On a bitter evening of December, I arrived by mail in a large town, which was then the residence of an intimate friend, one of those gifted youths who cultivate poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves students at law. My first business, after supper, was to visit him at the office of his distinguished1 instructor2. As I have said, it was a bitter night, clear starlight, but cold as Nova Zembla,--the shop-windows along the street being frosted, so as almost to hide the lights, while the wheels of coaches thundered equally loud over frozen earth and pavements of stone. There was no snow, either on the ground or the roofs of the houses. The wind blew so violently, that I had but to spread my cloak like a main-sail, and scud3 along the street at the rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navigators, who were beating slowly up, with the gale4 right in their teeth. One of these I capsized, but was gone on the wings of the wind before he could even vociferate an oath.
After this picture of an inclement5 night, behold6 us seated by a great blazing fire, which looked so comfortable and delicious that I felt inclined to lie down and roll among the hot coals. The usual furniture of a lawyer's office was around us,--rows of volumes in sheepskin, and a multitude of writs7, summonses, and other legal papers, scattered8 over the desks and tables. But there were certain objects which seemed to intimate that we had little dread9 of the intrusion of clients, or of the learned counsellor himself, who, indeed, was attending court in a distant town. A tall, decanter-shaped bottle stood on the table, between two tumblers, and beside a pile of blotted10 manuscripts, altogether dissimilar to any law documents recognized in our courts. My friend, whom I shall call Oberon,--it was a name of fancy and friendship between him and me,--my friend Oberon looked at these papers with a peculiar11 expression of disquietude.
"I do believe," said he, soberly, "or, at least, I could believe, if I chose, that there is a devil in this pile of blotted papers. You have read them, and know what I mean,--that conception in which I endeavored to embody12 the character of a fiend, as represented in our traditions and the written records of witchcraft13. Oh, I have a horror of what was created in my own brain, and shudder14 at the manuscripts in which I gave that dark idea a sort of material existence! Would they were out of my sight!"
"And of mine, too," thought I.
"You remember," continued Oberon, "how the hellish thing used to suck away the happiness of those who, by a simple concession15 that seemed almost innocent, subjected themselves to his power. Just so my peace is gone, and all by these accursed manuscripts. Have you felt nothing of the same influence?"
"Nothing," replied I, "unless the spell be hid in a desire to turn novelist, after reading your delightful16 tales."
"Novelist!" exclaimed Oberon, half seriously. "Then, indeed, my devil has his claw on you! You are gone! You cannot even pray for deliverance! But we will be the last and only victims; for this night I mean to burn the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his retribution in the flames."
"Burn your tales!" repeated I, startled at the desperation of the idea.
"Even so," said the author, despondingly. "You cannot conceive what an effect the composition of these tales has had on me. I have become ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. I am surrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the realities of life. They have drawn17 me aside from the beaten path of the world, and led me into a strange sort of solitude18,--a solitude in the midst of men,-where nobody wishes for what I do, nor thinks nor feels as I do. The tales have done all this. When they are ashes, perhaps I shall be as I was before they had existence. Moreover, the sacrifice is less than you may suppose, since nobody will publish them."
"That does make a difference, indeed," said I.
"They have been offered, by letter," continued Oberon, reddening with vexation, "to some seventeen booksellers. It would make you stare to read their answers; and read them you should, only that I burnt them as fast as they arrived. One man publishes nothing but school-books; another has five novels already under examination."
"What a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of America must be!" cried I.
"Oh, the Alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!" said my friend. "Well, another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, I verily believe, to escape publishing my book. Several, however, would not absolutely decline the agency, on my advancing half the cost of an edition, and giving bonds for the remainder, besides a high percentage to themselves, whether the book sells or not. Another advises a subscription19."
"A fact!" said Oberon. "In short, of all the seventeen booksellers, only one has vouchsafed21 even to read my tales; and he--a literary dabbler22 himself, I should judge--has the impertinence to criticise23 them, proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, after a general sentence of condemnation24, with the definitive25 assurance that he will not be concerned on any terms."
"It might not be amiss to pull that fellow's nose," remarked I.
"If the whole 'trade' had one common nose, there would be some satisfaction in pulling it," answered the author. "But, there does seem to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he tells me fairly, that no American publisher will meddle26 with an American work,--seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new one,--unless at the writer's risk."
"The paltry27 rogues28!" cried I. "Will they live by literature, and yet risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your own account."
