 Conversational Depravity, by William Wirt Howe. To the Chief Justice of Glenwood. Sublime Sir. What can be more destructive of the higher forms of conversation than a pun? What right has anyone to explode a petard in the midst of sweet sociality and blow everything like sequence and sentiment sky-high? And therefore, since you, as translator of the Pasha's letters, have taken pains to publish his observations on many social subjects, I think it eminently proper that you should ventilate the ideas of his friend Tompkins upon a not less important theme. Happily I have been saved the trouble of original composition by a discovery made by my landlady while I was boarding a year ago on St. John's Park. Mr. Green, our attic-border, went off suddenly one day to see a friend in the country, as he said. Of course, our landlady searched his room with a view of reading his letters and in a brown hair-trunk, with a boot-jack, a razor-strop, a box of sideless powders, and an odd volume of young's night-thoughts, she found the following manuscript. The females of the house were satisfied with reading such letters, as were left by Mr. Green in his apartment, and so this paper was handed over to me. I may say that it was marked with pencil, declined with thanks. The Pun Fiend by C. Green I used to be corpulent, rosy-cheeked and cheerful. I am gaunt, pale, and morose now. I used to sleep sweetly, but now I toss about on my bed, terrified by hideous visions and feelings as of a clammy hand or a wet cloth laid on my face. I was want to walk about our streets after business hours, and on Sundays, with a genuine smile of enjoyment, lighting up my face. But now I hurry along with my eyes cast down and I seek byways and dark lanes for my rambles. My friends think I am in love, persons who know me but slightly suppose me a victim to remorse. Imagine that I wear a hair-shirt and macerate my flesh. They are all wrong. An old bachelor like myself has long ago buried the light of love in a tomb and set a seal upon the great stone at the door. And as for remorse, I owe no tailor anything and do not at present blame myself for any great fault, except having once subscribed for six months to the New York Morning Cretan. Nevertheless, my face grows haggard, my step weary, and even our Thursday's beef a la mode fails to tempt my enfeebled appetite. I am haunted, haunted by a foul fiend. He meets me at six p.m. in our festive dining-room and the fork or spoon drops from my nervous grasp. He follows me up to the parlor where I sometimes talk of an evening to Miss Pipkin. Miss P. is our fourth-story front, and I become silent in his presence and Pipkin votes me a boar. He sits by my side when I am playing at wist and I trump my partner's trick and the dear old game becomes disgusting. He even dared once to follow me into church but I cried, I've ought, in a tone so peremptory that he fled for a moment. He joined me, however, as soon as service was over and walked from Tenth Street to Madison Square with his grisly arm thrust through mine and his diabolical jeers drumming on my timpana. In dreams he perches on my breast and clutches me by the throat. Like an arch-fiend he assumes many shapes. He is now a tall man and again a short man, sometimes young and audacious, sometimes old and leering. He only once took a feminine guise. That blessed form was irksome to him. He prefers the freedom of masculinity and ineffables. He was once a bookkeeper like myself, then a young attorney, then a medical student, then a bald-headed old gentleman who seemed to blow a flagellate for a living. And lately he has taken the shape of a well-to-do president of the Arkansas and Arizona Sky Rocket Transportation Company. But through all these shifting shapes I recognize him and shudder. He is known as the Funny Fellow. Very glorious are wit and humor. I have heard many eminent lecturers' discourse on the distinctions, definitions, and value of these airy good gifts. I remember being especially edified by the skill with which Spout, the eloquent, dissected the philosophy of mirth in the same style and with the same effect, that the boy in the story dissected his grandmama's bellows to see how the wind was raised. I agree with Spout that wit and humor are glorious, that satire pricking the balloons of conceit, vane glory, and hypocrisy is invaluable, that a good laugh can come only from a warm heart, that the man in motley is often wiser than the judge in ermine or the priest in lawn. These qualities are goodly in literature. We all love the kindly humorist from Chaucer to Holmes, inclusive. How genial and gentle they are as they sit with us around the fireside, chucking us under the chins and slyly poking us in the ribs and in the field how nobly they have charged upon humbugs and shams. They have been true knights. They are glorious, kind-hearted, brave, religious. Their spears are slender, perhaps, yet sharp and elastic as the blades of Toledo. As they have galloped up and down in the lists, gaily comparisoned and cheery, it has done our hearts good to see how they have hurled into the dust the pompous, sleepy champions of error and hypocrisy. So, too, consider how pleasant a thing is mirth on the stage. Who does not thank William the Great for Falstaff and Hackett for his personation of the fat knight? Who does not chuckle over the humours of Autolicus, Rogue, and Peddler? Who has not felt his eye glistened as his lips smiled when Jesse Rural has spoken, and who will not say to Allapod, Thank you, good sir, I owe you one? Ah, me! How I used to read those jolly, unctuous authors when I was young in the old sitting-room at home, the great fireplace glows before me now, its light dances on the wall, my mother's hand is on my head, my sister's eyes are beaming on her lover over in the darker corner, there is a murmur of pleasant voices, there are quiet mirth and deep joy, I lose myself and reverie when I think of these pleasures, and almost forget the funny fellow. He is pestiferous. If I were in the habit of profanity I would let loose upon him an octagonal oath. If I were a man of muscle it would be pleasant to get his head in chancery and bruise it. It would be a relief to serve him with subpoenas or present him long bills and demand immediate payment. Was my name providentially ordered to be green that he might pass verbal contumely upon it? Does he suppose that a man can live thirty-five years in this state of probation without becoming slightly calloused to a pun on his own name? Yet he continues to pun on mine as if the process were highly amusing. Then again he interrupts any little attempts at pleasing conversation with his infernal absurdities. I was speaking one day at the dinner-table of a well-known orator who had been entertaining the town and I flatter myself at my remarks were critically just as well as deeply interesting. The wretched being interposed. Mr. Green, when you say there was too much American eagle in the speaker's discourse do you mean that it was a talented production and to what clause of the speech do you especially refer? Miss Pipkin, who had been deeply intent on my observations, comments to titter. What could I do but hang my head and swallow the rest of the meal in silence? If I had been possessed of a quick tongue I would have lashed him with sarcasms and Pipkin would have rejoiced with me in his groans, but no I am slow of speech and so I was bound to submit. After that he was more tyrannical than ever. He would come stealthily into my room and garot me in a conversational way. He would seem to take me by the throat saying, why don't you laugh? Why don't you burst with merriment? And then I would force a dismal grin to get rid of him. I said to myself I will leave this selfish Sahara called the city and county of New York I will leave its dust, dirt, carts, confusion, bulls, bears, Peter Funk's Jeremy Didler's and best of all the funny fellow. I will take board in some rural as well as accessible place. The mosquitoes and egg of fleshing shall refresh my frame. The cottages of Astoria with their pleasant view of the penitentiary shall revive my wounded spirit. I will exile myself from my native land to the shores of Jersey. I will sit beneath the shadow of the quarantine on Staten Island. No, I won't. I will go to Yonkers. Yonkers, that looks as though it had been built on a gentle slope and then had suffered a violent attack of earthquake. Daily boats shall convey me from my ledger to my bed and board at convenient hours so that while I post books and work by day I may revel in breezes, moonbeams, sweet milk and gentle influences by night. There, said I, in a burst of excusable enthusiasm, I'll recline beneath wide-spreading beaches and pipe upon an otten reed. There will I listen to the soft bleeding of lambs and scent the fresh breath of cows. Nature shall touch and thrill me with her gentle hand. I will see the deer flowers turn their faces up to receive the kiss of the rising sun or the benediction of the summer shower. There, too, I will meet the members of the mystic PB so that I shall talk of books rather than day-books and blotters. We will discourse reverently of authors and their creations. I will not meet the funny fellow. For such a wretch can be produced only in the corrupt social hotbed of Gotham. So to Yonkers I went. I chose a room looking out upon the Hudson and the noble palisades. I took with me a flute, a copy of the bucolic of Virgil and numerous linen garments. A great calm came over me. I was no longer haunted, goaded, oppressed. With peace nestling in my bosom I went down to my first supper in the new boarding-house. A goodly meal smoked on the table and the savor of baked shad sweetest of smells went up. While I sat joking myself with the bones of this delicious fish I heard a voice on the opposite side of the table that sent the blood to my heart. If I had been feminine there would have been a scene. He was there. His eyes gloated over the board a malicious quirk sat astride his fat lips. The funny fellow spoke to Miss Grasscloth. Why are the fishermen catching these shad like wig-makers? I don't know, because they make their living from bare poles. I ate no more supper. A nausea supervened. I left