MELLONTA TAUTA
TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY'S BOOK:
I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine, an article which
I hope you will be able to comprehend rather more distinctly than I
do myself. It is a translation, by my friend, Martin Van Buren Mavis,
(sometimes called the "Poughkeepsie Seer") of an odd-looking MS. which I
found, about a year ago, tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare
Tenebrarum—a sea well described by the Nubian geographer, but seldom
visited now-a-days, except for the transcendentalists and divers for
crotchets.
Truly yours,
EDGAR A. POE
{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}
ON BOARD BALLOON "SKYLARK"
April, 1, 2848
NOW, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to suffer the
infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you distinctly that I am
going to punish you for all your impertinences by being as tedious, as
discursive, as incoherent and as unsatisfactory as possible. Besides,
here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with some one or two hundred of
the canaille, all bound on a pleasure excursion, (what a funny idea some
people have of pleasure!) and I have no prospect of touching terra firma
for a month at least. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do. When one has
nothing to do, then is the time to correspond with ones friends. You
perceive, then, why it is that I write you this letter—it is on account
of my ennui and your sins.
Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I mean to
write at you every day during this odious voyage.
Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium? Are we
forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the balloon?
Will nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of progress? The jog-trot
movement, to my thinking, is little less than positive torture. Upon my
word we have not made more than a hundred miles the hour since leaving
home! The very birds beat us—at least some of them. I assure you that
I do not exaggerate at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it
actually is—this on account of our having no objects about us by which
to estimate our velocity, and on account of our going with the wind. To
be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have a chance of perceiving our
rate, and then, I admit, things do not appear so very bad. Accustomed as
I am to this mode of travelling, I cannot get over a kind of giddiness
whenever a balloon passes us in a current directly overhead. It always
seems to me like an immense bird of prey about to pounce upon us and
carry us off in its claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise,
and so nearly overhead that its drag-rope actually brushed the network
suspending our car, and caused us very serious apprehension. Our captain
said that if the material of the bag had been the trumpery varnished
"silk" of five hundred or a thousand years ago, we should inevitably
have been damaged. This silk, as he explained it to me, was a fabric
composed of the entrails of a species of earth-worm. The worm
was carefully fed on mulberries—kind of fruit resembling a
water-melon—and, when sufficiently fat, was crushed in a mill. The
paste thus arising was called papyrus in its primary state, and went
through a variety of processes until it finally became "silk." Singular
to relate, it was once much admired as an article of female dress!
Balloons were also very generally constructed from it. A better kind of
material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down surrounding
the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called euphorbium, and at that time
botanically termed milk-weed. This latter kind of silk was designated as
silk-buckingham, on account of its superior durability, and was usually
prepared for use by being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a
substance which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha
now in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called Indian rubber
or rubber of twist, and was no doubt one of the numerous fungi. Never
tell me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.
Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this moment knocked a man
overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that swarm in ocean
below us—a boat of about six thousand tons, and, from all accounts,
shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques should be prohibited from
carrying more than a definite number of passengers. The man, of course,
was not permitted to get on board again, and was soon out of sight, he
and his life-preserver. I rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an
age so enlightened that no such a thing as an individual is supposed
to exist. It is the mass for which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by,
talking of Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is not so
original in his views of the Social Condition and so forth, as his
contemporaries are inclined to suppose? Pundit assures me that the same
ideas were put nearly in the same way, about a thousand years ago, by
an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on account of his keeping a retail
shop for cat peltries and other furs. Pundit knows, you know; there can
be no mistake about it. How very wonderfully do we see verified every
day, the profound observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by
Pundit)—"Thus must we say that, not once or twice, or a few times,
but with almost infinite repetitions, the same opinions come round in a
circle among men."
