Þe Fall of þe Huse of Uscer

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ÞE FALL OF ÞE HUSE OF USCER
By Edgar Allan Poe
Ƿent by Cascadia
(þrucced 1839)

 

Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne.
(His heart is a semmed gameƿood
As soon as man rines it, it rings.)

- De Béranger.

 

BIN þe hƿole of a dull, dark, and still day in þe fall of þe gere, hƿen þe cludes hanged heafy and smoþering in þe heafens, I had been faring alone, on horsback, þruge a sundrily dreary deal of land; and at lengþ fund myself, as þe scades of þe efening dreƿ on, ƿiþin sigt of þe unbliþe Huse of Uscer. I knoƿ not hu it ƿas—but, ƿiþ þe first sigt of þe bilding, an feeling of unþolenly gloom steeped my goast. I say unþolenly; for þe feeling ƿas unlissed by any of þat halfƿinsum, for I am a leeþer, feeling, ƿiþ hƿic þe mind ƿuntly fangs efen þe sternest kindly sigts of þe dreadful or forlorn. I beheld þe sigt before me—þe bare huse, and þe afold landscape marks of þe stead—þe lorn ƿalls—þe empty staring eyedoors—a feƿ rank secges—and a feƿ hƿite stocks of rotten trees—ƿiþ an utter sorroƿ of þe soƿl hƿic I can liccen to no earþly anget fittinglier þan to þe aftersƿefen of þe spiller on poppy tears—þe bitter slide into eferyday life—þe atel dropping off of þe ƿimpel. Þere ƿas an isiness, a sinking, a sickening of þe heart—an unleesed dreariness of þougt hƿic no goading of þe mind culd beat into augt of þe great. Hƿat ƿas it—I stopt to þink—hƿat ƿas it þat so upset me in þinking of þe Huse of Uscer? It ƿas a rune all in darkness; nor culd I grappel ƿiþ þe scadoƿy þougts þat cruded on me as I conned. I ƿas made to fall back on þe bitesum end, þat hƿile, begeond tƿeen, þere are fays of treƿly afold kindly þings hƿic haf þe þrake of þus rining us, still þe scruttening of þis þrake lies among aminds begeond ure depþ. It ƿas migtly, I þougt, þat but a sundry digting of þe bits of þe sigt, of þe marks of þe meting, ƿuld be enuge to ƿend, or maybe to fell its main for sorroƿful rine; and, putting þis þougt into being, I dreƿ my hors to þe steep staþ of a black and gory pool þat lay in unstirred sceen by þe dƿelling, and stared dune—but ƿiþ a scaking efen þrillinger þan before—on þe eftscaped and hƿelfed sigts of þe grey secg, and þe gastly treestocks, and þe empty and staring eyedoors.

Neferþeless, in þis bold of gloom I nu put forþ to myself an abode of sum ƿeeks. Its oƿner, Roderick Uscer, had been one of my good frends in knafehood; but many geres had gone by sins ure last meeting. An errandƿrit, huefer, had lately raugt me in a firlen deal of þe land—an errandƿrit from him—hƿic, in its ƿildly dogged ƿay, had bid of no oþer þan an ansƿer in body. Þe ƿrit geafe seeþing of a deep angness. Þe ƿrit spoke of stark bodily adel—of a sickness of þe mind hƿic oferset him—and of an earnest list to see me, as his best, and indeed his only treƿ frend, ƿiþ an end of fanding, by þe merriness of my felloƿscip, sum liss to his trey. It ƿas þe ƿay in hƿic all þis, and muc more, ƿas said—it ƿas þe seenly heart þat ƿent ƿiþ his bead—hƿic atiþed no room for ƿafering; and so I heeded forþƿiþ hƿat I still held to be a full sundry cying.

Alþaug, as knafes, ƿe had been efen nige þofts, I treƿly kneƿ littel of my frend. His firl had been alƿays fulsum and ƿunt. I ƿas aƿare, huefer, þat his migty fern maiþ had been marked, time ute of mind, for a sundry mindhoad, scoƿing itself, þruge long elds, in many ƿorks of aheafed list, and ateƿed, of late, in eftlecged roomhearted, get not scoƿy deeds, as ƿell as in earnest ƿillsumness to þe smallest marks, maybe efen more þan to þe rigtframed and eaþ acknoƿenly lites, of gleecraft. I had learned too, þe full markƿorþy treƿþ, þat þe stock of þe Uscer strind, all timeƿorþied as it ƿas, had put forþ, at no time, any lasting buge; in oþer ƿords, þat þe hƿole maiþ lay in þe straigtforƿard bloodline, and had alƿays, ƿiþ raþer small and raþer hƿilend scifts, so lain. It ƿas þis ƿem, I þougt, hƿile running ofer in my mind þe fulfremmed keeping of þe eard of þe grunds ƿiþ þe hige eard of þe folk, and hƿile ƿeiging on þe migtly hold hƿic þe one, in þe long span of gerehundreds, migt haf ƿilled on þe oþer—it ƿas þis ƿem, maybe, of oþer þrake, and þe folloƿing unƿafering becƿest, from faþer to sun, of þe erf ƿiþ þe name, hƿic had, at lengþ, so branded þe tƿo as to fay þe form ekename of þe huse in þe ferly and cludy name of þe “Huse of Uscer”—a name hƿic felt to inhold, in þe minds of þe cerlfolk hƿo spoke it, bo þe maiþ and þe huse itself.

I haf said þat þe lone rine of my sumhƿat cildisc fand—þat of looking dune ƿiþin þe pool—had been to deepen þe first sundry inþruc. Þere can be no tƿeen þat þe cƿickness of þe sƿift rise of my offgalþ—for hƿy sculd I not so name it?—ƿorked mainly to cƿicken þe rise itself. Suc, I haf long knoƿn, is þe backƿards ea of all feelings hafing dread as a staddel. And it migt haf been for þis grund only, þat, hƿen I agen lifted my eyes to þe huse itself, from its glass in þe pool, þere greƿ in my mind an uncanny þougt—a þougt so laugƿorþy, indeed, þat I bring it up only to scoƿ þe striking migt of þe feelings hƿic onsat me. I had so ƿorked on my mind as treƿly to beleef þat abute þe hƿole huse and grunds þere hanged a hƿiþ sundry to hemselfs and her nigemost neigborhood—a hƿiþ hƿic had no cooþness ƿiþ þe lift of heafen, but hƿic had reeked up from þe rotten trees, and þe grey ƿall, and þe full still pool—a coaþed and runy mist, dull, heafy, barely toknoƿenly, and leadenheƿed.

Scaking off from my goast hƿat must haf been a sƿefen, I conned narroƿlier þe treƿ kind of þe bilding. Its main cost looked to be þat of a fulsum eld. Þe misheƿing of geres had been great. Tiny sƿambs oferspread þe hƿole uteside, hanging in a nesc knotted ƿebƿork from þe eafs. Get all þis ƿas asunder from any markƿorþy ƿrake. No deal of þe stoneƿork had fallen; and þere looked to be a ƿild unefenness betƿeen its still fulfremmed faying of deals, and þe crumbelling hoad of þe sundry stones. In þis þere ƿas muc þat brougt to my mind þe misleading hƿoleness of old ƿoodƿork hƿic has rotted for long geres in sum forgetten hƿolf, ƿiþ no rine from þe breaþ of þe uteside lift. Begeond þis mark of ƿidegale rot, huefer, þe cloþ geafe littel token of unsundness. Maybe þe eye of a scruttening ƿaccer migt haf fund a barely agettenly cine, hƿic, streccing from þe roof of þe bilding in fore, made its ƿay dune þe ƿall in a ƿinding paþ, hent it became lost in þe gloomy ƿaters of þe pool.

Agetting þese þings, I rode ofer a scort bricg to þe huse. A biding heƿ nimmed my hors, and I infared þe Gottisc hƿolf of þe hall. A handman, of stealþy step, þens dreƿ me, in roo, þruge many dark and knotted hallƿays in my forþgang to þe ƿorkscop of his maister. Muc þat I saƿ on þe ƿay eked, I knoƿ not hu, to heigten þe unsuttel feelings of hƿic I haf already spoken. Hƿile þe þings abute me—hƿile þe grafings of þe firsts, þe grim hangings of þe ƿalls, þe rafen blackness of þe floors, and þe sƿefenlic sceelds and ƿeapons hƿic rattelled as I strode, ƿere but þings to hƿic, or to suc as hƿic, I had been ƿunt from my babehood—hƿile I stalled not to acknoƿlecg hu cooþ ƿas all þis—I still ƿundered to find hu uncooþ ƿere þe meetings hƿic eferyday sigts ƿere stirring up. On one of þe stairƿells, I met þe leec of þe maiþ. His ansen, I þougt, ƿore a mingelled look of liþer cunning and rune. He naid me ƿiþ misgeefing and ƿent on. Þe handman nu þreƿ open a door and brougt me into þe nigeness of his maister.

Þe room in hƿic I fund myself ƿas migty great and tall. Þe eyedoors ƿere long, narroƿ, and scarp, and at so great a heigt from þe black oaken floor as to be altogeþer unrinenly from ƿiþin. Mainless gleams of reddened ligt made her ƿay þruge þe hirdelled glass, and made sundry enuge þe utestandinger þings abute; þe eye, huefer, fougt bootlessly to reac þe firlener hƿems of þe room, or þe halks of þe hƿilfed and ingrafed first. Dark hangings ƿere on þe ƿalls. Þe mean idisc ƿas many, cƿeamless, fern, and scredded. Many books and gleetools lay streƿn abute, but trucked in geefing any life to þe sigt. I felt þat I breaþed a hƿiþ of sorroƿ. A lift of stern, deep, and unleesenly gloom hanged ofer and steeped all.