the table, rushed into the cool evening air and let the fresh breeze visit my faded cheek. I strolled up the main street of Yonkers and as I crushed my toes against the stones which then adorned that highway I resolved to call on my sweet friend Julia. Her gentle smile, said I, will console me. She is not a funny fellow. We will talk together calmly, earnestly in the moonlight close by the Great River. I will sit as near to her as her fashionable garments will permit. And forget my foe. We walked together, Julia and I. We talked of things good and true. We spoke of the beauty of the nocturnal scene. Alas! A fearful, demoniac change came over the girl's face. She said, Yes, my friend, we ought to enjoy this scene for we are fine-and-night beings. I bid a hasty farewell to the large eyes and gentle smile. She was not much offended at my abrupt and angry departure. For my salary is small, my hair is turning gray, and I do not dance. But I was not entirely discouraged. I resolved to give Yonkers a fair trial and a true verdict to render according to the evidence. So I frequented the tea parties and sociables so common in that wretched town and strove to shake off the melancholy that clung to me like the old man of the sea. To my horror the funny fellow became multiplied like the reflections in a shivered mirror. Man and women and even young innocent children became funny and danced about me in a horrible maze and squeaked and gibbered and tossed their jokes in my face. In one week I made five mortal enemies using to smile when their tormenting squibs were exploded in my eyes. I felt like a rustic pony who comes in his simple way into town on the Fourth of July and has Chinese crackers and fiery serpents cast under his heels. One evening in particular they asked me to play the game of Comparisons, a proverbially odious game that could exist only in defeat and degenerate civilization in which the entire company tried to see how funny they could be. And because I made stupid answers I was laughed at by the young ladies. I became disgusted with yonkers and returned to my intramural boarding-house in St. John's Park. The sidewalk near the house was in a dilapidated state through the carelessness of the contractor who had stipulated to pave it properly but had not paved it at all except with good intentions. And therefore as I came along I first besmeared my boots with muck then tripped my toes against a pile of brick and finally fell headlong into the gutter. As I rose up and denounced in somewhat loud language the idleness and inefficiency of the contractor who had the work in charge the funny fellow stood before me his eyes glaring with triumph. He spoke and replied to my denunciations. My dear Green, do not call the contractor lazy and inefficient. I am sure that his is an energy that never flags. I rushed to the room where I am now sealed. There is but one hope left for me. In the territory of Nebraska far to the west thereof is a tract of land which the early French trappers with shrewd fitness called the Malvaeces Teres. It is a region of rocks, petrifications and other pre-atomite peculiarities. In a paper written by Dr. Leed of Philadelphia and published by the Smithsonian Institute we are assured that there once lived in these bad lands turtles six feet square and alligators compared with which the present squatter sovereigns of the territory are lovely and refined. The fossil remains of these ancient inhabitants still encumber the earth of that region and make it unpleasant to view with an agricultural eye but here and there the general desolation is relieved by a fertile valley with a running brook and green slopes. White men, whiskey and funny fellows have not yet penetrated there. I will go to this sanctuary. A snug cabin will contain my necessary household to wit twelve shirts and a Bible. I will plant my corn and tobacco and vines on the fertile slope that looks to the south. My cattle and sheep shall browse the rest of the valley while a few agile goats shall stand in picturesque positions upon the rocky monsters described by Dr. Leedee. My guests shall be the brave and wise red men who never try to make bad jokes. I do not think they ever try to be funny but to make us sure and doubly sure I shall not learn their language so that any melancholy attempts they may possibly make will fall upon unappreciative ears. By day I will cultivate my crops and tend my flocks and herds and in the long evenings smoke the cow you met with the worthy aborigines. If I should find there some dusky maiden like Palmer's Indian girl who has no idea of puns, polkas, chronoline, or eligible matches, I will woo her in savage hyperbole and she shall light my pipe with her slender fingers and beat for me the tom-tom when I am sad. I will live in a calm and conscientious way. A funny fellow shall become like the dim recollection of some horrible dream and Mr. Green seems not to have finished his interesting reflections and I shall not attempt to complete them as well might I try to finish the cathedral at Cologne. But I heartily sympathize with the feelings he has expressed and trust that his new home in the West will never be invaded by conversational garotters. Sincerely your friend Tompkins, the Pasha Papers, End of Conversational Depravity by William Wirtz Howell. Recording by Bill Mosley, Colesburg, Texas, USA. Cully by Jack Egan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. By all the laws of nature, he should have been dead. But if he were alive, then there was something he had to find. Above him, 80 feet of torpid black water hung like a shroud of death in his ragged breathing and something else. Cully concentrated on that sound and the rhythmic pulsing of his heart. Somehow he had to retain a hold on his sanity or his soul. After an hour of careful breathing and exploring of body sensations, Cully realized he could move. He flexed an arm. A mote of gold sand sifted upward in the dark water. It had a pleasant color in contrast with the ominous shades of the sea. In a few moments, he had struggled to a sitting position writing in the curtain of glittering metal grains whirling around him as he moved. And the other sound, a humming in his mind, a distant bubble of tiny voices of other minds, words swirling in giddy patterns he couldn't understand. Shortly thereafter, Cully discovered why he still lived, breathed, a suit, a yellow plastic watertight suit with an orange on black shield on the left breast pocket and a clear bubble helmet. He laid on his back and examined it. Two air tanks and a regulator, a radio and the box. Suit, tanks, regulator, radio, black water, box, sand, sea, stillness. Cully considered his world. It was small. It was conceivable. It was incomplete. Where is it? Where is what? He knew he had a voice, a means of communication between others of his kind using low-frequency heat waves caused by agitation of air molecules. Why couldn't he make it work? Words, thousands of them, at his back and call. What were they? What did they mean? He shifted uncomfortably in the tight yellow suit, searching the near horizon for, where is it? A vague calling came from beyond the black sea curtain. Objectively, because he could do nothing to stop them, he watched his feet pick up, move forward, put down. Pick up, move forward, put down. Funny. He had the feeling, the concept, that this action held meaning. It was supposed to cause some reaction, accomplish an act. He wondered at the regular movement of his legs. One of them hurt. A hurt is a sensation of pain caused by overloading sensory units in the body. A hurt is bad because it indicates something is wrong. Something certainly was wrong. Something stirred in Cully's mind. He stopped and sat down on the sandy sea bottom, gracefully like a ballet dancer. He examined his foot. There was a tiny hole in the yellow plastic fabric, and a thin string of red-black was oozing out. Blood, he knew. He was bleeding. He could do nothing about it. He got up and resumed walking. Where is it? Cully lifted his head in annoyance at the sharp thought. Go away. He said in a low, bleeding voice. The sound made him feel better. He began muttering to himself. Water, black, sand, hurt, pain, radio tanks. It didn't sound right. After a few minutes, he was quiet. The many thoughts were calling him. He must go to the many thoughts. If his foot was bleeding, then something had happened. If something had happened, then his foot was bleeding. No. If something had happened, then maybe other things had happened before that. But how could something happen in a world of flat, gold sand and flat sea? Surely there was something wrong. Wrong. The state of being not right. Something had happened that was not right. Cully stared at the edges of the unmoving curtain before him. Where is it? It was a driving, promise-filled concept. No words. Just a sense that something wonderful lay just beyond reach. But this voice was different from the many thoughts. It was directing his body. His mind was along for the ride. The sameness of the sea and sand became unbearable. It was too right somehow. Cully felt anger and kicked up eddies of dust. It changed the same as little. He kicked more up until it swirled around him in a thick, gold haze, blotting out the terrible emptiness of the sea. He felt another weight at his side. He found a holster and gun. He recognized neither. Again, he watched objectively as his hand pulled the black object out and handled it. His body was evidently familiar with it, though it was strange to his eyes. His fingers slipped automatically into the trigger sheaf. His legs were still working under two drives, the many thoughts urging and something else buried in him. A longing, up and down, back and forth. Where is it? Anger, frustration flared in him. His hand shot out, gun it ready. He turned around slowly. Through the settling trail of suspended sand, nothing was visible. Again, he was moving. Something made his legs move. He walked on through the shrouds of death until he felt a taut singing in his nerves. An irrational fear sprang out in him, cascading down his spine and Cully shuddered. Ahead there was something. Two motives. Get there because it, they, calls. Get