Edgar Allan Poe For the CSET

Ulalume by Edgar Allan Poe 1847

The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were
crisped and sere-The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial
year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty
mid region of Weir-It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed
with my Soul-Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. There were
days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that
roll-As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous
currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of
the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they
were palsied and sere-Our memories were treacherous and
sere-For we knew not the month was October, And we marked
not the night of the year-(Ah, night of all nights in the
year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber-(Though once we
had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dank tarn of
Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent, And star-dials
pointed to morn-As the star-dials hinted of morn-At the
end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate
horn-Astarte's bediamonded crescent Distinct with its
duplicate horn. 

And I said- "She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an
ether of sighs-She revels in a region of sighs: She has
seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the
worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies-To the Lethean peace of
the skies-Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us
with her bright eyes-Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said- "Sadly this star I
mistrust-Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-Oh, hasten!- oh,
let us not linger! Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must." In
terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they
trailed in the dust-In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust-Till they sorrowfully
trailed in the dust. 

I replied- "This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by
this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline
light! Its Sybilic splendor is beaming With Hope and in
Beauty to-night:-See!- it flickers up the sky through the
night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be
sure it will lead us aright-We safely may trust to a
gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it
flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out
of her gloom-And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we
passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the
door of a tomb-By the door of a legended tomb; And I said-
"What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this
legended tomb?" She replied- "Ulalume- Ulalume-'Tis the
vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that
were crisped and sere-As the leaves that were withering
and sere-And I cried- "It was surely October On this very
night of last year That I journeyed- I journeyed down
here-That I brought a dread burden down here-On this night
of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me
here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-This misty
mid region of Weir- : Well I know, now, this dank tarn of
Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 

The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe 1849


I 

Hear the sledges with the bells-Silver bells! What a world
of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle,
tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars
that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a
crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort
of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically
wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells,
bells-From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

II 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world
of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy
air of night How they ring out their delight! From the
molten-golden notes, And an in tune, What a liquid ditty
floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush
of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it
dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that
impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells,
bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells,
bells, bells-To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

III 

Hear the loud alarum bells-Brazen bells! What a tale of
terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear
of night How they scream out their affright! Too much
horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of
tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor, Now- now to sit or never, By the
side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang,
and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the
bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and
flows: Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And
the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the
sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-Of the
bells-Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells,
bells-In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells-Iron Bells! What a world of
solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the
night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy
menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the
rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people- ah,
the people-They that dwell up in the steeple, All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled
monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a
stone-They are neither man nor woman-They are neither
brute nor human-They are Ghouls: And their king it is who
tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the
bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the
bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time,
time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic
rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-Of the bells, bells,
bells-To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time,
time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic
rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-Of the bells, bells,
bells: To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells,
bells, bells-Bells, bells, bells-To the moaning and the
groaning of the bells. 

The City in the Sea by Edgar Allan Poe 1831


Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city
lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good
and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their
eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-
eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is
ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath
the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy
heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But
light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets
silently-Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-Up domes- up
spires- up kingly halls-Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-Up
shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone
flowers-Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose
wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the
vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters
lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem
pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the
luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each
idol's diamond eye-Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the
waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along
that wilderness of glass-No swellings tell that winds may
be Upon some far-off happier sea-No heavings hint that
winds have been On seas less hideously serene. 

But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave- there is a
movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In
slightly sinking, the dull tide-As if their tops had
feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves
have now a redder glow-The hours are breathing faint and
low-And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town
shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence. 

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and
weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my
chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at
my chamber door-Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the
floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought
to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the
lost Lenore-For the rare and radiant maiden whom the
angels name Lenore-Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors
never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my
heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door-Some late visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door;-This it is, and nothing
more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you
came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at
my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here
I opened wide the door;-Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals
ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken,
and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there
spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered,
and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-Merely this,
and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than
before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my
window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and
this mystery explore-Let my heart be still a moment and
this mystery explore;-'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly
days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a
minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or
lady, perched above my chamber door-Perched upon a bust of
Pallas just above my chamber door-Perched, and sat, and
nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art
sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering
from the Nightly shore-Tell me what thy lordly name is on
the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little
relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living
human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his
chamber door-Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above
his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke
only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather
then he fluttered-Till I scarcely more than muttered,
"other friends have flown before-On the morrow he will
leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird
said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and
store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful
Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs
one burden bore-Till the dirges of his Hope that
melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'." 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and
bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook
myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this
ominous bird of yore-What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,
gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking
"Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's
core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the
lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining
with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah,
nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an
unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on
the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent
thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite
and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff
this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the
Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird
or devil!-Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this
desert land enchanted-On this home by horror haunted- tell
me truly, I implore-Is there- is there balm in Gilead?-
tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird
or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God
we both adore-Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within
the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom
the angels name Lenore-Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I
shrieked, upstarting-"Get thee back into the tempest and
the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a
token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my
loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take
thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is
sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber
door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that
is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws
his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-
nevermore! 