At my infare, Uscer arose from a streen on hƿic he had been lying at full lengþ, and greeted me ƿiþ a lifely ƿarmþ hƿic had muc in it, I at first þougt, of an oferdone heartiness—of þe bund ƿork of þe ƿeary man of þe ƿorld. A look, huefer, at his ansen, told me of his fulfremmed lutterness. Ƿe sat dune; and for sum brigtoms, hƿile he spoke not, I looked at him ƿiþ a feeling half of reƿþ, half of ey. Ƿissly, man had nefer before so dreadfully ƿent, in so scort a time, as had Roderick Uscer! It ƿas ƿiþ hardscip þat I culd bring myself to andet þe selfilcness of þe ƿan being before me ƿiþ þe þoft of my early knafehood. Get þe eard of his anlet had been at all times markƿorþy. A liclic blee; an eye great, ƿatery, and brigt begeond liccening; lips sumhƿat þin and migty blake, but of a treƿly liteful boƿ; a nose of a nesc Ebresc scape, but ƿiþ a breadþ of nostril seldseen in þose alic; a smickerly scaped cin, speaking, in its ƿane of utestandingness, of a ƿane of rigtƿise strengþ; hair of a more þan ƿeblic softness and þinness; þese hallmarks, ƿiþ a fulsum strec abuf þe deal of þe þunƿang, made up altogeþer an ansen not eaþ forgetten. And nu in but þe oferbloƿing of þe rixing eard of þese costs, and of þe look hy ƿere ƿunt to tell, lay so muc of ƿend þat I tƿeened to hƿom I spoke. Þe nu gastly blee of þe hame, and þe nu selcooþ gleam of þe eye, abuf all þings startelled and efen eyed me. Þe silken hair, too, had been þoled to groƿ all unheeded, and as, in its ƿild cobƿeb ƿoof, it floated raþer þan fell abute þe anlet, I culd not, efen ƿiþ ƿork, lenc its Arabisc ansen ƿiþ any scape of mean mankind.

In þe hoad of my frend I ƿas at ones struck ƿiþ an untogeþerness—an unsteadiness; and I soon fund þis to arise from a roƿ of bootless and sorry fands to ofercum a ƿunt hoƿ—an orn angness of þe sineƿs. For sumþing of þis kind I had indeed been ready, no less by his errandƿrit, þan by aminds of ƿiss knafisc costs, and by ends draƿn from his ferly bodily frame and mood. His deeds ƿere lifely and dull stefenmeal. His stefen ƿent sƿiftly from a cƿifering ƿafer (hƿen þe soƿl felt utterly stalled) to þat stock of lifely scortness—þat cƿick, ƿeigty, unrunning, and holloƿsƿeying speec—þat leaden, selfefened and fulfremmedly meted uttering, hƿic may be beheld in þe lost drunk, or þe unneerenly eater of poppy tears, bin þe times of his greatest giddiness.

It ƿas þus þat he spoke of my neesings end, of his earnest list to see me, and of þe liss he ƿeened me to aford him. He infared, at sum lengþ, into hƿat he þougt to be þe kind of his sickness. It ƿas, he said, an inborn and a bloodborn efil, and one for hƿic he had no hope of finding a lokening—but an angness, he eked cƿickly, hƿic ƿuld ƿissly soon go. It scoƿed itself in a drigt of unkindly feelings. Sum of þese, as he told hem, gript and beƿildered me; alþaug, maybe, þe ƿords, and þe altogeþer ƿay of þe telling had her ƿeigt. He þroed muc from an eyful scarpness of þe angets; þe mildest food ƿas alone þolenly; he culd ƿear only cloþes of a ƿiss ƿoof; þe smells of all blossoms ƿere too heafy; his eyes ƿere tintreyed by efen a dim ligt; and þere ƿere but sundry ƿooms, and þese from stringed gleetools, hƿic did not tend ƿiþin him dread.

To a ferly breed of dread I fund him a bund þeƿ. “I scall cƿeal,” said he, “I must cƿeal in þis ƿoeful unƿisdom. Þus, þus, and not oþerƿise, scall I be lost. I dread þe befallings to cum, not in hemselfs, but in her utecums. I scake at þe þougt of any, efen þe smallest, befalling, hƿic may ƿork on þis unþolenly upstirring of þe soƿl. I haf, indeed, no hatred of plee, but for in its treƿest rine—in fear. In þis scaken, in þis arm hoad, I feel þat þe time ƿill sooner or later cum hƿen I must forsake life and rode togeþer, in sum figt ƿiþ þe grim scinelock, FEAR.”

I learned, moreofer, betƿixtfacks, and þruge broken and unƿiss hints, anoþer sundry cost of his mindsickness. He ƿas trapt by sundry offgalþs as to þe dƿelling hƿic he inearded, and hƿens, for many geres, he had nefer fared forþ—as to a rine hƿose foken þrake ƿas told in ƿords too scadoƿy here to be eftsaid—a rine hƿic sum selcooþnesses in þe scape and anƿork itself of his eþel, had, by dint of long þoling, he said, oferƿun his goast—a rine hƿic þe body of þe grey ƿalls and steepels, and of þe dim pond into hƿic hy all looked dune, had, at lengþ, brougt abute on þe heart of his being.

He andetted, huefer, alþaug ƿiþ ƿafering, þat muc of þe selcooþ gloom hƿic þus sƿenced him culd be put to a kindlier and far rinenlier spring—to þe stark and lengþy sickness—indeed to þe suttelly nearing deaþ—of a muc belufed suster, his lone þoft for long geres—his last and only kin on earþ. “Her deaþ,” he said, ƿiþ a bitterness hƿic I can nefer forget, “ƿuld leaf him (him þe hopeless and þe ƿoak) þe last of þe fern stock of þe Uscers.” Hƿile he spoke, þe lady Madeline (for so ƿas sce named) ƿalked sloƿly þruge a firlen deal of þe room, and, ƿiþute hafing undergeat my being þere, sƿinded. I deemed her ƿiþ an utter forƿundering not unmingelled ƿiþ dread; and get I fund it unmigtly to geef grund for suc feelings. An anget of dullness onsat me, as my eyes folloƿed her ƿiþdraƿing steps. Hƿen a door, at lengþ, scut on her, my sigt sougt kindly and earnestly þe ansen of þe broþer; but he had berried his anlet in his hands, and I culd only aget þat a far more þan kindly ƿanness had oferspread þe ƿanþrifen fingers þruge hƿic ƿept many heartfelt tears.

Þe sickness of þe lady Madeline had long mased þe craft of her leeces. A settelled listlessness, a stepƿise dƿining of þe leed, and often alþaug fleeting sƿences of neƿelsleep, ƿere þe ferly knoƿlecg. Hiþerto sce had steadily born up agenst þe ƿeigt of her sickness, and had not ƿritten herself off to þe bed forefer; but, on þe clising in of þe efening of my lending at þe huse, sce geafe in (as her broþer told me at nigt ƿiþ untellenly angness) to þe neƿelling þrake of þe forspiller; and I learned þat þe scort sigt I had had of her ƿuld þus licliest be þe last I sculd haf—þat þe lady, at least hƿile lifing, ƿuld be seen by me no more.

For many days folloƿing, her name ƿas unnemmened by eiþer Uscer or myself: and bin þis time I ƿas bisied in earnest upnimmings to liss þe unbliþeness of my frend. Ƿe meted and read togeþer; or I listened, as if in a sƿefen, to þe ƿild makings up of his speaking gameƿood. And þus, as a niger and still nearness let me openlier into þe depþs of his goast, þe bitterlier did I aget þe emptiness of all fands at cirking a mind from hƿic darkness, as if an inborn good hƿicness, geote forþ on all þings of þe mind and of sooþ in þe allƿorld, in one unending leam of gloom.

I scall efer bear abute me an amind of þe many dark stunds I þus spent alone ƿiþ þe maister of þe Huse of Uscer. Get I sculd truck in any fand to ƿrite an uteline of þe treƿ eard of þe connings, or of þe ƿorks, in hƿic he dreƿ me in, or led me þe ƿay. A giddy and higely moodsick ƿit þreƿ a sceen of brimstone ofer all. His long made up deaþsongs ƿill ring forefer in my ears. Among oþer þings, I hold teenfully in mind a ƿiss sundry misƿending and ludening of þe ƿild hƿiþ of þe last ƿalts of Von Weber. From þe metings ofer hƿic his tƿining þougtlines brooded, and hƿic greƿ, rine by rine, into unsuttellings at hƿic I scook þe þrillinglier, for þat I scook knoƿing not hƿy—from þese metings (lifelic as her sigts nu are before me) I ƿuld fand and truck to draƿ ute more þan a small deal hƿic sculd lie ƿiþin þe span of but ƿritten ƿords. By þe utter afoldness, by þe nakedness of his scapings, he stopt fast and ofereyed heed. If efer deaþling meted a þougt, þat deaþling ƿas Roderick Uscer. For me at least, in þe embstandness þen all abute me, þere arose ute of þe sceer þougts hƿic þe bedefilled ƿere ƿent to þroƿ on his sailcloþ, a heigt of unþolenly ey, no scadoƿ of hƿic felt I efer get in þe faþoming of þe ƿissly gloƿing get too fast daysƿefens of Fuseli.