there because you must. Where is it? The mind voice was excited, demanding. Something was out there besides the sameness. Cully walked on, trailing gold. The death curtain parted. An undulating garden of blue and gold streamers suddenly drifted toward him on an unfelt current. Cully was held and tranced. They flowed before him, their colors dazzling, hypnotic. Come closer, earthling. The many thoughts spoke inside his head, soothingly. Here it is, Cully's mind shouted. Cully's mind was held, hypnotized, but his body moved with its own volition. He moved again. His mind and the many thoughts spoke. Fulfillment, almost. There was one action left that must be completed. Cully's arms moved. They detached the small black box from his pack. He moved on into the midst of the weaving gold lace plants. Little spicules licked out from their flexing socks and jabbed uncensed into Cully's body to draw an oragement. From the many thoughts came the sense of complete fulfillment. From Cully's mind came further orders. Lie down. It was a collective concept. Lie still. We are friends. He could not understand. They were speaking words. Words were beyond him. His head shook in despair. The voices were implanting an emotion of horror at what his hands were doing, but he had no control over his body. It was as if it were not his. The black box was now lying in the sand among the streaming plants. Cully's fingers reached out and caressed a small panel. A soundless click ran through the murkiness. The strangely beautiful gold lace blue plants began a writhing dance. Their spicules withdrew and jabbed. Withdrew and jabbed. A rending silent scream tore the quiet waters. No, they cried. It was a negative command mixed in with a terrible screaming. Turn it off. Stop it, stop it, Cully tried to say, but there were no words. He tried to cover his ears within the helmet, but the cries went on. Emotions roiled the water. Pain, hurt, reproach. Cully sobbed. Something was wrong here. Something was killing the plants. The beautiful blue things. The plants were withering, dying. He looked up at them, stupefied, not understanding. Tears streaming down his face. What did they want from him? What had he done? Where is it? A different direction materialized. A new concept of desire. Cully's body turned and crawled away from the wonderful dying garden, oblivious to the pleading floating now weekly in the torbed water. He scuffed up little motes of golden sand, leaving a low-lying scud along the bottom back to the little black box in the garden. The plants, the box, all were forgotten by now. Cully crawled on, not knowing why. A rise appeared. Surprise caught Cully unaware. A change in the sameness. Where is it? Again, the voice was insistent. His desire was close ahead. He did not look back at the black churning on the sea bottom. His legs worked. His chest heaved. Words swirled in his mind. He topped the rise. Below him, in the center of a shallow golden bowl, floated a long, shiny cylinder. Even from here, he knew it was huge. He knew other things about it. How heavy it was, how it was, that it carried others of his kind. He had been in it before, and they were waiting for him. He lurched on. Captain, here comes Cully, the midshipman shouted from the airlock. Look what they've done to him. The old man's gray eyes took in the spectacle without visible emotion. He watched the pathetic, pleading yellow plastic sack crawl up to the ship and look up. His hands reached down and lifted Cully up into the lock. They took his suit off and started loathing at what had once been a man. A white scar zigzagged across his forehead. The captain bent close, in range of the dim blue eyes. It was a brave thing you did, Cully. The whole system will be grateful. Venus could never be colonized, as long as those cannibals were there to eat men and drive men mad. Cully fingered the scar on his forehead unseeing into the old man's compassionate eyes. I'm sorry, Cully. We all are. But there was no other way. Prefrontal lobotomy, destruction of your speech center. It was the only way you could get past the telepaths and destroy them. I'm sorry, Cully. The race of man shall long honor your name. Cully smiled at the old man, the words churning in his brain, but he did not understand. Where is it? The emptiness was still there. By Jack Egan Read by Darcy Smitonar The Death of Baldur by Norse This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Death of Baldur by Norse There was one shadow which always fell over Asgard. Sometimes in the long years the gods almost forgot it. It lay so far off like a dim cloud in a clear sky, but Odin saw it was deep and unwidden as he looked out into the universe. And he knew that the last great battle would surely come when the gods themselves would be destroyed and a long twilight would rest on all the worlds and now the day was close at hand. Misfortunes never come singly to men and they did not to the gods. Aiden, the beautiful goddess of youth whose apples were the joy of all Asgard made a resting place for herself among the massive branches of Ygg's Drizzle and there every evening came brage and sang so sweetly that the birds stopped to listen and even the Norns Those implacable sisters at the front of the tree were softened by the melody but poetry cannot change the perspices of fate One evening no song was heard of brage or birds The leaves of the world tree hung withered and lifeless on the branches and the fountain from which they had daily then sprinkled was dry at last Aiden had fallen into the dark valley of death and when brage, Hemdell, and Loki went to question her about the future she could answer them only with tears Brage would not only leave his beautiful wife alone amid the dimmed shades that crowded the dreary valley and so youth and genius vanished out of Asgard forever Baldr was the most godlike of all gods because he was the purest and the best wherever he went his coming was like the coming of sunshine and all the beauty of summer was but the shining of his face when men's hearts were white like the light and their lives clear as the day it was because Baldr was looking down upon them with those soft clear eyes that were open windows to the soul of God he had always lived in such a glow of brightness that no darkness had ever touched him but one morning after Aiden and Brage had gone Baldr's face was sad and troubled he walked slowly from room to room in his palace bright a blick stainless as the sky when April showers have swept across it because no impure thing had ever crossed the threshold and his eyes were heavy with sorrow in the night terrible dreams had broken his sleep and made it a long torture the air seemed to be full of awful changes for him and for all the gods he knew in his soul that the shadow of the last great day was sleeping on as he looked out and saw the worlds lying in the light and beauty the fields yellow with waving grain the deep fjords flashing back the sunbeams from their clear deaths the verdure of clothing the loftiest mountains and knew that only all the darkness and desolation would come with silence of reapers and birds with fading of leaf and flower a great sorrow fell on his heart Baldr could bear the burden no longer he went out called all the gods together and told them the terrible dreams of the night every face was heavy with care the death of Baldr would be like falling out of the sun and after a long sad council the gods resolved to protect him from harm by pledging all things to stand between him and any hurt so Frigg, his mother went forth and made everything promise on the solemn oath not to injure her son fire, iron, all kinds of metal every sort of stone, trees, earth diseases, birds, beasts snakes as the anxious mother went to them the family pledged themselves that no harm should come near Baldr everything promised and Frigg thought she had driven away the cloud but fate was stronger than her love and one little shrub had not sworn Odin was not satisfied even with these precautions for whichever make he looked the shadow of a great sorrow spread over the worlds he began to feel as if they were no longer the greatest of the gods and he could almost hear the rough sounds of the frost giants crowding the rabble bridge on their way into Asgard when trouble comes to men it is hard to bear but to a god who had so many worlds to guide and rule it was a new and terrible thing Odin thought and thought until he was weary but no gleam of light could he find anywhere it was thick darkness everywhere at last he could bear the suspense no longer saddling his horse he rode sadly out of Asgard to Niflheim the home of hell whose face was as the face of death itself as he drew near the gates a monstrous dog came out and barked furiously but Odin rode a little eastward of the shadowy gates to the grave of a wonderful prophetess it was a cold gloomy place and the soul of a great god was pierced with a feeling of sorrow as he dismounted from a slip in her and bending over the grave began to chant weird songs and weave magical charms over it when he had spoken those wonderful words which could waken the dead from their sleep there was an awful silence for a moment and then a faint ghost like voice came from the grave who art thou it said who breaketh the silence of death and calleth the sleeper out of her long slumbers ages ago I was laid at rest here snow and rain had fallen upon me through my rad years why dost thou disturb me I am Vigtam answered Odin and I come to ask why the coaches of hell are hung with gold and the benches strewn with shining rings it is done for Balder answered the awful voice ask me no more Odin's heart sink he heard these words but he was determined to know the worst I will ask thee until I know all who shall strike the fatal blow if I must I must moan the prophetess Hoder shall smite his brother Balder and send him down to the dark home of hell the meat is already brewed for Balder and the despair draws near then Odin looking into the future across the open grave saw all the days to come who is this he said seeing that which no mortal could have seen who is this that will not weep for Balder then the prophetess knew that it was none other than the greatest