April 2.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle
section of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this species of
telegraph was first put into operation by Horse, it was considered quite
impossible to convey the wires over sea, but now we are at a loss
to comprehend where the difficulty lay! So wags the world. Tempora
mutantur—excuse me for quoting the Etruscan. What would we do
without the Atalantic telegraph? (Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient
adjective.) We lay to a few minutes to ask the cutter some questions,
and learned, among other glorious news, that civil war is raging in
Africa, while the plague is doing its good work beautifully both
in Yurope and Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the
magnificent light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was
accustomed to regard War and Pestilence as calamities? Do you know that
prayers were actually offered up in the ancient temples to the end that
these evils (!) might not be visited upon mankind? Is it not really
difficult to comprehend upon what principle of interest our forefathers
acted? Were they so blind as not to perceive that the destruction of a
myriad of individuals is only so much positive advantage to the mass!
April 3.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the rope-ladder
leading to the summit of the balloon-bag, and thence survey the
surrounding world. From the car below you know the prospect is not so
comprehensive—you can see little vertically. But seated here (where I
write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned open piazza of the summit, one
can see everything that is going on in all directions. Just now there
is quite a crowd of balloons in sight, and they present a very animated
appearance, while the air is resonant with the hum of so many millions
of human voices. I have heard it asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit
will have it) Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut,
maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in all
directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favorable current
was attained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his contemporaries,
who looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort of madman, because the
philosophers (?) of the day declared the thing impossible. Really now it
does seem to me quite unaccountable how any thing so obviously feasible
could have escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages
the great obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the
so-called men of science. To be sure, our men of science are not quite
so bigoted as those of old:—oh, I have something so queer to tell you
on this topic. Do you know that it is not more than a thousand years ago
since the metaphysicians consented to relieve the people of the singular
fancy that there existed but two possible roads for the attainment of
Truth! Believe it if you can! It appears that long, long ago, in the
night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo possibly)
called Aries Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events propagated
what was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He
started with what he maintained to be axioms or "self-evident truths,"
and thence proceeded "logically" to results. His greatest disciples were
one Neuclid, and one Cant. Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme until
advent of one Hog, surnamed the "Ettrick Shepherd," who preached
an entirely different system, which he called the a posteriori or
inductive. His plan referred altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by
observing, analyzing, and classifying facts-instantiae naturae, as they
were affectedly called—into general laws. Aries Tottle's mode, in a
word, was based on noumena; Hog's on phenomena. Well, so great was
the admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first
introduction, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he recovered
ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth with his more
modern rival. The savans now maintained the Aristotelian and Baconian
roads were the sole possible avenues to knowledge. "Baconian," you
must know, was an adjective invented as equivalent to Hog-ian and more
euphonious and dignified.
Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I represent
this matter fairly, on the soundest authority and you can easily
understand how a notion so absurd on its very face must have operated
to retard the progress of all true knowledge—which makes its advances
almost invariably by intuitive bounds. The ancient idea confined
investigations to crawling; and for hundreds of years so great was the
infatuation about Hog especially, that a virtual end was put to all
thinking, properly so called. No man dared utter a truth to which he
felt himself indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the
truth was even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the
time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They would not
even look at the end. "Let us see the means," they cried, "the means!"
If, upon investigation of the means, it was found to come under neither
the category Aries (that is to say Ram) nor under the category Hog, why
then the savans went no farther, but pronounced the "theorist" a fool,
and would have nothing to do with him or his truth.
Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system the
greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series of ages,
for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be compensated for
by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of investigation.
The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these Inglitch, and these
Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our own immediate progenitors),
was an error quite analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies that
he must necessarily see an object the better the more closely he holds
it to his eyes. These people blinded themselves by details. When they
proceeded Hoggishly, their "facts" were by no means always facts—a
matter of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they
were facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When they
proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely as straight
as a ram's horn, for they never had an axiom which was an axiom at all.
They must have been very blind not to see this, even in their own day;
for even in their own day many of the long "established" axioms had been
rejected. For example—"Ex nihilo nihil fit"; "a body cannot act where
it is not"; "there cannot exist antipodes"; "darkness cannot come out
of light"—all these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly
admitted without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which
I speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to
persist in putting faith in "axioms" as immutable bases of Truth!
