowd around me were blind with horror, or
aghast with awe, I was alternately with Æschylus, a
demi-god, or with Aristophanes, a frog.
* * * * * * * *
A dreamy delight now took hold upon my spirit,
and I imagined that I had been eating opium, or
feasting upon the hashish of the old assassins. But
which I was still buoyed up by the hope of finally escaping
that death which hovered like a vulture above
me—were still caught occasionally by my soul.
By some unusual pressure of the rope against my
face, a portion of the cap was chafed away, and I
found to my astonishment that my powers of vision
were not altogether destroyed. A sea of waving
heads rolled around me. In the intensity of my delight
I eyed them with feelings of the deepest commiseration,
and blessed, as I looked upon the haggard
assembly, the superior benignity of my proper stars.
I now reasoned, rapidly I believe—profoundly I
am sure—upon principles of common law—propriety
of that law especially, for which I hung—absurdities
in political economy which till then I had
never been able to acknowledge—dogmas in the old
Aristotelians now generally denied, but not the less
intrinsically true—detestable school formulæ in
Bourdon, in Garnier, in Lacroix—synonymes in
Crabbe—lunar-lunatic theories in St. Pierre—falsities
in the Pelham novels—beauties in Vivian Grey
—more than beauties in Vivian Grey—profundity
in Vivian Grey—genius in Vivian Grey—everything
in Vivian Grey.
Then came like a flood, Coleridge, Kant, Fitche,
and Pantheism—then like a deluge, the Academie,
Pergola, La Scala, San Carlo, Paul, Albert, Noblet,
Ronzi Vestris, Fanny Bias, and Taglioni.
* * * * * * * *
A rapid change was now taking place in my sensations.
The last shadows of connection flitted away
from my meditations. A storm—a tempest of ideas,
vast, novel, and soul-stirring, bore my spirit like a
feather afar off. Confusion crowded upon confusion
like a wave upon a wave. In a very short time
Schelling himself would have been satisfied with my
entire loss of self-identity. The crowd became a
mass of mere abstraction.
About this period I became aware of a heavy fall
and shock—but, although the concussion jarred
throughout my frame, I had not the slightest idea of
its having been sustained in my own proper person;
and thought of it as of an incident peculiar to some
other existence—an idiosyncrasy belonging to some
other Ens.
It was at this moment—as I afterwards discovered—that
having been suspended for the full term of
execution, it was thought proper to remove my body
from the gallows—this the more especially as the
real culprit had now been retaken and recognised.
Much sympathy was now exercised in my behalf
—and as no one in the city appeared to identify my
body, it was ordered that I should be interred in the
public sepulchre early in the following morning. I
lay, in the meantime, without sign of life—although
from the moment, I suppose, when the rope
was loosened from my neck, a dim consciousness of
my situation oppressed me like the night-mare.
I was laid out in a chamber sufficiently small, and
very much encumbered with furniture—yet to me it
never before or since, in body or in mind, suffered
half so much agony as from that single idea. Strange!
that the simple conception of abstract magnitude—
of infinity—should have been accompanied with
pain. Yet so it was. “With how vast a difference,”
said I, “in life and in death—in time and in eternity
—here and hereafter, shall our merest sensations be
imbodied!”
The day died away, and I was aware that it was
growing dark—yet the same terrible conceit still
overwhelmed me. Nor was it confined to the boundaries
of the apartment—it extended, although in a
more definite manner, to all objects, and, perhaps I
will not be understood in saying that it extended also
to all sentiments. My fingers as they lay cold,
clammy, stiff, and pressing helplessly one against
another, were, in my imagination, swelled to a size
according with the proportions of the Antœus. Every
portion of my frame betook of their enormity. The
pieces of money—I well remember—which being
placed upon my eyelids, failed to keep them effectually
closed, seemed huge, interminable chariot-wheels of
the Olympia, or of the Sun.