of the gods who had calling her up thou art not Vigtam he exclaimed thou art Odin himself the king of men and thou answered Odin angrily art no prophetess but the mother of three giants ride home then an exalt in what thou hast discovered said the dead woman never shall my slumbers be broken again until Loki shall burst his chains and the great battle come and Odin wrote sadly homeward knowing that already knifel him was making himself beautiful against the coming of Balder the other gods meanwhile had become merry again for had not everything promised to protect their beloved Balder they even made sport of that which troubled them that nothing could hurt Balder and that all things glance aside from his shining form they persuaded him to stand as a target for their weapons hurling darts spears swords and battle axes at him all of which went singing through the air and fell harmless at his feet but Loki, when he saw these sports was jealous of Balder and went about thinking how he could destroy him it happened that a frig sat spinning in her house finsel the soft wind blowing in at the windows and bringing the merry shouts of the gods at play an old woman entered and approached her do you know as a newcomer that they are going in Asgard they are throwing all manner of dangerous weapons at Balder he stands there like a sun for brightness and against his glory spears and battle axes fall powerless to the ground nothing can harm him asked the frig joyfully nothing can bring him any hurt for I have made everything in heaven and earth swear to protect him what said the old woman has everything sworn to guard Balder yes said frig everything has sworn against one little shrub which is called mistletoe and grows on the eastern side of Valhalla I did not take an oath from that because I thought it was too young and weak when the old woman heard this a strange light came into her eyes she walked off much faster than she had come in and no sooner had he passed beyond frig's sight then this same feeble old woman grew suddenly erect shook off her woman's garments and there stood Loki himself in a moment he had reached the slope east of Valhalla had plucked a twig in the unsworn mistletoe and was black in the circle of the gods at their favorite pastime with Balder Hooter was standing silent and alone outside the noisy throng for he was blind Loki touched him why do you not throw something at Balder because I can't see where Balder stands and have nothing to throw if I could replied Hooter if that is all said Loki come with me I will give you something to throw and direct your aim Hooter thinking no evil went with Loki and did as he was told the little sprig of mistletoe shot through the air pierced the heart of Balder and in a moment the beautiful god lay dead upon the field a shadow rose of the deep beyond the worlds and spread itself over heaven and earth for the light of the universe has gone out the gods could not speak for horror they stood like statues for a moment and then a hopeless wail burst from their lips tears fell like rain from the eyes that they had never wet before for Balder, the joy of Asgard had gone to Niflheim and left them desolate but Odin was saddest of all because he knew the future and he knew that peace and light had fled from Asgard forever and that the last day and the long night were hurrying on Frig could not give up her beautiful son and when her grief had spent itself a little he asked who would go to hell and offer her a rich ransom if she would permit Balder to return to Asgard I will go, said Hermod swift at the word of Odin's slept pinner was led forth and in an instant Hermod was galloping furiously away then the gods began with sorrowful hearts to make ready for Balder's funeral when the once beautiful form had been arrayed in grave clothes they carried it reverently down to the deep sea which lay calm as the summer afternoon waiting for its precious burden close to the water's edge lay Balder's ringhorn the greatest of all the ships had sailed the seas but when the gods tried to launch it they could not move it an inch the great vessel creaked and groaned no one could push it down to the water Odin walked about it with a sad face and the gentle ripple of the little waves chasing each other over the rocks seemed a mocking laugh to him sent to Jonaheim for a hierarchy he said at last and a messenger was soon flying for that mighty giantess in a little time hierarchy came riding swiftly on a wolf so large in fears that he made the gods think of Fenrir when the giantess had alighted Odin ordered four berserkers of mighty strength to hold the wolf he struggled so angrily that they had to throw him on the ground before they could control him then Hieracan went to the prow of the ship and with one mighty effort sent it far into the sea the rollers underneath bursting into flame and the whole earth trembling with the shock though it was so angry at the uproar that he would have killed the giantess on the spot if he had been held back by the other gods the great ship floated on the sea as she had often done before when Balder, full of life and beauty, set all her sails and was born joyfully across the tossing seas slowly and solemnly the dead god was carried on board and as Nanna, his faithful wife saw her husband born for the last time from the earth which he had made dear to her and beautiful to all men her heart broke with sorrow and they laid her beside Balder on the funeral pyre since the world began no one had seen such a funeral no bells tolled no long procession of mourners moved across the hills but all the worlds lay under a deep shadow and from every quarter came those who had loved or feared Balder there at the very water's edge stood Odin himself the ravens flying about his head and on his majestic face no sun would ever lighten again and there was Frigg, the desolate mother whose son had already gone so far that he would never come back to her there was Frey standing sad and stern in his chariot there was Freyja the goddess of love from whose eyes fell a shining rain of tears there too was Hendal on his horse Goldtop and around all these glorious ones from Asgard crowded the children grim mountain giants seemed with scars from Thor's hammer and frost giants who saw in the death of Balder the coming of that long winter in which they should reign through all the worlds a deep hush fell on all the created things and every eye was fixed on the great ship riding near the shore and on the funeral pyre rising from the deck crowned with the forms of Balder and Anna suddenly a gleam of light flashed over the water the pile had been kindled and the flames creeping slowly at first climbed faster and faster until they met over the dead and rose skyward a lurid light filled the heavens and shone on the sea and in the brightness of it the gods looked pale and sad and the circle of giants grew darker and more portentous Thor struck the fast-burning pyre with his consecrating hammer an odin cast into it the wonderful ring dropping her higher and higher leaped the flames more and more desolate grew the scene at last they began to sink the funeral pyre was consumed Balder had vanished forever the summer was ended and winter waited at the doors meanwhile Hermod was riding hard and fast on his gloomy errand nine days and nights he rode through the valleys so deep in dark that he could not see his horse stillness and blackness and solitude were his only companions until he had came to the golden bridge which crosses the river Gaul the good horse slept near who had carried odin on so many strange journeys had never traveled such a road before and his roofs hang drarily as he stopped short at the bridge for in front of him stood its porter the gigantic modgut who are you she asked fixing her piercing eyes on hemorrhoid what is your name and parentage yesterday five bands of dead men rose across the bridge and beneath them all it did not shake as under your single thread there is no color of death in your face why ride you either at the living among the dead I come said hemorrhoid to seek for Balder have you seen him pass this way he has already crossed the bridge and taken his journey northward to hell then Hermod rode slowly across the bridge that spans the abyss between life and death and found his way at last to the barred gates of hell's dreadful home there he sprang to the ground tightened the girths remounted drove the spurs deep into the horse and sleepner with the mighty leap covered the wall Hermod rode straight to the gloomy palace dismounted entered and in a moment was faced a face with the terrible queen of the kingdom of the dead beside her on a beautiful throne set Balder, pale and wan crowned with a withered wreath of flowers and close at hand was Nana pallid as her husband for whom she had died and all night long while ghostly forms wandered restless and sleepless through hellheim Hermod talked with Balder and Nana there is no record of what they said but the talk was sad enough doubtless and ran like a still stream among the happy days in Asgard when Balder's smile was mourning over the earth and the sight of his face the summer of the world when the morning came faint and dim though the dusky palace Hermod sought hell who received him as could and stern as fate your kingdom is full oh hell he said and without Balder Asgard is empty sent him back to us once more for there is sadness in every heart and tears are in every eye through heaven and earth all things weep for him if that is true said the slow icy answer if every created thing weeps for Balder he shall return to Asgard but if one eye is dry he remains henceforth in hellheim then Hermod rode swiftly away and the decree of hell was soon told in Asgard through all the worlds the gods sent messengers to say that all who love Balder should weep for his return the tears fell like rain there was weeping in Asgard and in all the earth there was nothing that did not weep men and women and little children missing the light that had once fallen into their hearts and homes sobbed with bitter grief the birds of the air who had sung carols of joy at the gates of the morning since time began were full of sorrow the beasts of the fields