One of þe sƿefenlic þougts of my frend, scaring not so stiffly of þe soƿl of þougt, may be scadoƿed forþ, alþaug ƿoakly, in ƿords. A small meting scoƿed þe inside of an ettiniscly long and foƿrecged hƿolf or undergang, ƿiþ neþer ƿalls, smooþ, hƿite, and ƿiþute break or fratoƿ. Sundry small ords of þe scape told ƿell of þe þougt þat þis delfing lay at a migty great depþ beneaþ þe mold. No utegang ƿas seen in any deal of its great lengþ, and no brand, or oþer manmade spring of ligt ƿas toknoƿenly; get a flood of scining brigt beams ran þrugeute, and baþed þe hƿole in a gastly and unfitting ƿolder.

I haf nu but spoken of þat eyful derf of þe hearingsineƿ hƿic made all soon unþolenly to þe þroer, but only for sundry ƿooms of stringed gleetools. It ƿas, maybe, þe narroƿ meres to hƿic he þus held himself on þe gameƿood, hƿic geafe bird, in great deal, to þe ƿundersum eard of his playings. But þe reeþ eaþ of his makings up culd not be so beclept. Hy must haf been, and ƿere, in þe picces, as ƿell as in þe ƿords of his ƿild dreams (for he not unoften lasted himself ƿiþ rimed spoken ƿord), þe utecum of þat great coolness of mind and heed to hƿic I haf formerly hinted as agettenly only in sundry brigtoms of þe higest selfmade giddiness. Þe ƿords of one of þese songs I haf eaþ munned. Maybe, it ƿreaked greater on my mind, as he geafe it, for þat, in þe under or hidden floƿ of its meaning, I þougt þat I agetted, and for þe first time, a full aƿareness on þe deal of Uscer, of þe reeling of his lifty rode on her seld. Þe ferses, hƿic ƿere named “Þe Gastly Kinhofe,” ran migty nearly, if not fully on þe mark, þus:


1.
In þe greenest of ure deans
By good ingels inearded
Great kinhofe ones fair and sceen—
Did sciningly—rear up its head.
In þe higeking Þougts ƿeeld striking—
It stood þere!
Nefer spread a fiþer syekin
Ofer cloþ as half as fair.
2.
Fanes brigt gelloƿ, þrumfast, golden,
On its roof did float and floƿ;
(Þis—all þis—ƿas in þe olden
Time long ago)
And efery friþful hƿiþ þat idelled
In þat sƿeet day,
Along þe breastƿork hƿite and higtelled
A flecged sƿec did fly aƿay.
3.
Ƿanderers in þat ƿinsum dean
Þruge tƿo brigt scining eyedoors saƿ
Ƿigts blissum tumbing in betƿeen
To a gameƿoods picced draƿ,
Emb abute a seld, hƿere sitting
(Porfirogene!)
In hoad his ƿolder ƿell befitting,
Þe ƿeelder of þe land ƿas seen.
4.
Ƿiþ all imm and mergroat gloƿing
Ƿas þe fair kinhofe door,
Þruge hƿic came floƿing, floƿing, floƿing
And sparkelling efermore,
A þrum of Ƿindmares hƿose sƿeet ƿicken
Ƿas but to sing,
In liteful stefens hƿat is ƿritten
Þe ƿit and ƿisdom of her king.
5.
But efil þings, in ƿeeds of sorroƿ
Oerset þe ƿeelders eþel hige;
(Lo, let us morn, for nefer morroƿ
Scall daƿ on him, ƿeasted by ƿye!)
And, emb abute his home, þe þrum
Þat gloƿed and blossomed ƿide
Is but a tale sloƿly unspun
Deep berried in þe olden tide.
6.
And ƿayfarers nu in þat dean,
Þruge þe redlitten eyedoors, see
Sum ƿidegale scapes þat scriþe unseen
To eyful, clascing, atel glee;
Hƿile, lic a sƿift and gastly stream,
Þruge þe ascen door,
A liteless þrong reas ute and teem
And laug—but smirk no more.


I mun ƿell þat þougts arising from þis sƿin led us into a þougtline hƿerein þere became suttel a ƿeen of Uscers hƿic I bring up not so muc for its neƿness (for oþer men haf þougt þus), but for þe doggedness ƿiþ hƿic he kept it. Þis ƿeen, in its mean scape, ƿas þat of þe aƿareness of all ƿurtly þings. But, in his riþed mind, þe þougt had nimmed a daringer eard, and oferstept, under sundry hoads, on þe kingdom of unƿeeldiness. I haf not þe ƿords to tell þe full lengþ, or þe earnest ƿildness of his flite. Þe beleef, huefer, ƿas lenced (as I haf formerly hinted) ƿiþ þe grey stones of þe home of his forefaþers. Þe embstandness of þe aƿareness had been here, he þougt, fulfilled in þe ƿay of meeting of þese stones—in þe endbird hy ƿere in, as ƿell as in þat of þe many sƿambs hƿic oferspread hem, and of þe rotten trees hƿic stood abute—abuf all, in þe long unscaken abidingness of þis endbird, and in its glass in þe still ƿaters of þe pool. Its seeþing—þe seeþing of aƿareness—ƿas to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke), in þe stepƿise get ƿiss deƿing of a hƿiþ of her oƿn abute þe ƿaters and þe ƿalls. Þe utecum ƿas findenly, he eked, in þat still, get burning and eyful hold hƿic for gerehundreds had meted þe ƿirds of his maiþ, and hƿic made him hƿat I nu saƿ him—hƿat he ƿas. Suc ƿeens need no cƿeaþing, and I ƿill make none.

Ure books—þe books hƿic for geres, had made up no small deal of þe þroers mindlife—ƿere, as migt be reasoƿed, in narroƿ keeping ƿiþ þis goastly eard. Ƿe conned togeþer suc ƿorks as þe “Ververt et Chartreuse” of Gresset; þe “Belfegor” of Machiavelli, þe “Heafen and Hell” of Swedenborg; þe “Undergrund Fare of Nickolas Klimm” by Holberg; þe “Folmreading” of Robert Flud, of Jean D’Indaginé, and of De la Chambre; þe “Fare into þe Heƿn Firl” of Tieck; and þe “Boroug of þe Sun” of Campanella. One darling ƿork ƿas a small eigþƿise draft of þe “Directorium Inquisitorum” by þe Dominicker Eymeric de Gironne; and þere ƿere deals in Pomponius Mela, abute þe old Affer Ƿoodƿoses and Goatmen, ofer hƿic Uscer ƿuld sit sƿefening for stunds. His main ƿin, huefer, ƿas fund in þe conning of a treƿly seld and ferly book in forþƿise Gottisc—þe handbook of a forgetten circ—þe ‘’Vigilae Moruorum Secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae’’.

I culd not help þinking of þe ƿild ƿun of þis ƿork, and of its licly rine on þe sick man, hƿen, one efening, hafing kenned me scortly þat þe lady Madeline ƿas no more, he spoke his ettel of akeeping her lic for a fortnigt, (forn to its endly berriel), in one of þe many hƿolfs ƿiþin þe main ƿalls of þe bilding. Þe ƿorldly grund, huefer, geefen for þis sundry ƿun, ƿas one hƿic I did not feel free to kneat. Þe broþer had been led to þis end (so he told me) by recking of þe selcooþ kind of þe deads sickness, of sundry nosy and keen frains by her leeces, and of þe bare and firlen hoad of þe maiþs berrielgrund. I ƿill not ƿiþsake þat hƿen I cied to mind þe ƿinster ansen of þe leed hƿom I met on þe stairƿell, on þe day of my lending at þe huse, I had no ƿisc to ƿiþset hƿat I saƿ as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unkindly, foreƿit.

At þe behest of Uscer, I myself helped him in þe plot for þe hƿilend berriel. Þe body hafing been inþruged, ƿe tƿo alone bore it to its rest. Þe hƿolf in hƿic ƿe put it (and hƿic had been so long unopened þat ure brands, half smoþered in its sƿeer lift, geafe us littel bire for spirring) ƿas small, fugt, and fully scruded from ligt; lying, at great depþ, straigt beneaþ þat deal of þe bilding in hƿic ƿas my oƿn sleepingrooms. It had been noted, it looked, in firlen times of leandom, for þe ƿorst ettels of a dimhuse, and, in later days, as a stoƿ for gundust, or sum oþer higely burnenly anƿork, as a deal of its floor, and þe hƿole inside of a long infare þruge hƿic ƿe raugt it, ƿere carefully sceaþed ƿiþ copper. Þe door, of hulking iron, had been, also, ƿarded alic. Its great ƿeigt brougt forþ a selcooþly scarp grinding lude, as it scroþe on its hincges.