The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe 1843


TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been
and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease
had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them.
Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all
things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things
in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how
healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It
is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain;
but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object
there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old
man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me
insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his
eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a
pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon
me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually
--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and
thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point.
You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have
seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --
with what caution --with what foresight --with what
dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the
old man than during the whole week before I killed him.
And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his
door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had
made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark
lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and
then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to
see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --
very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old
man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head
within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay
upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as
this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid
the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for
the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a
single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did
for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but
I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to
do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but
his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I
went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to
him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring
how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been
a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every
night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he
slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually
cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves
more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I
felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could
scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that
there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he
not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he
moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may
think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as
pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were
close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew
that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept
pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and
was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon
the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed,
crying out --"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said
nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in
the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still
sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done,
night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the
wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was
the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or
of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that
arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with
awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at
midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from
my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the
terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew
what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled
at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since
the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His
fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been
trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been
saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the
chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It
is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes,
he had been trying to comfort himself with these
suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain;
because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his
black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it
was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that
caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --
to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I
had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing
him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very
little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot
imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a
simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from
out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was
open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed
upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull
blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very
marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the
old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if
by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I
not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to
my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes
when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It
was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my
fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into
courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I
scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried
how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve.
Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It
grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every
instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It
grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me
well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now
at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence
of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me
to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I
refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder,
louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new
anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a
neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell,
I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He
shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to
the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then
smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many
minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This,
however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the
wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed
the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone
dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there
many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead.
His eve would trouble me no more. If still you think me
mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise
precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The
night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First
of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and
the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from
the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the
scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so
cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have
detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --
no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been
too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I
had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --
still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour,
there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to
open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear?
There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with
perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had
been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of
foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at
the police office, and they (the officers) had been
deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I
to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said,
was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was
absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the
house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at
length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures,
secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I
brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to
rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild
audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon
the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the
victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had
convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and
while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar
things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and
wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing
in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The
ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became
more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the
feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until,
at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more
fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound
increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick
sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped
in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers
heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about
trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations;
but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be
gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as
if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but
the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I
foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I
had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the
noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted
pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --
they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this
I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than
this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this
derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no
longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again!
--hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! "Villains!" I
shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up
the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous
heart!"

The Cask Of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe 1846

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not
suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At
length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely,
settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was
resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only
punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed
when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as
such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood
that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause
to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile
in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now
was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point
--this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man
to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his
connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true
virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is
adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise
imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In
painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was
a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In
this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was
skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely
whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during
the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive
warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore
motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and
his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I
was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never
have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear
Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you
are looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what
passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts." "How?" said
he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of
the carnival!" "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was
silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found,
and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I
have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to
Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will
tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from
Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste
is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To
your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your
good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--
" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is
not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I
perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably
damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go,
nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You
have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot
distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking,
Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a
mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about
my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There
were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make
merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should
not return until the morning, and had given them explicit
orders not to stir from the house. These orders were
sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to
the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long
and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he
followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent,
and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs
of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and
the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe,"
he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the
white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He
turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy
orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "Nitre?" he
asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you
had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh!
ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor
friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It
is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with
decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You
are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as
once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be
responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he
said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I
shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and,
indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -
-but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this
Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off
the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its
fellows that lay upon the mould. "Drink," I said,
presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a
leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his
bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that
repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again
took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said,
"are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a
great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge
human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a
serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he
said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.
My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed
through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and
puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the
catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to
seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The nitre!" I
said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the
vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back
ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he
said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the
Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a
gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in
surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You
do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you
are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the
masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible!
A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a
sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath
the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he
exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to
the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool
beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the
Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches,
descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a
deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our
flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At the most remote
end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its
walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the
vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of
Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still
ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones
had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the
earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within
the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we
perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about
four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It
seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within
itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the
colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was
backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid
granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull
torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess.
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for
Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend,
as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed
immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant
he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his
progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered.
A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In
its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other
about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a
short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links
about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to
secure it. He was too much astounded to resist.
Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass
your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help
feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let
me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave
you. But I must first render you all the little attentions
in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not
yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied;
"the Amontillado." As I said these words I busied myself
among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken.
Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of
building stone and mortar. With these materials and with
the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the
entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier
of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of
Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest
indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the
depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man.
There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the
second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I
heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might
hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my
labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the
clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished
without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh
tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast.
I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-
work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A
succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly
from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me
violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I
trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it
about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured
me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the
catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I
replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I
aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did
this, and the clamourer grew still. It was now midnight,
and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the
eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a
portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a
single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled
with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined
position. But now there came from out the niche a low
laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was
succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in
recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice
said--"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke,
indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh
about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --
he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he!
he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting
late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the
Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I
said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I
hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called
aloud --"Fortunato!" No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the
remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came
forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart
grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made
it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced
the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.
Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of
bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed
them. In pace requiescat!