crouched and moaned in their desolation the great trees that put on their robes of green at Balder's command sighed as the wind wailed through them and the sweet flowers that waited for Balder's footstep and sprang up in all the fields to greet him hung their frail blossoms and wept bitterly for the love and the warmth and the light that had gone out throughout the whole earth there was nothing but weeping and the sound of it was like the wailing as those storms in autumn that weep for the dead summer as its withered leaves drop one by one from the trees the messengers of the gods went gladly back to Asgard for everything had wept for the Balder but as they journeyed they came upon a giantess called Thok and her eyes were dry weep for Balder they said with dry eyes only will I weep for Balder he answered dead or alive he never gave me gladness let him stay in Helheim when she had spoken these words the laugh broke from her lips and the messengers looked at each other with pallid faces for they knew it was the voice of Loki Balder never came back to Asgard and the shadows deepened over all things for the night of death was fast coming on End of The Death of Balder The Facts Concerning The Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut by Mark Twain This is a LibriVox recording from the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org I was feeling blithe almost jockened I put a match to my cigar and just then the morning's mail was handed in the first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me it was Aunt Mary's and she was the person I loved and honored most in all the world outside of my own household she had been my boyhood's idol maturity which is fatal to so many enchantments had not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal no it had only justified her right to be there and placed her dethronement permanently among the impossibilities to show how strong her influence over me was I will observe that long after everybody else's do stop smoking had ceased to affect me in the slightest degree Aunt Mary could still stir my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the matter but all things have their limit in this world a happy day came at last when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me I was not merely glad to see that day arrive I was more than glad I was grateful for when its son had set the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment of my aunt's society was gone the remainder of her stay with us that winter was in every way a delight of course she pleaded with me just as earnestly as ever after that blessed day to quit my pernicious habit but to no purpose whatever the moment she opened the subject I at once became calmly peacefully contentedly indifferent absolutely adamantly indifferent consequently the closing weeks of that memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream they were so fraded for me with tranquil satisfaction I could not have enjoyed my pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself and an advocate of the practice well the side of her handwriting reminded me that I was getting very hungry to see her again I easily guessed what I should find in her letter I opened it good just as I expected she was coming coming this very day to and by the morning train I might expect her any moment I said to myself I am thoroughly happy and content now if my most pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment I would freely right any wrong I may have done him straight way the door opened and a shriveled shabby dwarf entered he was not more than two feet high he seemed to be about forty years old every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape and so while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say this is a conspicuous deformity the spectator perceived that this little person was a deformity as a whole a vague general evenly blended nicely adjusted deformity there was a fox-like cunning in the face and the sharp little eyes and also alertness and malice and yet this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and ill-defined resemblance to me it was deli perceptible in the mean form the countenance and even the clothes gestures manner and attitudes of the creature he was a far-fetched dim suggestion of a burlesque upon me a caricature of me in little one thing about him struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly he was covered all over with a fuzzy greenish mold such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread the sight of it was nauseating he stepped along with the chipper air and flung himself into a doll's chair in a very free and easy way without waiting to be asked he tossed his hat into the wastebasket he picked up my old chalk pipe from the floor gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee filled the bowl from the tobacco-box at his side and said to me in a tone of pert command give me a match I blushed to the roots of my hair partly with indignation but mainly because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in my intercourse with familiar friends but never with strangers I observed to myself I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire but some incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his authority forced me to obey his order he applied the match to the pipe took a contemplative whiff or two and remarked in an irritatingly familiar way seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year I flushed again and in anger and humiliation as before for the language was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day and moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style now there is nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my drawing infirmity of speech kept sharply and said look here you miserable ash cat you will have to give a little more attention to your manners or I will throw you out of the window the mannequin smiled a smile of malicious content and security puffed a whiff of smoke contemptuously toward me and said with a still more elaborate drawl come go gently now don't put on too many years with your betters over but it seemed to subjugate me too for a moment the pygmy contemplated me a while with his weasel eyes and then said in a peculiarly sneering way you turned a tramp away from your door this morning I said crustily perhaps I did perhaps I didn't how do you know well I know it isn't any matter how I know very well suppose I did turn a tramp away from the door I said oh nothing nothing in particular only you lied to him I didn't that is I yes but you did you lied to him I felt a guilty pang in truth I had felt it forty times before that tramp had traveled a block from my door but still I resolved to make a show of feeling slandered so I said this is a baseless impertinence to the tramp there wait you were about to lie again I know what you said to him you said the cook was gone downtown and there was nothing left from breakfast two lies you knew the cook was behind the door and plenty of provisions behind her this astonishing accuracy silenced me and it filled me with wondering speculations too as to how this cub could have got his information of course he could have called his information from the tramp but by what sort of magic had he contrived to find out about the concealed cook now the door spoke again it was rather pitiful rather small in you to refuse to read that poor young woman's manuscript the other day and give her an opinion as to its literary value and she had come so far too and so hopefully now wasn't it to occur and I had felt so every time the thing had recurred to my mind I may as well confess I flushed hotly and said look here have you nothing better to do than to prowl around prying into other people's business did that girl tell you that never mind whether she did or not the main thing is you did that contemptible thing and you felt ashamed of it afterward aha you feel ashamed of it well this was a sort of devilish glee with fiery earnestness I responded I told that girl in the kindest gentlest way that I could not consent to deliver judgment upon anyone's manuscript because an individual's verdict was worthless it might underrate a work of high merit and lose it to the world or it might overrate a trashy production and so open the way for its infliction upon the world I said that the great public was the only tribunal competent to sit in judgment upon a literary effort and therefore it must be best to lay it before that tribunal in the outset since in the end it must stand or fall by that mighty court's decision anyway yes you said all that so you did you juggling small sold shuffler and yet when the happy hopefulness faded out of that poor girl's face when you saw her terribly slip beneath her shawl the scroll she had so patiently and honestly scribbled at so ashamed of her darling now so proud of it before when you saw the gladness go out of her eyes and the tears come there when she crept away so humbly who had come so oh peace peace peace blister your merciless tongue haven't all these thoughts tortured me enough without your coming here to fetch them back again remorse remorse it seemed to me that it would eat the very heart out of me and yet that small fiend only sat there leering at me with joy and contempt and placidly chuckling presently he began to speak again every sentence was an accusation and every accusation a truth every clause was freighted with sarcasm and derision every slow dropping word burned like vitriol the dwarf reminded me of times when I had flown at my children in anger and punished them for faults which a little inquiry would have taught me that others and not they had committed he reminded me of how I had disloyaly allowed old friends to be traduced in my hearing and been too craven to utter a word in their defence he reminded me of many dishonest things which I had done of many which I had procured done by children and other irresponsible persons of some which I had planned thought upon and longed to do and been kept from the performance by fear of consequences only with exquisite cruelty he recalled to my mind item by item wrongs and unkindnesses I had