Yet it is very singular that I experienced no sense
of weight—of gravity. On the contrary I was put
to much inconvenience by that buoyancy—that
tantalizing difficulty of keeping down, which is felt
by the swimmer in deep water. Amid the tumult of
my terrors I laughed with a hearty internal laugh to
think what incongruity there would be—could I arise
the mountain of my form.
* * * * * * * *
The night came—and with it a new crowd of
horrors. The consciousness of my approaching interment
began to assume new distinctness, and consistency—yet
never for one moment did I imagine
that I was not actually dead.
“This then”—I mentally ejaculated—“this
darkness which is palpable, and oppresses with a
sense of suffocation—this—this—is indeed death.
This is death—this is death the terrible—death the
holy. This is the death undergone by Regulus—
and equally by Seneca. Thus—thus, too, shall I
always remain—always—always remain. Reason
is folly, and philosophy a lie. No one will know my
sensations, my horror—my despair. Yet will men
still persist in reasoning, and philosophizing, and
making themselves fools. There is, I find, no hereafter
but this. This—this—this—is the only
eternity!—and what, O Baalzebub!—what an
eternity!—to lie in this vast—this awful void—a
hideous, vague, and unmeaning anomaly—motionless,
yet wishing for motion—powerless, yet longing
for power—forever, forever, and forever!”
But the morning broke at length—and with its
misty and gloomy dawn arrived in triple horror the
paraphernalia of the grave. Then—and not till
then—was I fully sensible of the fearful fate hanging
away with its shadows, and the actual terrors of the
yawning tomb left me no heart for the bug-bear
speculations of transcendentalism.
I have before mentioned that my eyes were but
imperfectly closed—yet as I could not move them
in any degree, those objects alone which crossed the
direct line of vision were within the sphere of my
comprehension. But across that line of vision spectral
and stealthy figures were continually flitting, like the
ghosts of Banquo. They were making hurried preparations
for my interment. First came the coffin
which they placed quietly by my side. Then the undertaker
with attendants and a screw-driver. Then
a stout man whom I could distinctly see and who
took hold of my feet—while one whom I could only
feel lifted me by the head and shoulders. Together
they placed me in the coffin, and drawing the shroud
up over my face proceeded to fasten down the lid.
One of the screws, missing its proper direction, was
screwed by the carelessness of the undertaker deep
—deep—down into my shoulder. A convulsive
shudder ran throughout my frame. With what
horror, with what sickening of heart did I reflect
that one minute sooner a similar manifestation of
life, would, in all probability, have prevented my
inhumation. But alas! it was now too late, and
hope died away within my bosom as I felt myself
lifted upon the shoulders of men—carried down the
stairway—and thrust within the hearse.
During the brief passage to the cemetery my sensations,
dull, assumed, all at once, a degree of intense and
unnatural vivacity for which I can in no manner
account. I could distinctly hear the restling of the
plumes—the whispers of the attendants—the solemn
breathings of the horses of death. Confined as I
was in that narrow and strict embrace, I could feel
the quicker or slower movement of the procession
—the restlessness of the driver—the windings of
the road as it led us to the right or to the left. I
could distinguish the peculiar odor of the coffin—
the sharp acid smell of the steel screws. I could see
the texture of the shroud as it lay close against my
face; and was even conscious of the rapid variations
in light and shade which the flapping to and fro of
the sable hangings occasioned within the body of
the vehicle.
In a short time, however, we arrived at the place
of sepulture, and I felt myself deposited within the
tomb. The entrance was secured—they departed
—and I was left alone. A line of Marston's “Malcontent,”
I lay at length, the quick among the dead—Anacharsis
inter Scythas.
From what I overheard early in the morning, I
was led to believe that the occasions when the vault
was made use of were of very rare occurrence. It
the doors of the tomb would be again unbarred—
and even should I survive until that period, what
means could I have more than at present, of making
known my situation or of escaping from the coffin?
I resigned myself, therefore, with much tranquillity
to my fate, and fell, after many hours, into a deep
and deathlike sleep.
How long I remained thus is to me a mystery.