But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy to
demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in general.
Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I will go and ask
Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we have it! Here is a book
written nearly a thousand years ago and lately translated from the
Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to have been the rudiment of the
Amriccan. Pundit says it is decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its
topic, Logic. The author (who was much thought of in his day) was one
Miller, or Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some
importance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us glance
at the treatise!
Ah!—"Ability or inability to conceive," says Mr. Mill, very properly,
"is in no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth." What
modern in his senses would ever think of disputing this truism? The
only wonder with us must be, how it happened that Mr. Mill conceived it
necessary even to hint at any thing so obvious. So far good—but let
us turn over another paper. What have we here?—"Contradictories cannot
both be true—that is, cannot co-exist in nature." Here Mr. Mill means,
for example, that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree—that it
cannot be at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask
him why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing else than
this—"Because it is impossible to conceive that contradictories can
both be true." But this is no answer at all, by his own showing, for has
he not just admitted as a truism that "ability or inability to conceive
is in no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth."
Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their logic
is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and fantastic
altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile proscription of all
other roads of Truth, of all other means for its attainment than the
two preposterous paths—the one of creeping and the one of crawling—to
which they have dared to confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as
to soar.
By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled these
ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their two roads it
was that the most important and most sublime of all their truths was,
in effect, attained? I mean the truth of Gravitation. Newton owed it to
Kepler. Kepler admitted that his three laws were guessed at—these
three laws of all laws which led the great Inglitch mathematician to his
principle, the basis of all physical principle—to go behind which we
must enter the Kingdom of Metaphysics. Kepler guessed—that is to say
imagined. He was essentially a "theorist"—that word now of so much
sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have puzzled
these old moles too, to have explained by which of the two "roads" a
cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than usual secrecy, or
by which of the two roads Champollion directed mankind to those enduring
and almost innumerable truths which resulted from his deciphering the
Hieroglyphics.
One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it not
passing strange that, with their eternal prattling about roads to Truth,
these bigoted people missed what we now so clearly perceive to be the
great highway—that of Consistency? Does it not seem singular how they
should have failed to deduce from the works of God the vital fact that
a perfect consistency must be an absolute truth! How plain has been our
progress since the late announcement of this proposition! Investigation
has been taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a
task, to the true and only true thinkers, the men of ardent imagination.
These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout of scorn with which
my words would be received by our progenitors were it possible for them
to be now looking over my shoulder? These men, I say, theorize; and
their theories are simply corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared,
little by little, of their dross of inconsistency—until, finally, a
perfect consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit,
because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an unquestionable
truth.
April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the new
improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious, manageable,
and in every respect convenient are our modern balloons! Here is an
immense one approaching us at the rate of at least a hundred and fifty
miles an hour. It seems to be crowded with people—perhaps there are
three or four hundred passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of
nearly a mile, looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still
a hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling after
all. Do you remember our flight on the railroad across the Kanadaw
continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—that was travelling.
Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but flirt, feast and dance
in the magnificent saloons. Do you remember what an odd sensation was
experienced when, by chance, we caught a glimpse of external objects
while the cars were in full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one
mass. For my part, I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by
the slow train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted
to have glass windows—even to have them open—and something like a
distinct view of the country was attainable.... Pundit says that the
route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some measure
marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he goes so far as
to assert that actual traces of a road are still discernible—traces
referable to a period quite as remote as that mentioned. The track, it
appears was double only; ours, you know, has twelve paths; and three or
four new ones are in preparation. The ancient rails were very slight,
and placed so close together as to be, according to modern notions,
quite frivolous, if not dangerous in the extreme. The present width of
track—fifty feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For
my part, I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in
very remote times, as Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer, to
my mind, than that, at some period—not less than seven centuries ago,
certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw continents were united;
the Kanawdians, then, would have been driven, by necessity, to a great
railroad across the continent.