inflicted and humiliations I had put upon friends since dead who died thinking of those treacheries maybe and grieving over them he added by way of poison to the stab for instance said he take the case of your younger brother when you two were boys together many a long year ago he always lovingly trusted in you with the fidelity that your manifold treacheries were not able to shake he followed you about like a dog content to suffer wrong and abuse if he might only be with you patient under these injuries so long as it was your hand that inflicted them the latest picture you have of him in health and strength must be such a comfort to you you pledged your honor that if he would let you blindfold him no harm should come to him and then giggling and choking over the rare fun of the joke you led him to a brook thinly glazed with ice and pushed him in and how you did laugh man you will never forget the gentle reproachful look he gave you as he struggled shivering out if you live a thousand years oh you see it now you see it now beast I have seen it a million times I shall see it a million more and may you rot away piecemeal and suffer till doomsday what I suffer now for bringing it back to me again the dwarf chuckled contentedly and went on with his accusing history of my career I dropped into a moody vengeful state and suffered in silence under the merciless lash at last this remark of his gave me a sudden rouse two months ago on a Tuesday you woke up away in the night and fell to thinking with shame about a peculiarly mean and pitiful act of yours toward poor ignorant indian and the wilds of the rocky mountains in the winter of 1800 and stop a moment devil stop do you mean to tell me that even my very thoughts are not hidden from you it seems to look like that didn't you think the thoughts I have just mentioned if I didn't I wish I may never breathe again look here friend look me in the eye who are you well who do you think you are Satan himself I think you are the devil no no then who can you be would you really like to know indeed I would well I am your conscience in an instant I was in a blaze of joy and exultation I sprang at the creature roaring curse you I have wished 100 million times that you were tangible and that I could get my hands on your throat once but I will wreak a deadly vengeance on folly lightning does not move more quickly than my conscience did he darted aloft so suddenly that in the moment my fingers clutched the empty air he was already perched on top of the high bookcase with his thumb at his nose in token of derision I flung the poker at him and missed I fired the boot jack in a blind rage I flew from place to place and snatched up and hurled any missile that came handy the storm of books ink stands and chunks of coal gloomed the air and beat about the mannequins perched relentlessly but all to no purpose the nimble figure dodged every shot and not only that but burst into a cackle of sarcastic and triumphant laughter as I sat down exhausted while I puffed grasped with fatigue and excitement my conscience talked to this effect my good slave you are curiously witless no I mean characteristically so in truth you are always consistent always yourself always an ass otherwise it must have occurred to you that if you attempted this murder with a sad heart and a heavy conscience I would droop under the burdening in influence instantly fool I should have weighed a ton and could not have budged from the floor but instead you are so cheerfully anxious to kill me that your conscience is as light as a feather hence I am away up here out of your reach I can almost respect a mere ordinary sort of fool but you I would have given anything then to be heavy-hearted so that I could get this person down from there and take his life but I could no more be heavy-hearted over such a desire than I could have sorrowed over its accomplishment so I could only look longingly up at my master and rave at the ill luck that denied me a heavy conscience the one only time that I had ever wanted such a thing in my life by and by I got to musing over the hours strange adventure and of course my human curiosity began to work I set myself to framing in my mind some questions for this fiend to answer just then one of my boys entered leaving the door open behind him and exclaimed my what has been going on here the bookcase is all one riddle of I sprang up in consternation and shouted out of this hurry jump fly shut the door quick or my conscience will get away the door slammed too and I locked it I glanced up and was grateful to the bottom of my heart to see that my owner was still my prisoner I said hang you I might have lost you children are the heedlessest creatures but look here friend the boy did not seem to notice you at all how is that for a very good reason I am invisible to all but you I made a mental note of that piece of information with a good deal of satisfaction I could kill this miscreant now if I got a chance and no one would know it but this very reflection made me so light-hearted that my conscience could hardly keep his seat but was like to float aloft toward the ceiling like a toy balloon I said presently come my conscience let us be friendly let us fly a flag of truce for a while I am suffering to ask you some questions very well begin well then in the first place why were you never visible to me before because you never asked to see me before that is you never asked in the right spirit in the proper form before you were just in the right spirit this time and when you called for your most pitiless enemy I was that person by a very large majority though you did not suspect it well did that remark of mine turn you into flesh and blood no it only made me visible to you I am unsubstantial just as other spirits are this remark prodded me with a sharp misgiving if he was unsubstantial how was I going to kill him but I dissembled and said persuasively conscience it isn't sociable to keep you at such a distance come down and take another smoke this was answered with a look that was full of derision and with his observation added come where you can get at me and kill me the invitation is declined with thanks all right I said to myself so it seems the spirit can be killed after all there will be one spirit lacking in this world presently or I lose my guess then I said aloud friend there wait a bit I am not your friend I am your enemy I am not your equal I am your master call me my lord if you please you are too familiar I don't like such titles I am willing to call you sir that as far as we will have no argument about this just obey that is all go on with your chatter very well my lord since nothing but my lord will suit you I was going to ask you how long will you be visible to me always I broke out with strong indignation this is simply an outrage that is what I think of it you have dogged and dogged and dogged me all the days of my life invisible that was misery enough now to have such a looking thing as you tagging after me like another shadow all the rest of my day is an intolerable prospect you have my opinion my lord make the most of it my lad there was never so pleased to conscience in this world as I was when you made me visible it gives me an unconceivable advantage now I can look you straight in the eye and call you names and lyric you gerit you, snare it you and you know what eloquence there is in a visible gesture and expression more especially when the effect is heightened by audible speech I shall always address you henceforth in your own sniveling drawl, baby I let fly with a coal-hod no result my lord said come come, remember the flag of truce ah, I forgot that I will try to be civil and you try it too for a novelty the idea of a civil conscience it is a good joke an excellent joke all the consciences I have ever heard of were nagging badgering, fault finding execrable savages yes, and always in a sweat about some poor little insignificant trifle or other destruction catch the lot of them I say I would trade mine for the small pox and seven kinds of consumption and be glad of the chance now tell me why is it that a conscience can't haul a man over the coals once for an offense and then let him alone why is it that it wants to keep on pegging at him day and night and night and day week in and week out forever and ever about the same old thing there's no sense in that and no reason in it I think a conscience that will act like this is meaner than the very dirt itself well we like it, that suffices do you do it with the honest intent to improve a man that question produced a sarcastic smile and this reply no sir, excuse me we do it simply because it is business it is our trade the purpose of it is to improve the man but we are merely disinterested agents we are appointed by authority and haven't anything to say in the matter we obey orders and leave the consequences they belong but I am willing to admit this much we do crowd the orders of trifle when we get the chance which is most of the time we enjoy it we are instructed to remind a man a few times of an error and I don't mind acknowledging that we try to give pretty good measure and when we get hold of a man of a peculiarly sensitive nature oh, but do we haze him I have consciences from China and Russia to see a person of that kind put through his paces on a special occasion why I knew a man of that sort who had accidentally crippled a mulatto baby the news went abroad and I wish you may never commit another sin if the consciences didn't flock from all over the earth to enjoy the fun and help his master exercise him that man walked the floor for 48 hours without eating or sleeping and then blew his brains out the child was perfectly well again in three weeks well, you are a precious crew not to put it too strong I think I begin to see now why you have always been a trifle inconsistent with me and your anxiety to get all the juice you can out of a sin you make a man repent of it in three or four different ways with me for lying to that tramp and I suffered over that but it was only yesterday that I told a tramp the square truth to wit that it being regarded as bad citizenship to encourage vagrancy I would give him nothing what did you do then why