Hafing stoƿed ure mornful birden on stocks ƿiþin þis room of broƿ, ƿe halfƿay dreƿ aside þe get unnailed lid of þe þruge, and looked on þe anlet of þe heem. A striking alicness betƿeen þe broþer and þe suster nu first held my heed; and Uscer, halsing, maybe, my þougts, mumbelled ute sum feƿ ƿords from hƿic I learned þat þe dead and himself had been tƿins, and þat scared feelings of a hardly understandenly kind had alƿays been betƿeen hem. Ure eyes, huefer, rested not long on þe dead—for ƿe culd not behold her uneyed. Þe sickness hƿic had þus felled þe lady in þe ripeness of geƿþ, had left, as is oftseen in all sicknesses of neƿelsleep, þe hux of a ƿan reddening on þe bosom and þe anlet, and þat tƿeenfully tarrying smirk on þe lip hƿic is so eyful in deaþ. Ƿe put back and nailed dune þe lid, and, hafing fastened þe iron door, made ure ƿay, ƿiþ sƿink, into þe hardly less gloomy rooms of þe upper deal of þe huse.

And nu, sum days of bitter gnorn hafing ran on, an agettenly ƿend came ofer þe costs of þe angness of my frend. His eferyday ƿuns ƿere forlet or forgetten. He roamed from room to room ƿiþ cƿick, unefen, and drifting steps. Þe ƿanness of his ansen had nimmed, if migtly, a gastlier heƿ—but þe brigtness of his eye had utterly gone ute. Þe ones sumtime huskiness of his stefen ƿas heard no more; and a scaking cƿifer, as if of great broƿ, often marked his speec. Þere ƿere times, indeed, hƿen I þougt his unendingly anged mind ƿas ƿorking ƿiþ sum heafy rune, to make knoƿn hƿic he fougt for þe needed dugt. At times, agen, I ƿas ƿunt to lay all to þe untellenly hƿims of madness, for I beheld him staring into emptiness for long stunds, in a mood of þe deepest heed, as if listening to sum mindmade ƿoom. It ƿas no ƿunder þat his sickness breed—þat it smitted me. I felt creeping on me, by sloƿ get ƿiss steps, þe ƿild holds of his oƿn mindmade get eyful offgalþs.

It ƿas, hure, on sƿeþering to bed late in þe nigt of þe sefenþ or eigþ day after þe setting of þe lady Madeline ƿiþin þe dimhuse, þat I felt þe full migt of suc feelings. Sleep came not near my streen—hƿile þe stunds ƿaned and ƿaned aƿay. I fanded to reasoƿ off þe angness hƿic had ƿeeld ofer me. I fanded to beleef þat muc, if not all of hƿat I felt, ƿas from þe beƿildering hold of þe gloomy idisc of þe room—of þe dark and þreadbare hangings, hƿic, tintreyed into scriþing by þe breaþ of a rising storm, ƿaƿed fitfully back and forþ on þe ƿalls, and rustelled uneaþ abute þe fratoƿings of þe bed. But my ƿork ƿas bootless. An uncƿellenly cƿifer sloƿly oferƿun my frame; and, at lengþ, þere sat on my heart itself a scuck of utterly ungrunded angness. Scaking þis off ƿiþ a heaf and a figt, I lifted myself up on þe pilloƿs, and, looking earnestly ƿiþin þe neƿel darkness of þe room, harkened—I knoƿ not hƿy, but þat an inborn goast scied me—to sundry soft and unsuttel ƿooms hƿic came, þruge þe lulls in þe storm, at long betƿixtfacks, I kneƿ not hƿens. Oferþroƿn by a deep feeling of broƿ, untellenly get unþolenly, I þreƿ on my cloþes ƿiþ great speed (for I felt þat I sculd sleep no more bin þe nigt), and fanded to bestir myself from þe sorry hoad into hƿic I had fallen, by stepping sƿiftly back and forþ þruge þe room.

I had nimmed but a feƿ ƿends in þis ƿay, hƿen a ligt step on þe lenced stairƿell nimmed my heed. I nu acknoƿed it as þat of Uscer. In a brigtom afterƿard he knocked, ƿiþ a ligt rine, at my door, and infared, bearing a ligtfat. His blee ƿas, as ƿas ƿunt, a liclic ƿan—but, moreofer, þere ƿas a breed of mad laugter in his eyes—a suttelly held back madness in his hƿole ansen. His hƿiþ afeared me—but anyþing ƿas better þan þe aloneness hƿic I had þoled so long, and I efen ƿelcummed his nigeness as a liss.

“And þu hast not seen it?” he said scortly, after hafing stared abute him for sum brigtoms in roo—”þu hast not þen seen it?—but, bide! þu scall.” þus speaking, and hafing carefully scaded his ligtfat, he ran to one of þe eyedoors, and þreƿ it freely open to þe storm.

Þe reeþ ƿraþ of þe infaring blast nearly lifted us from ure feet. It ƿas, indeed, a stormy get sternly liteful nigt, and one ƿildly sundry in its broƿ and its lite. It looked lic a þode had gaþered its migt in ure nigeness; for þere ƿere often and heast ƿends in þe ƿay of þe ƿind; and þe oferstying þickness of þe cludes (hƿic hanged so neþer as to þruc on þe steepels of þe huse) did not keep us from agetting þis—get ƿe had no stic of þe moon or stars—nor ƿas þere any blasing forþ of ligtning. But þe underside of þe hulking heap of cirning clude, as ƿell as all þings on land in ure nigeness, ƿere scining in þe unkindly ligt of a dimly gloƿing and suttelly seenly utebreaþ hƿic hung abute and inscruded þe huse.

“Þu must not—þu scall not behold þis!” said I, cƿaferingly, to Uscer, as I led him, ƿiþ a friþful heast, from þe eyedoor to a sess. “Þese ansens, hƿic beƿilder þee, are only but lefeny ƿunders not seldseen—or it may be þat hy haf her gastly spring in þe rank fuleness of þe pool. Let us scut þis eyedoor;—þe lift is cilling and pleely to þy frame. Here is one of þy darling lufbooks. I ƿill read, and þee scall listen;—and so ƿe ƿill spend þis eyful nigt togeþer.”

Þe old book hƿic I had nimmed ƿas þe “Mad Meeting” of Her Lambert Canning; but I had cied it a darling of Uscers more in sad rib þan in earnest; for, in treƿþ, þere is littel in its uncooþ and mean longƿindedness hƿic culd haf held grip for þe hige and mindful sigt of my frend. It ƿas, huefer, þe only book rigt at hand; and I atiþed a mirky hope þat þe giddiness hƿic nu anged þe man, migt find liss (for þe stear of mindsickness is full of alic ferlies) efen in þe depþ of þe disiness hƿic I sculd read. Culd I haf deemed, indeed, by þe ƿild oferstraugt hƿiþ of life ƿiþ hƿic he harkened, or looked to harken, to þe ƿords of þe tale, I migt ƿell haf fained myself on þe speed of my plot.

I had lended at þat ƿellknoƿn deal of þe tale ƿere Eþelred, þe heleþ of þe Stefen, hafing sougt bootlessly for friþful infare into þe dƿelling of þe loner, ceƿses to make good an infare ƿiþ heast. Here, it ƿill be minded, þe ƿords of þe rake run þus:

“And Eþelred, hƿo ƿas kindly of a dugty heart, and hƿo ƿas nu migty ƿiþall, for þat great migt of þe ƿine hƿic he had drunken, bided no longer to hold meeting ƿiþ þe loner, hƿo, in sooþ, ƿas of a þƿire and hateful kind, but, feeling þe rain on his scolders, and fearing þe rising of þe storm, uplifted his kicgel uterigt, and, ƿiþ bloƿs, made cƿickly room in þe beams of þe door for his glufed hand; and nu pulling þereƿiþ heartily, he so broke, and rent, and tore all asunder, þat þe lude of þe dry and holloƿsƿeying ƿood startelled and scilled þrugeute þe ƿold.

At þe end of þis cƿid I started, and for a brigtom, stalled; for it felt to me (alþaug I at ones ceose þat my afeared mind had belirted me)—it felt to me þat, from sum migty firlen deal of þe huse, þere came, unsuttelly, to my ears, hƿat migt haf been, in its fulfremmed alicness of hoad, þe ƿindmare (but a smoþered and dull one ƿissly) of þe ilc breaking and tearing lude hƿic Her Lambert had so sundrily recced. It ƿas, begeond tƿeen, þe befalling alone hƿic had nimmed hold of my heed; for, amid þe rattelling of þe frames in þe eyedoors, and þe kindly mingelled dins of þe still ƿaxing storm, þe lude, in itself, had noþing, ƿissly, hƿic sculd haf gript or upset me. I ƿent on reading þe tale:

“But þe good kemp Eþelred, nu infaring ƿiþin þe door, ƿas sore ƿroþ and amased to aget no token of þe hateful loner; but, in þe stead þereof, a drake of a scaly and ettinisc ansen, and of a firy tung, hƿic sat as a ƿard before a kinhofe of gold, ƿiþ a floor of silfer; and on þe ƿall þere hanged a sceeld of scining brass ƿiþ þis cƿid ingrafed—


Hƿo infareþ herein, a oferƿinner haþ been;
Hƿo slayeþ þe drake, þe sceeld he scall ƿin.


And Eþelred uplifted his kicgel, and struck at þe head of þe drake, hƿic fell before him, and geafe up his baneful breaþ, ƿiþ a scree so eyful and scarp, and ƿiþall so boring, þat Eþelred had fain to scut his ears ƿiþ his hands agenst þe dreadful lude of it, þe lic hƿereof ƿas nefer before heard.”

