The
scoundrels
refused to pay it, so I had Mr.
Poe - 5
I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor
of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he
went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration
just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually
singular thing that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap
was the affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any
profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back,
on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At the same
instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed,
having caught and wrapt up in his apron something that fell heavily into
it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this
I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Dammit lay
particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and
that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found
that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth
is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send for the
homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open
an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at
once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing
the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a
flat iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of
a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent.
With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my
unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.
He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not
give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he
hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a
lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked
a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses
of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists.
The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once,
and sold him for dog's meat.
THOU ART THE MAN
I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound
to you--as I alone can--the secret of the enginery that effected the
Rattleborough miracle--the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed,
the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among
the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all
the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event--which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable
levity--occurred in the summer of 18--. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy--one
of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough--had
been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to
suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough
very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention
of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of
returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure,
however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags
which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded,
too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to
much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found,
on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole
borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy--a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow. "
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the
name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never
yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there
never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly,
honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear
voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always
straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience
myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean
action.
of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he
went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration
just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually
singular thing that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap
was the affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any
profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back,
on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At the same
instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed,
having caught and wrapt up in his apron something that fell heavily into
it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this
I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Dammit lay
particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and
that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found
that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth
is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send for the
homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open
an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at
once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing
the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a
flat iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of
a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent.
With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my
unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.
He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not
give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he
hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a
lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked
a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses
of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists.
The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once,
and sold him for dog's meat.
THOU ART THE MAN
I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound
to you--as I alone can--the secret of the enginery that effected the
Rattleborough miracle--the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed,
the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among
the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all
the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event--which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable
levity--occurred in the summer of 18--. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy--one
of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough--had
been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to
suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough
very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention
of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of
returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure,
however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags
which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded,
too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to
much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found,
on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole
borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy--a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow. "
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the
name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never
yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there
never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly,
honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear
voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always
straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience
myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean
action.