you made me say to myself ah, it would have been so much kinder and more blameless to ease him off with a little white lie and send him away feeling that if he could not have bread the gentle treatment was at least something to be grateful for well, I suffered all day about that three days before I had fed a tramp and fed him freely supposing it a virtuous act straight off you said oh, false citizen to have fed a tramp and I suffered as usual I gave a tramp work you objected to it after the contract was made of course you never speak up beforehand next I refused a tramp work you objected to that next I proposed to kill a tramp you kept me awake all night oozing remorse at every pore sure I was going to be right this time I sent the next tramp away with my benediction and I wish you may live as long as I do if you didn't make me smart all night again because I didn't kill him is there any way of satisfying that malignant invention which is called the conscience? ha ha this is luxury go on but come now answer me that question is there any way well none that I propose to tell you my son ass I don't care what act you may turn your hand to I can straight away whisper a word in your ear and make you think you have committed a dreadful meanness it is my business and my joy to make you repent of everything you do if I have fooled away any opportunities it was not intentional I beg to assure you it was not intentional don't worry you haven't missed a trick that I know of I never did a thing in all my life virtuous or otherwise that I didn't repent of in 24 hours in church last Sunday I listened to a charity sermon my first impulse was to give $350 I repented of that and reduced it a hundred repented of that and reduced it another hundred repented of that and reduced it another hundred repented of that and reduced the meaning fifty to twenty-five repented of that and came down to fifteen repented of that and dropped to two dollars and a half when the plate came round at last I repented once more and contributed ten cents well when I got home I did wish I had that ten cents back again you never did let me get through a charity sermon without having something to sweat about oh and I never shall I never shall you can always depend on me I think so many and many's the restless night I've wanted to take you by the neck if I could only get hold of you now yes no doubt but I am not an ass I'm only the saddle of an ass but go on go on you entertain me more than I like to confess I am glad of that you will not mind my lying a little to keep in practice look here not to be too personal I think you are about the shabbiest and most contemptible little shriveled up reptile that can be imagined I am grateful enough that you are invisible to other people for I should die with shame to be seen with such a mild dude of a conscience as you are now if you were five or six feet high and oh come who is to blame I don't know why you are nobody else confound you I wasn't consulted about your personal appearance I don't care you had a good deal to do with it nevertheless when you were eight or nine years old I was seven feet high and as pretty as a picture I wish you had died young so you have grown the wrong way have you some of us grow one way and some the other you had a large conscience once if you have a small conscience now I reckon there are reasons for it however both of us are to blame you and I you see you used to be conscientious about a great many things morbidly so I may say it was a great many years ago you probably do not remember it now well I took a great interest in my work and I so enjoyed the anguish which certain pet sins of yours afflicted you with that I kept pelting at you until I rather overdid the matter you began to rebel of course I began to lose ground then and shrivel a little diminishing stature get moldy and grow deformed the more I weakened the more stubbornly you fastened on particular sins till at last the places on my person that represent those vices became as callous as shark skin take smoking for instance I played that card a little too long and I lost when people plead with you at this late day to quit that vice that old callous place seems to enlarge and cover me all over like a shirt of mail it exerts a mysterious smothering effect you die your faithful hater your devoted conscience go sound asleep sound it is no name for it I couldn't hear it thunder at such a time you have some few other vices perhaps 80 or maybe 90 that affect me in much the same way this is flattering you must be asleep a good part of the time yes of late years I should be asleep all the time I get who helps you other consciences whenever a person whose conscience I'm acquainted with tries to plead with you about the vices you are callous to I get my friend to give his client a pang concerning some villainy of his own and that shuts off his meddling and starts him off to hunt personal consolation my field of usefulness is about trimmed down to tramps a line of goods now but don't you worry I'll harry you on theirs while they last just you put your trust in me I think I can but if you had only been good enough to mention these facts some 30 years ago I should have turned my particular attention to sin and I think that by this time I should not only have had you pretty permanently asleep on the entire list of human vices but reduced to the size of a homeopathic pill at that that is about the style of conscience I am pining for if I only had you shrunk down to a homeopathic pill and could get my hands on you would I put you in a glass case for a keepsake no sir I would give you to a yellow dog that is where you ought to be you and all your tribe you are not fit to be in society in my opinion now another question do you know a good many consciences in this section plenty of them I would give anything to see some of them could you bring them here and would they be visible to me certainly not I suppose I ought to have known that without asking but no matter you can describe them tell me about my neighbor Thompson's conscience please very well I know him intimately have known him many years when he was eleven feet high and of a faultless figure but he is very pasty and tough and misshapen now and hardly ever interests himself about anything as to his present size well he sleeps in a cigar box likely enough there are a few smaller meaner men in this region than Hugh Thompson do you know Robinson's conscience yes he is a shade under four and a half feet high used to be blonde he is super net now but still shapely and comely well Robinson is a good fellow do you know Tom Smith's conscience I have known him from childhood he was thirteen inches high and rather sluggish when he was two years old as nearly all of us are at that age he is thirty seven feet high now and the stateliest figure in America his legs are still wracked with growing pains but he has a good time nevertheless never sleeps he is the most active and energetic member of the New England Conscience Club is president of it night and day you can find him pegging away at Smith panting with his labor sleeves rolled up countenance all alive with enjoyment he has got his victims splendidly dragooned now he can make poor Smith imagine that the most innocent little thing he does is an odious sin and then he sets to work this tortures the soul out of him about it Smith is the noblest man in all this section and the purest and yet is always breaking his heart because he cannot be good only a conscience could find pleasure and heaping agony upon a spirit like that do you know my Aunt Mary's conscience I have seen her at a distance but I am not acquainted with her she lives in the open air altogether because no door is large enough to admit her I can believe that let me see do you know the conscience of that publisher who once stole some sketches of mine for a series of his and then left me to pay the law expenses I had to incur in order to choke him off yes he has a wide fame he was exhibited a month ago with some other antiquities for the benefit of a recent member of the cabinet's conscience that was starving in exile tickets and fares were high but I traveled for nothing by pretending to be the conscience of an editor and got in for half price by representing myself to be the conscience of a clergyman however the publisher's conscience which was to have been the main feature of the entertainment was a failure as an exhibition he was there but what of that the management had provided a microscope with the magnifying power of only 30,000 diameters and so nobody got to see him after all there was great and general dissatisfaction of course but just here there was an eager footstep on the stair I opened the door and my Aunt Mary burst into the room it was a joyful meeting and a cheery bombardment of questions and answers concerning family matters ensued by and by my aunt said but I'm going to abuse you a little now you promised me the day I saw you last that you would look after the needs of the poor family around the corner as faithfully as I had done it myself well I found out by accident that you failed of your promise was that right in simple truth I had never thought of that family a second time and now such a splintering pang of guilt shot through me I glanced up at my conscience plainly my heavy heart was affecting him he was drooping forward he seemed about to fall from the bookcase my aunt continued and think how you have neglected my poor protege at the alms house you dear hard-hearted promise breaker I blushed scarlet and my tongue was tied as the sense of my guilty negligence waxed sharper and stronger my conscience began to sway heavily back and forth and when my aunt after a little pause said in a grieved tone since you never once went to see her maybe it will not distress you now to know that that poor child died months ago utterly friendless and forsaken my conscience could no longer bear up under the weight of my sufferings but tumbled headlong from his high perch and struck the floor with a dull leadened thump writhing with pain and quaking with apprehension but straining every muscle in frantic efforts to get up in a fever of expectancy I sprang to the door locked