Here agen I stopt all at ones, and nu ƿiþ a feeling of ƿild amase—for þere culd be no tƿeen hƿatsoefer þat, in þis brigtom, I did treƿly hear (alþaug from hƿat heading it came I fund it unmigtly to say) a deep and to þe ear firlen, but scarp, lengþy, and ferliest screeing or grinding ƿoom—þe make itself of hƿat my mind had already brougt up for þe drakes unkindly scree as recced by þe bookƿrigt.

Onsat, as I ƿissly ƿas, on þe landing of þe oþer and seldestseen befalling, by a þusand figting feelings, in hƿic ƿunder and greatest frigt ƿere higest, I still held enuge of my mind to forbear frigtening, by any hoƿing, þe keen angness of my felloƿ. I ƿas in no ƿay ƿiss þat he had nimmed heed of þe ƿooms unsettelled; alþaug, ƿissly, a ferly ƿend, had, bin þe last feƿ minnits, befallen in his ansen. From a stead afore me, he had stepƿise brougt emb his sess, so as to sit ƿiþ his anlet to þe door of þe room; and þus I culd but half aget his costs, alþaug I saƿ þat his lips cƿifered as if he ƿere mumbelling unhearenly. His head had dropt on his breast—get I kneƿ þat he ƿas not asleep, from þe ƿide and stiff opening of þe eye as I fanged a sigt of it from þe side. Þe scriþing of his body, too, ƿas ƿiþer þis þougt—for he rocked from side to side ƿiþ a small get ungeelding and efen ƿaƿ. Hafing sƿiftly nimmed heed of all þis, I started agen þe rake of Her Lambert, hƿic þus ƿent on:

“And nu, þe kemp, hafing atƿinded from þe eyful ƿraþ of þe drake, beþinking himself of þe brasen sceeld, and of þe breaking up of þe galder hƿic ƿas on it, dreƿ þe lic from ute of þe ƿay before him, and strode dugtily ofer þe silfer paþing of þe fasten to hƿere þe sceeld ƿas on þe ƿall; hƿic in sooþ tarried not for his cumming, but fell dune at his feet on þe silfer floor, ƿiþ a migty great and eyful ringing lude.”

No sooner had þese staffays gone by my lips, þan—as if a sceeld of brass had indeed, at þe brigtom, fallen heafily on a floor of silfer—I became aƿare of a sundry, holloƿ, bloomlic, and scrill, get sumhu deadened ƿindmare. Fully afeared, I leapt to my feet; but þe sloƿ rocking of Uscer ƿas unfased. I reased to þe seat in hƿic he sat. His eyes ƿere bent fastened before him, and þrugeute his hƿole ansen þere rixt a stony stiffness. But, as I put my hand on his scolder, þere came a strong scaking ofer his hƿole body; a sickly smirk cƿifered abute his lips; and I saƿ þat he spoke in a soft, sƿift, and babbelling mumbel, as if unaƿare of my nigeness. Bending nigely ofer him, I at lengþ drank in þe atel ƿeigt of his ƿords.

“Not hear it?—ges, I hear it, and haf heard it. Long—long—long—many minnits, many stunds, many days, haf I heard it—get I dared not—o, haf reƿþ for me, ƿoesum ƿrec þat I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! Ƿe haf put her lifing in þe grafe! Said I not þat my angets ƿere scarp? I nu tell þee þat I heard her first mainless scriþings in þe holloƿ þruge. I heard hem—many, many days ago—get I dared not—I dared not speak! And nu—tonigt—Eþelred—ha! ha!—þe breaking of þe loners door, and þe deaþroop of þe drake, and þe ring of þe sceeld!—say, raþer, þe rending of her þruge, and þe grinding of þe iron hincges of her cƿartern, and her figts ƿiþin þe coppered infare of þe hƿolf! O hƿiþer scall I fly! Ƿill sce not be here anon? Is sce not reasing to upbraid me for my higt? Haf I not heard her footstep on þe stair? Do I not sced þat heafy and eyful beating of her heart? MADMAN!” here he sprang ƿildly to his feet, and rooped ute staffays, as if in þe sƿink he ƿere geefing up his soƿl—”MADMAN! I TELL ÞEE ÞAT SCE NU STANDS ǷIÞUTE ÞE DOOR!”

As if in þe ofermanly drife of his speec þere had been fund þe strengþ of a spell—þe great fern boards to hƿic þe speaker minted his finger þreƿ sloƿly back, on þe brigtom, ƿeigty and rafen ceafels. It ƿas þe ƿork of þe reasing ƿind—but þen ƿiþute þose doors þere did stand þe hige and inscruded ansen of þe lady Madeline of Uscer. Þere ƿas blood on her hƿite ƿeeds, and þe seeþing of sum bitter figt on efery deal of her ƿanþrifen frame. For a brigtom sce belifed cƿifering and reeling to and from on þe þreschold, þen, ƿiþ a soft moan, fell heafily inƿard on þe body of her broþer, and in her heast and nu endly deaþsussels, bore him to þe floor a lic, and a tifer to þe broƿs he had foreseen.

From þat room, and from þat huse, I fled agast. Þe storm ƿas still abroad in all its ƿraþ as I fund myself flying þƿarst þe old bricg. All at ones þere scot along þe paþ a ƿild ligt, and I ƿent to see hƿens a gleam so selcooþ culd haf cum; for þe great huse and its scadoƿs ƿere alone behind me. Þe brigtness ƿas þat of þe full, setting, and bloodred moon hƿic nu scone strikingly þruge þat ones barely sceddenly cine of hƿic I haf before spoken as streccing from þe roof of þe bilding, in a ƿinding ƿay, to þe staddel. Hƿile I stared, þis cine sƿiftly ƿidened—þere came a reeþ breaþ of þe þode—þe hƿole þoþer of þe moon burst at ones on my sigt—my brain reeled as I saƿ þe migty ƿalls falling asunder—þere ƿas a long ƿood rooping reard lic þe stefen of a þusand ƿaters—and þe deep and marscy pool at my feet sƿalloƿed grimly and stilly þe sticces of þe “HUSE OF USCER.”

 

 

 

English Spelling

 

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
By Edgar Allan Poe
Went by Cascadia
(thrutched 1839)

 

Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne.
(His heart is a semmed gamewood
As soon as man rines it, it rings.)

- De Béranger.

 

BIN the whole of a dull, dark, and still day in the fall of the year, when the clouds hanged heavy and smothering in the heavens, I had been faring alone, on horseback, through a sundrily dreary deal of land; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within sight of the unblithe House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first sight of the building, an feeling of untholenly gloom steeped my ghost. I say untholenly; for the feeling was unlissed by any of that halfwinsome, for I am a leether, feeling, with which the mind wontly fangs even the sternest kindly sights of the dreadful or forlorn. I beheld the sight before me—the bare house, and the afold landshape marks of the stead—the lorn walls—the empty staring eyedoors—a few rank sedges—and a few white stocks of rotten trees—with an utter sorrow of the soul which I can lichen to no earthly anyet fittinglier than to the aftersweven of the spiller on poppy tears—the bitter slide into everyday life—the atle dropping off of the wimple. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unleesed dreariness of thought which no goading of the mind could beat into aught of the great. What was it—I stopped to think—what was it that so upset me in thinking of the House of Usher? It was a rown all in darkness; nor could I grapple with the shadowy thoughts that crowded on me as I conned. I was made to fall back on the bitesome end, that while, beyond tween, there are fays of trewly afold kindly things which have the thrake of thus rining us, still the shruttening of this thrake lies among aminds beyond our depth. It was mightly, I thought, that but a sundry dighting of the bits of the sight, of the marks of the meting, would be enough to wend, or maybe to fell its main for sorrowful rine; and, putting this thought into being, I drew my horse to the steep stath of a black and gory pool that lay in unstirred sheen by the dwling, and stared down—but with a shaking even thrillinger than before—on the eftshaped and whelved sights of the grey sedge, and the ghastly treestocks, and the empty and staring eyedoors.

Nevertheless, in this bold of gloom I now put forth to myself an abode of some weeks. Its owner, Roderick Usher, had been one of my good friends in knavehood; but many years had gone by since our last meeting. An errandwrit, however, had lately raught me in a firlen deal of the land—an errandwrit from him—which, in its wildly dogged way, had bid of no other than an answer in body. The writ yave seething of a deep angness. The writ spoke of stark bodily adle—of a sickness of the mind which overset him—and of an earnest list to see me, as his best, and indeed his only true friend, with an end of fanding, by the merriness of my fellowship, some liss to his trey. It was the way in which all this, and much more, was said—it was the seenly heart that went with his bead—which atithed no room for wavering; and so I heeded forthwith what I still held to be a full sundry chying.

Althaugh, as knaves, we had been even nigh thofts, I truly knew little of my friend. His firl had been always fulsome and wont. I was aware, however, that his mighty fern maith had been marked, time out of mind, for a sundry mindhoad, showing itself, through long elds, in many works of aheaved list, and atewed, of late, in eftledged roomhearted, yet not showy deeds, as well as in earnest willsomeness to the smallest marks, maybe even more than to the rightframed and eath acknowenly lites, of gleecraft. I had learned too, the full markworthy trewth, that the stock of the Usher strind, all timeworthied as it was, had put forth, at no time, any lasting bough; in other words, that the whole maith lay in the straightforward bloodline, and had always, with rather small and rather whilend shifts, so lain. It was this wem, I thought, while running over in my mind the fulfremmed keeping of the eard of the grounds with the high eard of the folk, and while weighing on the mightly hold which the one, in the long span of yearhundreds, might have willed on the other—it was this wem, maybe, of other thrake, and the following unwavering bequest, from father to son, of the erf with the name, which had, at length, so branded the two as to fay the form ekename of the house in the ferly and cloudy name of the “House of Usher”—a name which felt to inhold, in the minds of the churlfolk who spoke it, bo the maith and the house itself.