April 5.—I am almost devoured by ennui. Pundit is the only conversible
person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of nothing but
antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the attempt to convince
me that the ancient Amriccans governed themselves!—did ever
anybody hear of such an absurdity?—that they existed in a sort of
every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the fashion of the "prairie
dogs" that we read of in fable. He says that they started with
the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that all men are born free and
equal—this in the very teeth of the laws of gradation so visibly
impressed upon all things both in the moral and physical universe.
Every man "voted," as they called it—that is to say meddled with public
affairs—until at length, it was discovered that what is everybody's
business is nobody's, and that the "Republic" (so the absurd thing was
called) was without a government at all. It is related, however,
that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly, the
self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this "Republic,"
was the startling discovery that universal suffrage gave opportunity for
fraudulent schemes, by means of which any desired number of votes might
at any time be polled, without the possibility of prevention or even
detection, by any party which should be merely villainous enough not
to be ashamed of the fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery
sufficed to render evident the consequences, which were that rascality
must predominate—in a word, that a republican government could never
be any thing but a rascally one. While the philosophers, however, were
busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen these
inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new theories, the
matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of the name of Mob,
who took every thing into his own hands and set up a despotism, in
comparison with which those of the fabulous Zeros and Hellofagabaluses
were respectable and delectable. This Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is
said to have been the most odious of all men that ever encumbered the
earth. He was a giant in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the
gall of a bullock with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock.
He died, at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him.
Nevertheless, he had his uses, as every thing has, however vile,
and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger of
forgetting—never to run directly contrary to the natural analogies. As
for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it upon the face of
the earth—unless we except the case of the "prairie dogs," an exception
which seems to demonstrate, if anything, that democracy is a very
admirable form of government—for dogs.
April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk, through
our captain's spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a degree, looking
very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a misty day. Alpha Lyrae,
although so very much larger than our sun, by the by, resembles
him closely as regards its spots, its atmosphere, and in many other
particulars. It is only within the last century, Pundit tells me, that
the binary relation existing between these two orbs began even to be
suspected. The evident motion of our system in the heavens was (strange
to say!) referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of
the galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of gravity
common to all the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to be near
Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was declared to be
revolving, our own performing the circuit in a period of 117,000,000 of
years! We, with our present lights, our vast telescopic improvements,
and so forth, of course find it difficult to comprehend the ground of an
idea such as this. Its first propagator was one Mudler. He was led,
we must presume, to this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first
instance; but, this being the case, he should have at least adhered to
analogy in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested;
so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however, dynamically,
should have been greater than all its surrounding orbs taken together.
The question might then have been asked—"Why do we not see it?"—we,
especially, who occupy the mid region of the cluster—the very locality
near which, at least, must be situated this inconceivable central sun.
The astronomer, perhaps, at this point, took refuge in the suggestion
of non-luminosity; and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even
admitting the central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its
failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of glorious suns
glaring in all directions about it? No doubt what he finally maintained
was merely a centre of gravity common to all the revolving orbs—but
here again analogy must have been let fall. Our system revolves, it is
true, about a common centre of gravity, but it does this in connection
with and in consequence of a material sun whose mass more than
counterbalances the rest of the system. The mathematical circle is a
curve composed of an infinity of straight lines; but this idea of the
circle—this idea of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we
consider as merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the
practical, idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone
we have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles with
which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our system,
with its fellows, revolving about a point in the centre of the galaxy.
Let the most vigorous of human imaginations but attempt to take a single
step toward the comprehension of a circuit so unutterable! I would
scarcely be paradoxical to say that a flash of lightning itself,
travelling forever upon the circumference of this inconceivable circle,
would still forever be travelling in a straight line. That the path of
our sun along such a circumference—that the direction of our system in
such an orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest
degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a proposition
not to be entertained; and yet these ancient astronomers were absolutely
cajoled, it appears, into believing that a decisive curvature had become
apparent during the brief period of their astronomical history—during
the mere point—during the utter nothingness of two or three thousand
years! How incomprehensible, that considerations such as this did not
at once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that of the binary
revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a common centre of gravity!
