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Edgar Allan Poe: Shadow--A Parable
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
SHADOW–A PARABLE
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
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 feelings 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 conjoined 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 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 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 Teios. 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 undefined 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 of God–neither God of
Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, 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 duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar
accents of many thousand departed friends.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: Shadow--A Parable
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
SHADOW–A PARABLE
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
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 feelings 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 conjoined 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 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 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 Teios. 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 undefined 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 of God–neither God of
Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, 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 duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar
accents of many thousand departed friends.
THE END
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