I have said that the lone rine of my somewhat childish fand—that of looking down within the pool—had been to deepen the first sundry inthrutch. There can be no tween that the quickness of the swift rise of my offgalth—for why should I not so name it?—worked mainly to quicken the rise itself. Such, I have long known, is the backwards ea of all feelings having dread as a staddle. And it might have been for this ground only, that, when I ayen lifted my eyes to the house itself, from its glass in the pool, there grew in my mind an uncanny thought—a thought so laughworthy, indeed, that I bring it up only to show the striking might of the feelings which onsat me. I had so worked on my mind as truly to believe that about the whole house and grounds there hanged a whith sundry to hemselves and her nighmost neighborhood—a whith which had no couthness with the lift of heaven, but which had reeked up from the rotten trees, and the grey wall, and the full still pool—a coathed and rowny mist, dull, heavy, barely toknowenly, and leadenhued.

Shaking off from my ghost what must have been a sweven, I conned narrowlier the true kind of the building. Its main cost looked to be that of a fulsome eld. The mishuing of years had been great. Tiny swambs overspread the whole outside, hanging in a nesh knotted webwork from the eaves. Yet all this was asunder from any markworthy wrake. No deal of the stonework had fallen; and there looked to be a wild unevenness between its still fulfremmed faying of deals, and the crumbling hoad of the sundry stones. In this there was much that brought to my mind the misleading wholeness of old woodwork which has rotted for long years in some foryetten wholf, with no rine from the breath of the outside lift. Beyond this mark of widegale rot, however, the cloth yave little token of unsoundness. Maybe the eye of a shruttening watcher might have found a barely ayettenly chine, which, stretching from the roof of the building in fore, made its way down the wall in a winding path, hent it became lost in the gloomy waters of the pool.

Ayetting these things, I rode over a short bridge to the house. A biding hew nimmed my horse, and I infared the Gottish wholf of the hall. A handman, of stealthy step, thence drew me, in roo, through many dark and knotted hallways in my forthgang to the workshop of his maister. Much that I saw on the way eked, I know not how, to heighten the unsuttle feelings of which I have already spoken. While the things about me—while the gravings of the firsts, the grim hangings of the walls, the raven blackness of the floors, and the swevenlich shields and weapons which rattled as I strode, were but things to which, or to such as which, I had been wont from my babehood—while I stalled not to acknowledge how couth was all this—I still wondered to find how uncouth were the meetings which everyday sights were stirring up. On one of the stairwells, I met the leech of the maith. His ansen, I thought, wore a mingled look of lither cunning and rown. He naid me with misyeaving and went on. The handman now threw open a door and brought me into the nighness of his maister.

The room in which I found myself was mighty great and tall. The eyedoors were long, narrow, and sharp, and at so great a height from the black oaken floor as to be altogether unrinenly from within. Mainless gleams of reddened light made her way through the hurdled glass, and made sundry enough the outstandinger things about; the eye, however, fought bootlessly to reach the firlener whems of the room, or the halks of the whilved and ingraved first. Dark hangings were on the walls. The mean idish was many, queamless, fern, and shredded. Many books and gleetools lay strewn about, but trucked in yeaving any life to the sight. I felt that I breathed a whith of sorrow. A lift of stern, deep, and unleesenly gloom hanged over and steeped all.

At my infare, Usher arose from a streen on which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me with a lively warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone heartiness—of the bound work of the weary man of the world. A look, however, at his ansen, told me of his fulfremmed lutterness. We sat down; and for some brightoms, while he spoke not, I looked at him with a feeling half of ruth, half of ey. Wissly, man had never before so dreadfully went, in so short a time, as had Roderick Usher! It was with hardship that I could bring myself to andet the selfilchness of the wan being before me with the thoft of my early knavehood. Yet the eard of his anlet had been at all times markworthy. A lichlich blee; an eye great, watery, and bright beyond lichening; lips somewhat thin and mighty blake, but of a truly liteful bow; a nose of a nesh Ebresh shape, but with a breadth of nostril seldseen in those alich; a smickerly shaped chin, speaking, in its wane of outstandingness, of a wane of rightwise strength; hair of a more than weblich softness and thinness; these hallmarks, with a fulsome stretch above the deal of the thunwang, made up altogether an ansen not eath foryetten. And now in but the overblowing of the rixing eard of these costs, and of the look hy were wont to tell, lay so much of wend that I tweened to whom I spoke. The now ghastly blee of the hame, and the now selcouth gleam of the eye, above all things startled and even eyed me. The silken hair, too, had been tholed to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild cobweb woof, it floated rather than fell about the anlet, I could not, even with work, lench its Arabish ansen with any shape of mean mankind.

In the hoad of my friend I was at once struck with an untogetherness—an unsteadiness; and I soon found this to arise from a row of bootless and sorry fands to overcome a wont how—an orn angness of the sinews. For something of this kind I had indeed been ready, no less by his errandwrit, than by aminds of wiss knavish costs, and by ends drawn from his ferly bodily frame and mood. His deeds were lively and dull stevenmeal. His steven went swiftly from a quivering waver (when the soul felt utterly stalled) to that stock of lively shortness—that quick, weighty, unrunning, and hollow-sweying speech—that leaden, selfevened and fulfremmedly meted uttering, which may be beheld in the lost drunk, or the unneerenly eater of poppy tears, bin the times of his greatest giddiness.

It was thus that he spoke of my neesings end, of his earnest list to see me, and of the liss he weened me to afford him. He infared, at some length, into what he thought to be the kind of his sickness. It was, he said, an inborn and a bloodborn evil, and one for which he had no hope of finding a lokening—but an angness, he eked quickly, which would wissly soon go. It showed itself in a dright of unkindly feelings. Some of these, as he told hem, gripped and bewildered me; althaugh, maybe, the words, and the altogether way of the telling had her weight. He throed much from an eyful sharpness of the anyets; the mildest food was alone tholenly; he could wear only clothes of a wiss woof; the smells of all blossoms were too heavy; his eyes were tintreyed by even a dim light; and there were but sundry wooms, and these from stringed gleetools, which did not tend within him dread.

To a ferly breed of dread I found him a bound thew. “I shall queal,” said he, “I must queal in this woeful unwisdom. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the befallings to come, not in hemselves, but in her outcomes. I shake at the thought of any, even the smallest, befalling, which may work on this untholenly upstirring of the soul. I have, indeed, no hatred of plee, but for in its truest rine—in fear. In this shaken, in this arm hoad, I feel that the time will sooner or later come when I must forsake life and rode together, in some fight with the grim shinelock, FEAR.”

I learned, moreover, betwixtfacks, and through broken and unwiss hints, another sundry cost of his mindsickness. He was trapt by sundry offgalths as to the dwelling which he inearded, and whence, for many years, he had never fared forth—as to a rine whose foken thrake was told in words too shadowy here to be eftsaid—a rine which some selcouthnesses in the shape and anwork itself of his ethel, had, by dint of long tholing, he said, overwon his ghost—a rine which the body of the grey walls and steeples, and of the dim pond into which hy all looked down, had, at length, brought about on the heart of his being.

He andetted, however, althaugh with wavering, that much of the selcouth gloom which thus swenched him could be put to a kindlier and far rinenlier spring—to the stark and lengthy sickness—indeed to the suttly nearing death—of a much beloved suster, his lone thoft for long years—his last and only kin on earth. “Her death,” he said, with a bitterness which I can never foryet, “would leave him (him the hopeless and the woak) the last of the fern stock of the Ushers.” While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she named) walked slowly through a firlen deal of the room, and, without having underyat my being there, swinded. I deemed her with an utter forwondering not unmingled with dread; and yet I found it unmightly to yeave ground for such feelings. An anyet of dullness onsat me, as my eyes followed her withdrawing steps. When a door, at length, shut on her, my sight sought kindly and earnestly the ansen of the brother; but he had buried his anlet in his hands, and I could only ayet that a far more than kindly wanness had overspread the wanthriven fingers through which wept many heartfelt tears.

The sickness of the lady Madeline had long mazed the craft of her leeches. A settled listlessness, a stepwise dwining of the leed, and often althaugh fleeting swenches of newelsleep, were the ferly knowledge. Hitherto she had steadily born up ayenst the weight of her sickness, and had not written herself off to the bed forever; but, on the clising in of the evening of my lending at the house, she yave in (as her brother told me at night with untellenly angness) to the neweling thrake of the forspiller; and I learned that the short sight I had had of her would thus lichliest be the last I should have—that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.

For many days following, her name was unnemmened by either Usher or myself: and bin this time I was busied in earnest upnimmings to liss the unblitheness of my friend. We meted and read together; or I listened, as if in a sweven, to the wild makings up of his speaking gamewood. And thus, as a nigher and still nearness let me openlier into the depths of his ghost, the bitterlier did I ayet the emptiness of all fands at chirking a mind from which darkness, as if an inborn good whichness, yote forth on all things of the mind and of sooth in the allworld, in one unending leam of gloom.

