Short Fiction, Edgar Allan Poe [best autobiographies to read TXT] 📗

a little rancid on account of the gall!”

“Shelled!!”

“I mean taken out of the carcass.”

“What do you think of a⁠—hiccup!⁠—physician?”

“Don’t mention them!⁠—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched violently.) “I never tasted but one⁠—that rascal Hippocrates!⁠—smelt of asafœtida⁠—ugh! ugh! ugh!⁠—caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx⁠—and after all he gave me the cholera-morbus.”

“The⁠—hiccup!⁠—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the⁠—hiccup!⁠—abortion of a pillbox!”⁠—and the philosopher dropped a tear.

“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev⁠—if a gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”

“How so?”

“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will⁠—smell⁠—you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way.”

“Hiccup!⁠—hiccup!⁠—good God! how do you manage?”

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the devil half started from his seat;⁠—however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: “I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.”

The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued.

“Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well.”

“But the body!⁠—hiccup!⁠—the body!”

“The body, the body⁠—well, what of the body?⁠—oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and⁠—and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn’t there A⁠⸺, now, who you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who⁠—but stay! I have his agreement in my pocketbook.”

Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters Machi⁠—Maza⁠—Robesp⁠—with the words Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:

“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul. (Signed) A.⁠ ⁠…”7 (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow; Ha! ha! ha!⁠—he! he! he!⁠—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!”

“Only think⁠—hiccup!⁠—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of his Majesty’s discourse.

“Only think of a hiccup!⁠—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!⁠—hiccup!⁠—humph! If I would have been such a⁠—hiccup!⁠—nincompoop! My soul, Mr.⁠—humph!”

“Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”

“Yes, sir⁠—hiccup!⁠—my soul is⁠—”

“What, sir?”

“No shadow, damme!”

“Did you mean to say⁠—”

“Yes, sir, my soul is⁠—hiccup!⁠—humph!⁠—yes, sir.”

“Did you not intend to assert⁠—”

“My soul is⁠—hiccup!⁠—peculiarly qualified for⁠—hiccup!⁠—a⁠—”

“What, sir?”

“Stew.”

“Ha!”

“Soufflée.”

“Eh!”

“Fricassée.”

“Indeed!”

“Ragout and fricandeau⁠—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you have it⁠—hiccup!⁠—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his Majesty upon the back.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

“Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.

“Hiccup!⁠—e-h?” said the philosopher.

“Have no funds on hand.”

“What?”

“Besides, very unhandsome in me⁠—”

“Sir!”

“To take advantage of⁠—”

“Hiccup!”

“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”

Here the visitor bowed and withdrew⁠—in what manner could not precisely be ascertained⁠—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

MS. Found in a Bottle8

Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre
N’a plus rien a dissimuler.

—⁠Quinault, Atys

Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age⁠—I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a