When I awoke my limbs were no longer cramped
with the cramp of death—I was no longer without
the power of motion. A very slight exertion was
sufficient to force off the lid of my prison—for the
dampness of the atmosphere had already occasioned
decay in the wood-work around the screws.
My steps as I groped around the sides of my habitation
were, however, feeble and uncertain, and I
felt all the gnawings of hunger with the pains of intolerable
thirst. Yet, as time passed away, it is
strange that I experienced little uneasiness from these
scourges of the earth, in comparisons with the more
terrible visitations of the fiend Ennui. Stranger
still were the resources by which I endeavored to
banish him from my presence.
The sepulchre was large and subdivided into many
compartments, and I busied myself in examining the
peculiarities of their construction. I determined the
length and breadth of my abode. I counted and
recounted the stones of the masonry. But there
were other methods by which I endeavored to
lighten the tedium of my hours. Feeling my way
I lifted them down, one by one, and breaking open
their lids, busied myself in speculations about the
mortality within.
“This,” I reflected, tumbling over a carcass, puffy,
bloated, and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in
every sense of the word, an unhappy—an unfortunate
man. It has been his terrible lot not to
walk, but to waddle—to pass through life not like
a human being, but like an elephant—not like a
man, but like a rhinoceros.
“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions—and
his circumgyratory proceedings a palpable
failure. Taking a step forward, it has been
his misfortune to take two towards the right, and
three towards the left. His studies have been confined
to the poetry of Crabbe. He can have had no
idea of the wonders of a pirouette. To him a pas
de papillon has been an abstract conception. He
has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis.
Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the
dog-days his days have been the days of a dog.
Therein, he has dreamed of flames and suffocation
—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon
Ossa. He was short of breath—to say all in a
word—he was short of breath. He thought it extravagant
to play upon wind instruments. He was
the inventor of self-moving fans—wind-sails—and
ventilators. He patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker—and
died miserably in attempting to smoke
lot in which I sincerely sympathize.”
“But here,” said I—“here”—and I dragged
spitefully from its receptacle a gaunt, tall, and
peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable appearance
struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity—
“here,” said I—“here is a wretch entitled to no
earthly commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to
obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I applied
my thumb and fore-finger to his nose, and, causing
him to assume a sitting position upon the ground,
held, him thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
my soliloquy.
—“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration.
Who indeed would think of compassionating
a shadow? Besides—has he not had his full share
of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator
of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods
—lombardy-poplars. His treatise upon `Shades and
Shadows' has immortalized him. He went early to
college and studied pneumatics. He then came
home—talked eternally—and played upon the
French-horn. He patronized the bag-pipes. Captain
Barclay, who walked against Time, would not walk
against him. Windham and Allbreath were his favorite
writers. He died gloriously while inhaling gas
—levique flatu corrumpitur, like the fama pudicitiae
in Hieronymus.[1]
He was indubitably a”—
“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted
the object of my animadversions, gasping for
breath, and tearing off, with a desperate exertion,
the bandage around his jaws—how can you, Mr.
Lack-o'Breath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me
in that manner by the nose? Did you not see how they
had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if
you know anything—whata vast superfluity of breath
I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however, sit
down and you shall see. In my situation it is really
a great relief to be able to open one's mouth—to be
able to expatiate—to be able to communicate with
a person like yourself who do not think yourself
called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of
a gentleman's discourse. Interruptions are annoying
and should undoubtedly be abolished—don't you
think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one person is
enough to be speaking at a time. I shall be done
by-and-by, and then you may begin. How the
devil, sir, did you get into this place?—not a word
I beseech you—been here some time myself—
terrible accident!—heard of it, I suppose—awful
calamity!—walking under your windows—some
short while ago—about the time you were stage-struck—horrible
occurrence! heard of `catching
one's breath,' eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—
I caught somebody else's!—had always too much
of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—
would'nt give me a chance for a word—could'nt
get in a syllable edgeways—attacked, consequently,
with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all
this place—pretty doings all of them!—heard all
you said about me—every word a lie—horrible!