I shall ever bear about me an amind of the many dark stunds I thus spent alone with the maister of the House of Usher. Yet I should truck in any fand to write an outline of the true eard of the connings, or of the works, in which he drew me in, or led me the way. A giddy and highly moodsick wit threw a sheen of brimstone over all. His long made up deathsongs will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold teenfully in mind a wiss sundry miswending and loudening of the wild whith of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the metings over which his twining thoughtlines brooded, and which grew, rine by rine, into unsuttlings at which I shook the thrillinglier, for that I shook knowing not why—from these metings (lifelich as her sights now are before me) I would fand and truck to draw out more than a small deal which should lie within the span of but written words. By the utter afoldness, by the nakedness of his shapings, he stopped fast and overeyed heed. If ever deathling meted a thought, that deathling was Roderick Usher. For me at least, in the embstandness then all about me, there arose out of the sheer thoughts which the bedevilled were went to throw on his sailcloth, a height of untholenly ey, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the fathoming of the wissly glowing yet too fast dayswevens of Fuseli.

One of the swevenlich thoughts of my friend, sharing not so stiffly of the soul of thought, may be shadowed forth, althaugh woakly, in words. A small meting showed the inside of an ettinishly long and fouredged wholf or undergang, with nether walls, smooth, white, and without break or fratow. Sundry small ords of the shape told well of the thought that this delving lay at a mighty great depth beneath the mold. No outgang was seen in any deal of its great length, and no brand, or other manmade spring of light was toknowenly; yet a flood of shining bright beams ran throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and unfitting wolder.

I have now but spoken of that eyful derf of the hearingsinew which made all soon untholenly to the throer, but only for sundry wooms of stringed gleetools. It was, maybe, the narrow meres to which he thus held himself on the gamewood, which yave bird, in great deal, to the wondersome eard of his playings. But the reeth eath of his makings up could not be so beclept. Hy must have been, and were, in the pitches, as well as in the words of his wild dreams (for he not unoften lasted himself with rhymed spoken word), the outcome of that great coolness of mind and heed to which I have formerly hinted as ayettenly only in sundry brightoms of the highest selfmade giddiness. The words of one of these songs I have eath munned. Maybe, it wreaked greater on my mind, as he yave it, for that, in the under or hidden flow of its meaning, I thought that I ayetted, and for the first time, a full awareness on the deal of Usher, of the reeling of his lifty rode on her seld. The ferses, which were named “The Ghastly Kinhove,” ran mighty nearly, if not fully on the mark, thus:


1.
In the greenest of our deans
By good ingles inearded
Great kinhove once fair and sheen—
Did shiningly—rear up its head.
In the highking Thought’s wield striking—
It stood there!
Never spread a fither syekin
Over cloth as half as fair.
2.
Fanes bright yellow, thrumfast, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every frithful whith that idled
In that sweet day,
Along the breastwork white and hightled
A fledged swetch did fly away.
3.
Wanderers in that winsome dean
Through two bright shining eyedoors saw
Wights blissome tumbing in between
To a gamewoods pitched draw,
Emb about a seld, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In hoad his wolder well befitting,
The wielder of the land was seen.
4.
With all imm and mergroat glowing
Was the fair kinhove door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A thrum of Windmares whose sweet wicken
Was but to sing,
In liteful stevens what is written
The wit and wisdom of her king.
5.
But evil things, in weeds of sorrow
O’erset the wielders ethel high;
(Lo, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall daw on him, weasted by wye!)
And, emb about his home, the thrum
That glowed and blossomed wide
Is but a tale slowly unspun
Deep buried in the olden tide.
6.
And wayfarers now in that dean,
Through the redlitten eyedoors, see
Sum widegale shapes that shrithe unseen
To eyful, clashing, atle glee;
While, lich a swift and ghastly stream,
Through the ashen door,
A liteless throng rease out and teem
And laugh—but smirk no more.


I mun well that thoughts arising from this swin led us into a thoughtline wherein there became suttle a ween of Ushers which I bring up not so much for its newness (for other men have thought thus), but for the doggedness with which he kept it. This ween, in its mean shape, was that of the awareness of all wortly things. But, in his rithed mind, the thought had nimmed a daringer eard, and overstepped, under sundry hoads, on the kingdom of unwieldiness. I have not the words to tell the full length, or the earnest wildness of his flite. The belief, however, was lenched (as I have formerly hinted) with the grey stones of the home of his forefathers. The embstandness of the awareness had been here, he thought, fulfilled in the way of meeting of these stones—in the endbird hy were in, as well as in that of the many swambs which overspread hem, and of the rotten trees which stood about—above all, in the long unshaken abidingness of this endbird, and in its glass in the still waters of the pool. Its seething—the seething of awareness—was to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke), in the stepwise yet wiss dewing of a whith of her own about the waters and the walls. The outcome was findenly, he eked, in that still, yet burning and eyful hold which for yearhundreds had meted the wirds of his maith, and which made him what I now saw him—what he was. Such weens need no queathing, and I will make none.

Our books—the books which for years, had made up no small deal of the throer’s mindlife—were, as might be reasowed, in narrow keeping with this ghostly eard. We conned together such works as the “Ververt et Chartreuse” of Gresset; the “Belphegor” of Machiavelli, the “Heaven and Hell” of Swedenborg; the “Underground Fare of Nicholas Klimm” by Holberg; the “Folmreading” of Robert Flud, of Jean D’Indaginé, and of De la Chambre; the “Fare into the Hewn Firl” of Tieck; and the “Boroug of the Sun” of Campanella. One darling work was a small eighthwise draft of the “Directorium Inquisitorum” by the Dominicker Eymerich de Gironne; and there were deals in Pomponius Mela, about the old Affer Woodwoses and Goatmen, over which Usher would sit swevening for stounds. His main win, however, was found in the conning of a trewly seld and ferly book in forthwise Gottish—the handbook of a foryetten church—the ‘’Vigilae Moruorum Secundum Chorum Echlesiae Maguntinae’’.

I could not help thinking of the wild won of this work, and of its lichly rine on the sick man, when, one evening, having kenned me shortly that the lady Madeline was no more, he spoke his ettle of akeeping her lich for a fortnight, (forn to its endly buriel), in one of the many wholves within the main walls of the building. The worldly ground, however, yeaven for this sundry won, was one which I did not feel free to kneat. The brother had been led to this end (so he told me) by recking of the selcouth kind of the dead’s sickness, of sundry nosy and keen frains by her leeches, and of the bare and firlen hoad of the maith’s burielground. I will not withsake that when I chied to mind the winster ansen of the leed whom I met on the stairwell, on the day of my lending at the house, I had no wish to withset what I saw as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unkindly, forewit.

At the behest of Usher, I myself helped him in the plot for the whilend buriel. The body having been inthroughed, we two alone bore it to its rest. The wholf in which we put it (and which had been so long unopened that our brands, half smothered in its sweer lift, yave us little bire for spirring) was small, fought, and fully shrouded from light; lying, at great depth, straight beneath that deal of the building in which was my own sleepingrooms. It had been noted, it looked, in firlen times of leandom, for the worst ettles of a dimhouse, and, in later days, as a stow for gundust, or some other highly burnenly anwork, as a deal of its floor, and the whole inside of a long infare through which we raught it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of hulking iron, had been, also, warded alich. Its great weight brought forth a selcouthly sharp grinding loud, as it shrothe on its hinges.

Having stowed our mournful burden on stocks within this room of brow, we halfway drew aside the yet unnailed lid of the through, and looked on the anlet of the heem. A striking alichness between the brother and the suster now first held my heed; and Usher, halsing, maybe, my thoughts, mumbled out some few words from which I learned that the dead and himself had been twins, and that shared feelings of a hardly understandenly kind had always been between hem. Our eyes, however, rested not long on the dead—for we could not behold her uneyed. The sickness which had thus fled the lady in the ripeness of youth, had left, as is oftseen in all sicknesses of newelsleep, the hux of a wan reddening on the bosom and the anlet, and that tweenfully tarrying smirk on the lip which is so eyful in death. We put back and nailed down the lid, and, having fastened the iron door, made our way, with swink, into the hardly less gloomy rooms of the upper deal of the house.

And now, some days of bitter gnorn having ran on, an ayettenly wend came over the costs of the angness of my friend. His everyday wons were forlet or foryetten. He roamed from room to room with quick, uneven, and drifting steps. The wanness of his ansen had nimmed, if mightly, a ghastlier hew—but the brightness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once sometime huskiness of his steven was heard no more; and a shaking quiver, as if of great brow, often marked his speech. There were times, indeed, when I thought his unendingly anged mind was working with some heavy rown, to make known which he fought for the needed dought. At times, ayen, I was wont to lay all to the untellenly whims of madness, for I beheld him staring into emptiness for long stounds, in a mood of the deepest heed, as if listening to some mindmade woom. It was no wonder that his sickness breed—that it smitted me. I felt creeping on me, by slow yet wiss steps, the wild holds of his own mindmade yet eyful offgalths.