"And so I might," replied Oberon. "But the devil of the business is this. These people have put me so out of conceit29 with the tales, that I loathe30 the very thought of them, and actually experience a physical sickness of the stomach, whenever I glance at them on the table. I tell you there is a demon31 in them! I anticipate a wild enjoyment32 in seeing them in the blaze; such as I should feel in taking vengeance33 on an enemy, or destroying something noxious34."
I did not very strenuously35 oppose this determination, being privately36 of opinion, in spite of my partiality for the author, that his tales would make a more brilliant appearance in the fire than anywhere else. Before proceeding37 to execution, we broached38 the bottle of champagne39, which Oberon had provided for keeping up his spirits in this doleful business. We swallowed each a tumblerful, in sparkling commotion40; it went bubbling down our throats, and brightened my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and heavy as before. He drew the tales towards him, with a mixture of natural affection and natural disgust, like a father taking a deformed41 infant into his arms.
"Pooh! Pish! Pshaw!" exclaimed he, holding them at arm's-length. "It was Gray's idea of heaven, to lounge on a sofa and read new novels. Now, what more appropriate torture would Dante himself have contrived42, for the sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be continually turning over the manuscript?"
"It would fail of effect," said I, "because a bad author is always his own great admirer."
"I lack that one characteristic of my tribe,--the only desirable one," observed Oberon. "But how many recollections throng43 upon me, as I turn over these leaves! This scene came into my fancy as I walked along a hilly road, on a starlight October evening; in the pure and bracing44 air, I became all soul, and felt as if I could climb the sky, and run a race along the Milky45 Way. Here is another tale, in which I wrapt myself during a dark and dreary46 night-ride in the month of March, till the rattling47 of the wheels and the voices of my companions seemed like faint sounds of a dream, and my visions a bright reality. That scribbled48 page describes shadows which I summoned to my bedside at midnight: they would not depart when I bade them; the gray dawn came, and found me wide awake and feverish49, the victim of my own enchantments50!"
"There must have been a sort of happiness in all this," said I, smitten51 with a strange longing52 to make proof of it.
"There may be happiness in a fever fit," replied the author. "And then the various moods in which I wrote! Sometimes my ideas were like precious stones under the earth, requiring toil53 to dig them up, and care to polish and brighten them; but often a delicious stream of thought would gush54 out upon the page at once, like water sparkling up suddenly in the desert; and when it had passed, I gnawed55 my pen hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and miserable56 toil, as if there were a wall of ice between me and my subject."
"Do you now perceive a corresponding difference," inquired I, "between the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid57 flashes of the mind?"
"No," said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table. "I find no traces of the golden pen with which I wrote in characters of fire. My treasure of fairy coin is changed to worthless dross58. My picture, painted in what seemed the loveliest hues59, presents nothing but a faded and indistinguishable surface. I have been eloquent61 and poetical62 and humorous in a dream,--and behold! it is all nonsense, now that I am awake."
My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing it blaze like Nebuchadnezzar's furnace, seized the champagne bottle, and drank two or three brimming bumpers63, successively. The heady liquor combined with his agitation64 to throw him into a species of rage. He laid violent hands on the tales. In one instant more, their faults and beauties would alike have vanished in a glowing purgatory65. But, all at once, I remembered passages of high imagination, deep pathos66, original thoughts, and points of such varied67 excellence68, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly. I caught his arm.
"Surely, you do not mean to burn them!" I exclaimed.
"Let me alone!" cried Oberon, his eyes flashing fire. "I will burn them! Not a scorched69 syllable70 shall escape! Would you have me a damned author?--To undergo sneers71, taunts72, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint praise, bestowed73, for pity's sake, against the giver's conscience! A hissing74 and a laughing-stock to my own traitorous75 thoughts! An outlaw76 from the protection of the grave,--one whose ashes every careless foot might spurn77, unhonored in life, and remembered scornfully in death! Am I to bear all this, when yonder fire will insure me from the whole? No! There go the tales! May my hand wither78 when it would write another!"
The deed was done. He had thrown the manuscripts into the hottest of the fire, which at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled around them, and made them a part of its own fervent79 brightness. Oberon stood gazing at the conflagration80, and shortly began to soliloquize, in the wildest strain, as if Fancy resisted and became riotous81, at the moment when he would have compelled her to ascend82 that funeral pile. His words described objects which he appeared to discern in the fire, fed by his own precious thoughts; perhaps the thousand visions which the writer's magic had incorporated with these pages became visible to him in the dissolving heat, brightening forth83 ere they vanished forever; while the smoke, the vivid sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening coals, caught the aspect of a varied scenery.