—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et
cetera—et cetera—et cetera—
et cetera”—
It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so
unexpected a discourse; or the extravagant joy with
which I became gradually convinced that the breath
so fortunately caught by the gentleman—whom I
soon recognised as my neighbor Windenough—
was, in fact, the identical expiration mislaid by myself
in the conversation with my wife. Time—
place—and incidental circumstances rendered it a
matter beyond question. I did not, however, immediately
release my hold upon Mr. W.'s proboscis
—not at least during the long period in which the
inventor of lombardy poplars continued to favor me
with his explanations. In this respect I was actuated
by that habitual prudence which has ever been my
predominating trait.
I reflected that many difficulties might still lie in
the path of my preservation which only extreme exertion
on my part would be able to surmount. Many
persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities
in their possession—however valueless to the
then proprietor—however troublesome, or distressing—in
precise ratio with the advantages to be derived
by others from their attainment—or by themselves
from their abandonment. Might not this be the
case with Mr. Windenough? In displaying anxiety
to get rid, might I not lay myself open to the exactions
of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this
world—I remembered with a sigh—who will not
scruple to take unfair opportunities with even a next
door neighbor—and (this remark is from Epictetus)
it is precisely at that time when men are most anxious
to throw off the burden of their own calamities that
they feel the least desirous of relieving them in
others.
Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining
my grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly
thought proper to model my reply.
“Monster!”—I began in a tone of the deepest
indignation—“monster! and double-winded idiot!
—dost thou whom, for thine iniquities, it has pleased
heaven to accurse with a two-fold respiration—
dost thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar
language of an old acquaintance?—`I lie,' forsooth!
—and `hold my tongue,' to be sure—pretty conversation,
indeed, to a gentleman with a single breath!—
all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve
the calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer
—to curtail the superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”
Like Brutus I paused for a reply—with
which, like a tornado, Mr. Windenough immediately
overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon protestation,
and apology upon apology. There were
no terms with which he was unwilling to comply,
and there were none of which I failed to take the
fullest advantage.
Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance
delivered me the respiration—for which
—having carefully examined it—I gave him afterwards
a receipt.
I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame
for speaking in a manner so cursory of a transaction
so impalpable. It will be thought that I should have
entered more minutely into the details of an occurrence
by which—and all this is very true—much
new light might be thrown upon a highly interesting
branch of physical philosophy.
To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A
hint is the only answer which I am permitted to make.
There were circumstances—but I think it much
safer upon consideration to say as little as possible
about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat,
and at the same time involving the interests of a third
party whose resentment I have not the least desire,
at this moment, of incurring.
We were not long after this necessary arrangement
in effecting an escape from the dungeons of the
sepulchre. The united strength of our resuscitated
voices was soon efficiently apparent. Scissors, the
Whig Editor, republished a treatise upon “the
nature and origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—
rejoinder—confutation—and justification—followed
in the columns of an ultra Gazette. It was not until
the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself
proved both parties to have been decidedly in the
wrong.
I cannot conclude these details of some very singular
passages in a life at all times sufficiently eventful,
without again recalling to the attention of the reader
the merits of that indiscriminate philosophy which is
a sure and ready shield against those shafts of calamity
which can be neither seen, felt, nor fully understood.
It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates
of heaven would be inevitably opened to that sinner,
or saint, who, with good lungs and implicit confidence,
should vociferate the word “Amen!” It was in the
spirit of this wisdom that, when a great plague raged
at Athens, and every means had been in vain attempted
for its removal, Epimenides—as Laertius relates
in his second book of the life of that philosopher—
advised the erection of a shrine and temple—
“to the proper God.”
The general reader will, I dare say, recognise, in these sensations
of Mr. Lack-o'Breath, much of the absurd metaphysicianism
of the redoubted Schelling.
cito ad levem marcessit auram, levique flatu corrumpitur—
maxime, &c.
—Hieronymus ad Salvinam.
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