It was, hour, on swethering to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the setting of the lady Madeline within the dimhouse, that I felt the full might of such feelings. Sleep came not near my streen—while the stounds waned and waned away. I fanded to reasow off the angness which had wield over me. I fanded to believe that much, if not all of what I felt, was from the bewildering hold of the gloomy idish of the room—of the dark and threadbare hangings, which, tintreyed into shrithing by the breath of a rising storm, wawed fitfully back and forth on the walls, and rustled uneath about the fratowings of the bed. But my work was bootless. An unquellenly quiver slowly overwon my frame; and, at length, there sat on my heart itself a shuck of utterly ungrounded angness. Shaking this off with a heave and a fight, I lifted myself up on the pillows, and, looking earnestly within the newel darkness of the room, harkened—I know not why, but that an inborn ghost shied me—to sundry soft and unsuttle wooms which came, through the lulls in the storm, at long betwixtfacks, I knew not whence. Overthrown by a deep feeling of brow, untellenly yet untholenly, I threw on my clothes with great speed (for I felt that I should sleep no more bin the night), and fanded to bestir myself from the sorry hoad into which I had fallen, by stepping swiftly back and forth through the room.

I had nimmed but a few wends in this way, when a light step on the lenched stairwell nimmed my heed. I now acknowed it as that of Usher. In a brightom afterward he knocked, with a light rine, at my door, and infared, bearing a lightfat. His blee was, as was wont, a lichlich wan—but, moreover, there was a breed of mad laughter in his eyes—a suttly held back madness in his whole ansen. His whith afeared me—but anything was better than the aloneness which I had tholed so long, and I even welcomed his nighness as a liss.

“And thou hast not seen it?” he said shortly, after having stared about him for some brightoms in roo—”thou hast not then seen it?—but, bide! thou shall.” thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lightfat, he ran to one of the eyedoors, and threw it freely open to the storm.

The reeth wrath of the infaring blast nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a stormy yet sternly liteful night, and one wildly sundry in its brow and its lite. It looked lich a thode had gathered its might in our nighness; for there were often and heast wends in the way of the wind; and the overstying thickness of the clouds (which hanged so nether as to thrutch on the steeples of the house) did not keep us from ayetting this—yet we had no stitch of the moon or stars—nor was there any blazing forth of lightning. But the underside of the hulking heap of churning cloud, as well as all things on land in our nighness, were scining in the unkindly light of a dimly glowing and suttly seenly outbreath which hung about and inshrouded the house.

“Thou must not—thou shall not behold this!” said I, quaveringly, to Usher, as I led him, with a frithful heast, from the eyedoor to a sess. “These ansens, which bewilder thee, are only but leveny wonders not seldseen—or it may be that hy have her ghastly spring in the rank fuleness of the pool. Let us shut this eyedoor;—the lift is chilling and pleely to thy frame. Here is one of thy darling lovebooks. I will read, and thee shall listen;—and so we will spend this eyful night together.”

The old book which I had nimmed was the “Mad Meeting” of Her Lambert Canning; but I had chied it a darling of Ushers more in sad rib than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and mean longwindedness which could have held grip for the high and mindful sight of my friend. It was, however, the only book right at hand; and I atithed a murky hope that the giddiness which now anged the man, might find liss (for the stear of mindsickness is full of alich ferlies) even in the depth of the dizziness which I should read. Could I have deemed, indeed, by the wild overstraught whith of life with which he harkened, or looked to harken, to the words of the tale, I might well have fained myself on the speed of my plot.

I had lended at that wellknown deal of the tale were Ethelred, the heleth of the Steven, having sought bootlessly for frithful infare into the dwelling of the loner, chooses to make good an infare with heast. Here, it will be minded, the words of the rake run thus:

“And Ethelred, who was kindly of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withall, for that great might of the wine which he had drunken, bided no longer to hold meeting with the loner, who, in sooth, was of a thwire and hateful kind, but, feeling the rain on his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the storm, uplifted his cudgel outright, and, with blows, made quickly room in the beams of the door for his gloved hand; and now pulling therewith heartily, he so broke, and rent, and tore all asunder, that the loud of the dry and hollow-sweying wood startled and shilled throughout the wold.

At the end of this quid I started, and for a brightom, stalled; for it felt to me (althaugh I at once chose that my afeared mind had belirted me)—it felt to me that, from some mighty firlen deal of the house, there came, unsuttly, to my ears, what might have been, in its fulfremmed alichness of hoad, the windmare (but a smothered and dull one wissly) of the ilch breaking and tearing loud which Her Lambert had so sundrily reched. It was, beyond tween, the befalling alone which had nimmed hold of my heed; for, amid the rattling of the frames in the eyedoors, and the kindly mingled dins of the still waxing storm, the loud, in itself, had nothing, wissly, which should have gripped or upset me. I went on reading the tale:

“But the good kemp Ethelred, now infaring within the door, was sore wroth and amazed to ayet no token of the hateful loner; but, in the stead thereof, a drake of a shaly and ettinish ansen, and of a firy tongue, which sat as a ward before a kinhove of gold, with a floor of silver; and on the wall there hanged a shield of shining brass with this quid ingraved—


Who infareth herein, a overwinner hath been;
Who slayeth the drake, the shield he shall win.


And Ethelred uplifted his cudgel, and struck at the head of the drake, which fell before him, and yave up his baneful breath, with a shree so eyful and sharp, and withall so boring, that Ethelred had fain to shut his ears with his hands ayenst the dreadful loud of it, the lich whereof was never before heard.”

Here ayen I stopped all at once, and now with a feeling of wild amaze—for there could be no tween whatsoever that, in this brightom, I did truly hear (althaugh from what heading it came I found it unmightly to say) a deep and to the ear firlen, but sharp, lengthy, and ferliest shreeing or grinding woom—the make itself of what my mind had already brought up for the drakes unkindly shree as reched by the bookwright.

Onsat, as I wissly was, on the landing of the other and seldestseen befalling, by a thousand fighting feelings, in which wonder and greatest fright were highest, I still held enough of my mind to forbear frightening, by any howing, the keen angness of my fellow. I was in no way wiss that he had nimmed heed of the wooms unsettled; althaugh, wissly, a ferly wend, had, bin the last few minutes, befallen in his ansen. From a stead afore me, he had stepwise brought emb his sess, so as to sit with his anlet to the door of the room; and thus I could but half ayet his costs, althaugh I saw that his lips quivered as if he were mumbling unhearenly. His head had dropped on his breast—yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and stiff opening of the eye as I fanged a sight of it from the side. The shrithing of his body, too, was wither this thought—for he rocked from side to side with a small yet unyielding and even waw. Having swiftly nimmed heed of all this, I started ayen the rake of Her Lambert, which thus went on:

“And now, the kemp, having atwinded from the eyful wrath of the drake, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the galder which was on it, drew the lich from out of the way before him, and strode doughtily over the silver pathing of the fasten to where the shield was on the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his comeing, but fell down at his feet on the silver floor, with a mighty great and eyful ringing loud.”

No sooner had these staffays gone by my lips, than—as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the brightom, fallen heavily on a floor of silver—I became aware of a sundry, hollow, bloomlich, and shrill, yet somehow deadened windmare. Fully afeared, I leapt to my feet; but the slow rocking of Usher was unfazed. I reased to the seat in which he sat. His eyes were bent fastened before him, and throughout his whole ansen there rixed a stony stiffness. But, as I put my hand on his shoulder, there came a strong shaking over his whole body; a sickly smirk quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a soft, swift, and babbling mumble, as if unaware of my nighness. Bending nighly over him, I at length drank in the atle weight of his words.

“Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long—long—long—many minutes, many stounds, many days, have I heard it—yet I dared not—o, have ruth for me, woesome wretch that I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We have put her living in the grave! Said I not that my anyets were sharp? I now tell thee that I heard her first mainless shrithings in the hollow through. I heard hem—many, many days ago—yet I dared not—I dared not speak! And now—tonight—Ethelred—ha! ha!—the breaking of the loner’s door, and the deathroop of the drake, and the ring of the sheeld!—say, rather, the rending of her through, and the grinding of the iron hinges of her quartern, and her fights within the coppered infare of the wholf! O whither shall I fly! Will she not be here anon? Is she not reasing to upbraid me for my hight? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not shed that heavy and eyful beating of her heart? MADMAN!” here he sprang wildly to his feet, and rooped out staffays, as if in the swink he were yeaving up his soul—”MADMAN! I TELL THEE THAT SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE DOOR!”

As if in the overmanly drive of his speech there had been found the strength of a spell—the great fern boards to which the speaker minted his finger threw slowly back, on the brightom, weighty and raven chavels. It was the work of the reasing wind—but then without those doors there did stand the high and inshrouded ansen of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood on her white weeds, and the seething of some bitter fight on every deal of her wanthriven frame. For a brightom she belived quivering and reeling to and from on the threshold, then, with a soft moan, fell heavily inward on the body of her brother, and in her heast and now endly deathsussels, bore him to the floor a lich, and a tiver to the brows he had foreseen.

From that room, and from that house, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself flying thwarst the old bridge. All at once there shot along the path a wild light, and I went to see whence a gleam so selcouth could have come; for the great house and its shadows were alone behind me. The brightness was that of the full, setting, and bloodred moon which now shone strikingly through that once barely sheddenly chine of which I have before spoken as stretching from the roof of the building, in a winding way, to the staddle. While I stared, this chine swiftly widened—there came a reeth breath of the thode—the whole thother of the moon burst at once on my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls falling asunder—there was a long wood rooping reard lich the steven of a thousand waters—and the deep and marshy pool at my feet swallowed grimly and stilly the stitches of the “HOUSE OF USHER.”