tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68068325869708844622011-04-21T14:50:25.924-07:00Read online all the excellent tales from my favorite author: Sir Edgard Allan Poe, the father af the horror short tale. Read the work of the greatest horror writer of all times, you will shiver with "The Raven" and both "The Masque of the Red Death" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" will make your hair stand tall. Enjoy every single tale of the work of a master in the horror genre. You won't be disappointed.Bikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11383629601950128550noreply@blogger.comBlogger431100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6806832586970884462.post-48604965237531159682007-09-09T10:31:00.000-07:002007-09-09T10:34:29.845-07:00

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Worksby Edgar Allan PoeThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical WorksAuthor: Edgar

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OF course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not-especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for investigation —through our endeavors to

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WHATEVER doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its startling facts are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter, those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession—an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove, at the present day, that man, by mere exercise of will can so impress his fellow as to cast him

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THE SYMPOSIUM of the preceding evening had been a little too much for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy. Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and go immediately to bed. A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than a

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Truth is stranger than fiction.—OLD SAYING. HAVING had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental investigations, to consult the Tellmenow Isitsoornot, a work which (like the Zohar of Simeon Jochaides) is scarcely known at all, even in Europe; and which has never been quoted, to my knowledge, by any American—if we except, perhaps, the author of the "Curiosities of American

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The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus. Joseph Glanville. WE had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man

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Qui n'a plus qu'un moment a vivre N'a plus rien a dissimuler. —Quinault —Atys. OF my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently

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ASTOUNDING NEWS BY EXPRESS, VIA NORFOLK!—The Atlantic Crossed in Three Days!—Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charlestown, S. C., of Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the Steering Balloon, Victoria, after a Passage of Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the Voyage! The

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There is, strictly speaking, but little similarity between this sketchy trifle and the very celebrated and very beautiful "Moon-story" of Mr. Locke—but as both have the character of hoaxes, (although one is in the tone of banter, the other of downright earnest) and as both hoaxes are on the same subject, the moon—the author of "Hans Phaall" thinks it necessary to say, in self-defence, that his

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The garden like a lady fair was cut That lay as if she slumbered in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut; The azure fields of heaven were 'sembled right In a large round set with flow'rs of light: The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew That hung upon their azure leaves, did show Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the

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MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON THE NATURAL scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its general features as well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old World—more especially of Europe—and not deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region. The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed, for, although much has been said on both sides, a word

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A Pendant to "The Domain of Arnheim" DURING A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had wound about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the valleys, that I no longer knew in what

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THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM The garden like a lady fair was cut, That lay as if she slumbered in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut. The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right In a large round, set with the flowers of light. The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew. That hung upon their azure leaves did shew Like

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Nullus enim locus sine genio est.—SERVIUS. "LA MUSIQUE," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"1 which in all our translations, we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in mockery of their spirit—"la musique est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui-meme; tous les autres veulent des temoins." He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity

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DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time pleasantly enough

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MANY years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of "love at first sight;" but those who think, not less than those who feel deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or magnetoesthetics, render it probable that the most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which

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DURING the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles of a certain Maison de Sante or private mad-house, about which I had heard much in Paris from my medical friends. As I had never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a gentleman with whom I

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THERE are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over

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FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not —and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without

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IN THE consideration of the faculties and impulses—of the prima mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered its

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What say of it? what say (of) CONSCIENCE grim, That spectre in my path? Chamberlayne's Pharronida. LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn —for the horror —for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions

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'Eudosin d'orheon korhuphai te kai pharhagges' 'Prhones te kai charhadrhai.' ALCMAN. (60 (10),646.) [The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves are silent.] "LISTEN to me," said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence. "The

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I will bring fire to thee.EURIPIDES Andiom. EIROS. Why do you call me Eiros? CHARMION. So henceforth will you always be called. You must forget, too, my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion. EIROS. This is indeed no dream! CHARMION. Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to see you looking like-life and rational. The film of the shadow has already passed from off

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These things are in the future.SOPHOCLES- Antig. UNA. "Born again?" MONOS. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the secret. UNA. Death! MONOS. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your step, a

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Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima.Raymond Lully. I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the

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"And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." — Joseph Glanvill. I CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became

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Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single. —Plato: Sympos. WITH a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no

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THE CHATEAU into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We

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Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas. —Ebn Zaiat.MISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, —as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a

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Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow: Psalm of David.YE who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will

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THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM by Edgar Allen Poe Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit. Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. (Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to he erected upon the site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris.) I WAS sick —sick

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Pestis eram vivus - moriens tua mors ero. Martin Luther HORROR and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that is, of

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DURING the fall of the year 1827, while residing near Charlottesville, Virginia, I casually made the acquaintance of Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in every respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. I found it impossible to comprehend him either in his moral or his physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no satisfactory account. Whence he

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Stay for me there! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. [Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester.] ILL-FATED and mysterious man! —bewildered in the brilliancy of thine own and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath risen before me! —not —oh not as thou art —in the cold

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Thou Art the Man I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to you — as I alone can — the secret of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough miracle — the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the carnal-minded who

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Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.— Seneca. At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18—, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisieme, No. 33, Rue Dunot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each,

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A Sequel to "The Murder in the Rue Morgue" There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation; instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism. — Novalis. Moral Ansichten. THERE ARE few persons,

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What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture.— SIR THOMAS BROWNE, Urn-Burial. THE mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to

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What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.— All in the Wrong. MANY years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers,

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The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I bestcould, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, whoso well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, thatI gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged;this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitivenesswith which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must notonly punish, but

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The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. Nopestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was itsAvatar and its seal--the redness and the horror of blood. There weresharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at thepores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body andespecially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban whichshut him out from the

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During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in theautumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in theheavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through asingularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself,as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of themelancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with thefirst glimpse of the building, a

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Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849 Biographical note Poet and writer of tales, was born at Boston, where his parents, who were both actors, were temporarily living. He was left an orphan in early childhood in destitute circumstances, but was adopted by a Mr. Allan of Richmond, Virginia. By him and his wife he was treated with great indulgence, and in 1815 accompanied them to England, where they

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