it, placed my back against it and bent a watchful gaze upon my struggling master already my fingers were itching to begin their murderous work oh what can be the matter exclaimed my aunt shrinking from me as her frightened eyes the direction of mine my breath was coming in short quick gasps now and by excitement was almost uncontrollable my aunt cried out oh do not look so you appall me oh what can the matter be what is it you see why do you stare so why do you work your fingers like that peace woman I said in a hoarse whisper imagine to me it is nothing, nothing I am often this way it will pass in a moment it comes from smoking too much my injured lord was up wild eyed with terror and trying to hobble toward the door I could hardly breathe I was so wrought up my aunt wrung her hands and said oh I knew how it would be I knew it would come to this at last oh I implore you to crush out a little habit while it may yet be time you must not you shall not be deaf to my supplications longer my struggling conscience showed sudden signs of weariness oh promise me you will throw off this hateful slavery of tobacco my conscience began to reel drowsily and grope with his hands enchanting spectacle I beg you, I beseech you I implore you the reason is deserting you there is madness in your eye it flames with frenzy oh hear me, hear me and be saved see I plead with you on my very knees as she sank before me my conscience reeled again and then drooped languidly to the floor blinking toward me a last supplication for mercy with heavy eyes oh promise or you are lost promise and be redeemed promise, promise and live with a long drawn sigh my conquered conscience closed his eyes and fell fast asleep with an exultant shout I sprang past my aunt and in an instant I had my life long foe by the throat after so many years of waiting and longing he was mine at last I tore him to shreds and fragments I rent the fragments to bits I cast the bleeding rubbish into the fire and drew into my nostrils the grateful incense of my burnt offering at last and forever my conscience was dead I was a free man I turned upon my poor aunt who was almost petrified with terror and shouted out of this with your poppers your charities your reforms your pestilent morals you behold before you a man whose life conflict is done whose soul is at peace a man whose heart is dead to sorrow dead to suffering dead to remorse a man without a conscience in my joy I spare you though I could throttle you and never feel a pang fly she fled since that day my life is all bliss bliss unalloyed bliss nothing in all the world could persuade me to have a conscience again I settled all my old outstanding scores and began the world anew I killed 38 persons during the first two weeks all of them on account of ancient grudges I burned a dwelling that interrupted my view I swindled a widow and some orphans out of their last cow which is a very good one though not thoroughbred I believe I have also committed scores of crimes of various kinds and have enjoyed my work exceedingly whereas it would formerly have broken my heart and turned my hair gray I have no doubt in conclusion I wished to state by way of advertisement that medical colleges desiring assorted tramps for scientific purposes either by the gross by chord measurement or per ton will do well to examine the lot in my cellar before purchasing elsewhere as these were all selected and prepared by myself and can be had at a low rate because I wish to clear out my stock and get ready for the spring trade and of the facts concerning the recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut by Mark Twain read by Margaret Espayette is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Greg Marguerite the generous gambler by Charles Baudelaire yesterday across the crowd of the boulevard I found myself touched by a mysterious being I had always desired to know and who I recognized immediately in spite of the fact that I had never seen him he had I imagined in himself relatively as to me a similar desire for he gave me in passing so significant a sign in his eyes that I hastened to obey him I followed him attentively and soon I descended behind him into a subterranean dwelling astonishing to me as a vision where shown a luxury of which none of the actual houses in Paris could give me an approximate example it seemed to me singular that I had passed so often that prodigious retreat without having discovered the entrance there reigned an exquisite and almost stifling atmosphere which made one forget almost instantaneously all the fastidious horrors of life there I breathed a somber sensuality like that of opium smokers when set on the shore of an enchanted island over which shown an eternal afternoon they felt born in them to the soothing sounds of melodious cascades the desire of never again seeing their households their women their children and of never again being tossed on the decks of ships by storms there were there strange faces of men and women gifted with so fatal a beauty that I seem to have seen them years ago and in countries which I failed to remember and which inspired in me that curious sympathy and that equally curious sense of fear that I usually discover in unknown aspects if I wanted to define in some fashion or rather the singular expression of their eyes I would say that never had I seen such magic radiance more energetically expressing the horror of ennui and of desire of the immortal desire of feeling themselves alive as for my host and myself we were already as we sat down as perfect friends as if we had always known each other we drank immeasurably of all sorts of extraordinary wines and a thing not less bizarre it seemed to me after several hours that I was no more intoxicated than he was however gambling this superhuman pleasure had cut at various intervals and I ought to say that I had gained and lost my soul as we were playing with an heroical carelessness and light-heartedness the soul is so invisible a thing often useless and sometimes so troublesome that I did not experience as to this loss more than that kind of emotion I might have had had I lost my visiting card in the street we spent hours in smoking cigars whose incomparable savor and perfume give to the soul the nostalgia of unknown delights and sights and intoxicated by all these spiced sauces I dared in an access of familiarity which did not seem to displease him to cry as I lifted a glass filled to the brim with wine to your immortal health old he goat we talked of the universe of its creation and its future destruction the leading ideas of the century that is to say of progress and perfect ability and in general of all kinds of human infatuations on this subject his highness was inexhaustible in his irrefutable chests and he expressed himself with a splendor of diction and with a magnificence in drullery such as I have never found in any of the most famous conversationalists of our age he explained to me the absurdity of these that had so far taken possession of men's brains and deigned even to take me in confidence in regard to certain fundamental principles which I am not inclined to share with anyone he complained in no way of the evil reputation under which he lived indeed all over the world and he assured me that he himself was of all living beings the most interested in the destruction of superstition and he avowed to me that he had been afraid relatively as to his proper power once only and that was on the day when he had heard a preacher more subtle than the rest of the human herd cry in his pulpit my dear brethren do not ever forget when you hear the progress of lights praised that the loveliest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he does not exist the memory of this famous orator brought us naturally on the subject of academies and my strange host declared to me that he didn't disdain in many cases to inspire the pens, the words and the consciences of pedagogues and that he almost always assisted in person in spite of being invisible at all the scientific meetings encouraged by so much kindness I asked him if he had any news of God who has not his hours of impiety especially as the old friend of the devil he said to me with a shade of unconcern united with a deeper shade of sadness we salute each other when we meet but for the rest he spoke in Hebrew it is uncertain if his highness has ever given so long an audience to a simple mortal and I feared to abuse it finally as the dark approached shivering this famous personage long by so many poets and served by so many philosophers who work for his glory's sake without being aware of it said to me I want you to remember me always and to prove to you that I of whom one says so much evil am often enough to make use of one of your vulgar locutions so as to make up for the irredeemable loss that you have made of your soul I shall give you back to make you ought to have gained if your fate had been fortunate that is to say the possibility of solicizing and of conquering during your whole life this bizarre affliction of anwi which is the source of all your maladies and of all your miseries never a desire shall be formed by you that I will not aid you to realize you will reign over your vulgar equals money and gold and diamonds and all of the promises shall come to seek you and shall ask you to accept them without your having made the least effort to obtain them you can change your abode as often as you like you shall have in your power all sensualities without lassitude in lands where the climate is always hot and where the women are as scented as the flowers with this he rose up and said goodbye to me with a charming smile before the shame of humiliating myself before so immense an assembly I might have voluntarily fallen at the feet of this generous gambler to thank him for his unheard of munificence but little by little after I had left him an incurable defiance entered into me I dared no longer believe in so prodigious a happiness and as I went to bed making over again my nightly prayer by means of all that remained in me of faith I repeated in my slumber my god my lord my god do let the devil keep his word with me end of the generous gambler by Charles Baudelaire