Chương Chương 24 · THE VILLAGE STREET（2）

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,

daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the

days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having

undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular

obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the

mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at

length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for

man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge

no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,

but still for the _material_, man.

'Una'.

Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of

the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the

corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;

and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the

grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though

the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up

together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience

of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.

'Monos'.

Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in

the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which

had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the

fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium

replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for

pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some

days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless

torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.

It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of

him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and

fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into

consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without

being awakened by external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to

beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were

unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each

other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably

confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The

rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the

last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,

far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we

have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,

offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,

the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the

range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less

distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into

the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which

struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,

this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as

_sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting

themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular

in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,

was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an

extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had

undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily

received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the

highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers

upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,

long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight

immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were

purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the

senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased

understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was

much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs

floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were

appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft

musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no

intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and

constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a

heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy

alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders

spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with

loud cries.

They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which

flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my

vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their

images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other

dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited

in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a

vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real

sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,

solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy

dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It

oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was

palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant

reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the

first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly

lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became

forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,

but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a

great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for

there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of

melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon

which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor

from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose

tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical

sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to

sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded

to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the

pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and

faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a

purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there

appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its

exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,

inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal

frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no

artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain

_that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence

even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous

pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of

_Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as

this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.

By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,

and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously

to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and

these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of

abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although

no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds

accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in

mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And

this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this

sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to

exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this

sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first

obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of

the temporal eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed

from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The

lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the

monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in

distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my

nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression

of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that

of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of

the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in

the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of

duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of

the deadly _Decay_.

Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the

sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic

intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the

flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence

of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you

sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was

not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,

which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the

hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which

heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness

and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.

And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there

rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly

each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its

flight--without effort and without object.

A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more

indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped

its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of

_place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the

body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often

happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_

imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep

slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,

yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace

of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to

startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in

which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering

bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.

That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had

vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust

had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being

had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--

instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_

and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no

form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no

sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no

portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the

grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.

[Footnote 1:

"It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that

which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this

may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and

_music_ for the soul."

Repub. lib. 2.

"For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it

causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,

taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making

the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the

beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,

and _assimilate his own condition with it_."

Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more

comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the

harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and

creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,

in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes

the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with

the true.]

* * * * *

THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.

I will bring fire to thee.

_Euripides_.--'Androm'.

'Eiros'.

Why do you call me Eiros?

'Charmion'.

So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_

earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.

'Eiros'.

This is indeed no dream!

'Charmion'.

Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to

see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has

already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your

allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself

induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.

'Eiros'.

True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the

terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,

rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my

senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception

of _the new_.

'Charmion'.

A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and

feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you

undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now

suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.

'Eiros'.

In Aidenn?

'Charmion'.

In Aidenn.

'Eiros'.

O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all

things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in

the august and certain Present.

'Charmion'.

Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.

Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise

of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am

burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event

which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar

things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so

fearfully perished.

'Eiros'.

Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.

'Charmion'.

Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?

'Eiros'.

Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a

cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.

'Charmion'.

And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact

of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among

mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I

remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly

unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative

philosophy of the day.

'Eiros'.

The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but

analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with

astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you

left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy

writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as

having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the

immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that

epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of

the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had

been well established. They had been observed to pass among the

satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration

either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We

had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable

tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our

substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not

in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were

accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of

the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an

inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days

strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of

the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement

by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally

received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.

The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it

was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion

would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were

two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained

that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the

effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they

would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed

among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the

truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the

understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that

astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its

approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of

very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little

perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase

in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.

Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest

absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in

respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused

their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_

gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of

fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted

for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose

in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise

bowed down and adored.

That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result

from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground

among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the

reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the

density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest

gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the

satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which

served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness

fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them

to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous

instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must

be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that

enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery

nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a

great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.

It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in

regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon

every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by

some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition

from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from

excessive interest.

What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate

question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of

probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of

possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible

or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such

discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing

larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind

grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.

There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the

comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any

previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any

lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the

certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The

hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.

A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in

sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange

orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had

disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We

saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an

incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,

with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of

rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.

Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we

were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even

felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The

exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all

heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our

vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this

predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild

luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every

vegetable thing.

Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now

evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come

over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for

general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a

rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable

dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was

radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the

possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the

topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric

thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.

It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound

of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures

of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the

atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the

vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal

life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.

Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal

life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been

ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had

latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,

which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total

extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,

omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their

minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring

denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.

Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?

That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,

was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable

gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.

Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of

Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood

bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium

possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the

threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus

of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while

I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a

moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating

all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive

majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading

sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent

mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of

intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat

even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.

Thus ended all.

* * * * *

SHADOW.--A PARABLE.

Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.

'Psalm of David'.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long

since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things

shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass

away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be

some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much

to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than

terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and

signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black

wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,

cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect

of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that

now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth

year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with

the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,

if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical

orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of

mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble

hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of

seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of

brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of

rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in

the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and

the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they

would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which

I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--

heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above

all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when

the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of

thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our

limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we

drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things

save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.

Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained

burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre

formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there

assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet

glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were

merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of

Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine

reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in

the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,

enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no

portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the

plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire

of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as

the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But

although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,

still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their

expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony

mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of

Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar

off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and

undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable

draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a

dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in

heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow

neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering

awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view

upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and

formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor

God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.

And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the

entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there

became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested

was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus

enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as

it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but

cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror

of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of

the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I

am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and

hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul

Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in

horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones

in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a

multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to

syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar

accents of many thousand departed friends.