"They blaze," said he, "as if I had steeped them in the intensest spirit of genius. There I see my lovers clasped in each other's arms. How pure the flame that bursts from their glowing hearts! And yonder the features of a villain writhing84 in the fire that shall torment85 him to eternity86. My holy men, my pious87 and angelic women, stand like martyrs88 amid the flames, their mild eyes lifted heavenward. Ring out the bells! A city is on fire. See!--destruction roars through my dark forests, while the lakes boil up in steaming billows, and the mountains are volcanoes, and the sky kindles89 with a lurid90 brightness! All elements are but one pervading91 flame! Ha! The fiend!"
I was somewhat startled by this latter exclamation92. The tales were almost consumed, but just then threw forth a broad sheet of fire, which flickered93 as with laughter, making the whole room dance in its brightness, and then roared portentously94 up the chimney.
"You saw him? You must have seen him!" cried Oberon. "How he glared at me and laughed, in that last sheet of flame, with just the features that I imagined for him! Well! The tales are gone."
The papers were indeed reduced to a heap of black cinders95, with a multitude of sparks hurrying confusedly among them, the traces of the pen being now represented by white lines, and the whole mass fluttering to and fro in the draughts96 of air. The destroyer knelt down to look at them.
"What is more potent97 than fire!" said he, in his gloomiest tone. "Even thought, invisible and incorporeal98 as it is, cannot escape it. In this little time, it has annihilated99 the creations of long nights and days, which I could no more reproduce, in their first glow and freshness, than cause ashes and whitened bones to rise up and live. There, too, I sacrificed the unborn children of my mind. All that I had accomplished--all that I planned for future years--has perished by one common ruin, and left only this heap of embers! The deed has been my fate. And what remains100? A weary and aimless life,--a long repentance101 of this hour,--and at last an obscure grave, where they will bury and forget me!"
As the author concluded his dolorous102 moan, the extinguished embers arose and settled down and arose again, and finally flew up the chimney, like a demon with sable103 wings. Just as they disappeared, there was a loud and solitary104 cry in the street below us. "Fire!" Fire! Other voices caught up that terrible word, and it speedily became the shout of a multitude. Oberon started to his feet, in fresh excitement.
"A fire on such a night!" cried he. "The wind blows a gale, and wherever it whirls the flames, the roofs will flash up like gunpowder105. Every pump is frozen up, and boiling water would turn to ice the moment it was flung from the engine. In an hour, this wooden town will be one great bonfire! What a glorious scene for my next--Pshaw!"
The street was now all alive with footsteps, and the air full of voices. We heard one engine thundering round a corner, and another rattling from a distance over the pavements. The bells of three steeples clanged out at once, spreading the alarm to many a neighboring town, and expressing hurry, confusion, and terror, so inimitably that I could almost distinguish in their peal106 the burden of the universal cry,--"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
"What is so eloquent as their iron tongues!" exclaimed Oberon. "My heart leaps and trembles, but not with fear. And that other sound, too,--deep and awful as a mighty107 organ,--the roar and thunder of the multitude on the pavement below! Come! We are losing time. I will cry out in the loudest of the uproar108, and mingle109 my spirit with the wildest of the confusion, and be a bubble on the top of the ferment110!"
From the first outcry, my forebodings had warned me of the true object and centre of alarm. There was nothing now but uproar, above, beneath, and around us; footsteps stumbling pell-mell up the public staircase, eager shouts and heavy thumps111 at the door, the whiz and dash of water from the engines, and the crash of furniture thrown upon the pavement. At once, the truth flashed upon my friend. His frenzy112 took the hue60 of joy, and, with a wild gesture of exultation113, he leaped almost to the ceiling of the chamber114.
"My tales!" cried Oberon. "The chimney! The roof! The Fiend has gone forth by night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder from their beds! Here I stand,--a triumphant115 author! Huzza! Huzza! My brain has set the town on fire! Huzza!"
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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writs
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| n.书面命令，令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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loathe
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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59
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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71
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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73
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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76
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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79
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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81
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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82
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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84
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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85
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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86
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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87
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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88
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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89
kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portentously
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95
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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96
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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97
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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incorporeal
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| adj.非物质的，精神的 | |
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99
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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100
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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101
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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102
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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103
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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104
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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105
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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106
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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107
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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109
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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111
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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113
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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114
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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115
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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