April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a fine
view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much interest the
putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels in the new temple
at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think that creatures so
diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so little resemblance to
humanity, yet evinced a mechanical ingenuity so much superior to our
own. One finds it difficult, too, to conceive the vast masses which
these people handle so easily, to be as light as our own reason tells us
they actually are.
April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw spoke
us to-day and threw on board several late papers; they contain some
exceedingly curious information relative to Kanawdian or rather Amriccan
antiquities. You know, I presume, that laborers have for some months
been employed in preparing the ground for a new fountain at Paradise,
the Emperor's principal pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been,
literally speaking, an island time out of mind—that is to say, its
northern boundary was always (as far back as any record extends) a
rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was gradually
widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile. The whole length
of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies materially. The entire
area (so Pundit says) was, about eight hundred years ago, densely packed
with houses, some of them twenty stories high; land (for some most
unaccountable reason) being considered as especially precious just in
this vicinity. The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so
totally uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large
to be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our antiquarians
have never yet been able to obtain from the site any sufficient data (in
the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions) wherewith to build up even
the ghost of a theory concerning the manners, customs, &c., &c., &c.,
of the aboriginal inhabitants. Nearly all that we have hitherto known of
them is, that they were a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages
infesting the continent at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, a
knight of the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilized, however,
but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of their
own. It is related of them that they were acute in many respects, but
were oddly afflicted with monomania for building what, in the ancient
Amriccan, was denominated "churches"—a kind of pagoda instituted for
the worship of two idols that went by the names of Wealth and Fashion.
In the end, it is said, the island became, nine tenths of it,
church. The women, too, it appears, were oddly deformed by a natural
protuberance of the region just below the small of the back—although,
most unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the
light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women have
in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd, very—like
something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary.
Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us
respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that while
digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you know, covers
the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a cubical and evidently
chiseled block of granite, weighing several hundred pounds. It was in
good preservation, having received, apparently, little injury from the
convulsion which entombed it. On one of its surfaces was a marble slab
with (only think of it!) an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit
is in ecstacies. Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing
a leaden box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several
documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters of
intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt that
all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe called
Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are filled with
fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c. I copy for your
amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the marble slab:—
This Corner Stone of a Monument to
The Memory of
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies
on the
19th Day of October, 1847
The anniversary of the surrender of
Lord Cornwallis
to General Washington at Yorktown
A. D. 1781
Under the Auspices of the
Washington Monument Association of
the city of New York
This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit himself, so
there can be no mistake about it. From the few words thus preserved, we
glean several important items of knowledge, not the least interesting of
which is the fact that a thousand years ago actual monuments had fallen
into disuse—as was all very proper—the people contenting themselves,
as we do now, with a mere indication of the design to erect a monument
at some future time; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself
"solitary and alone" (excuse me for quoting the great American poet
Benton!), as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We ascertain,
too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription, the how as well
as the where and the what, of the great surrender in question. As to the
where, it was Yorktown (wherever that was), and as to the what, it
was General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). He was
surrendered. The inscription commemorates the surrender of—what? why,
"of Lord Cornwallis." The only question is what could the savages
wish him surrendered for. But when we remember that these savages were
undoubtedly cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended
him for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be
more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage) "under the
auspices of the Washington Monument Association"—no doubt a charitable
institution for the depositing of corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me!
what is the matter? Ah, I see—the balloon has collapsed, and we shall
have a tumble into the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add
that, from a hasty inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c.,
&c., I find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were
one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.
Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter or
not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for my own
amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however, and throw it
into the sea.
Yours everlastingly,
PUNDITA.
