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THE RAVEN.

101

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.

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Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my windowlattice,

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;"Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd

he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door,Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-doorPerched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

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Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, “art sure

no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly

shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

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

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour,
Nothing further then he utter'd--not a feather then he flutter'd-
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown

before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore!"

102

THE RAVEN..

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

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Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,— Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of-Never-nevermore!"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of
yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press-ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

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censer,

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

66

Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert-land enchantedOn this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore,

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

103

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore;
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek❜d, upstarting

'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the

And

floor;

my

soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-NEVERMORE!

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

HAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas! What were

"THA

you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He does not look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And, as I am alive, if it isn't Saint Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense, you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it? Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an

104 MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

umbrella! There do you hear it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks--always six weeks. And no umbrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to go to school tomorrow. They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No! they shall stop at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures!-sooner than go and get wet. And, when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father. People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

"But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow,— you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least-sixteenpence ?-two-andeightpence, for there and back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em? I can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children-buying umbrellas!

"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care-I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will, and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's a foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and, with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold-it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent your umbrella for. Of course.

"Nice clothes I shall get, too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt, quite. Needn't I wear 'em, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir; I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE.

105

But,

Ugh,

might as well be a slave at once-better, I should say. when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. that rain-if it isn't enough to break in the windows. “Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die I'll do it. No, sir, I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this: if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all.

"Ha! and it was only last week I had a nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you, you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife and your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas.

"Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of creation !-pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella!

"I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want; then you may go to your club, and do as you like and then nicely my poor dear children will be used; but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you never would have lent that umbrella!

"You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and of course you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas.

"And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go— that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have we shan't have at all—because we've no umbrella.

"The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school: mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold,

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