Son coeur est un
     luth suspendu;
     Sitot qu'on le touche
             il resonne.

    DE
        BERANGER.

    During the whole
           of a dull,
         dark,
         and soundless day
               in the autumn
                   of the year,
           when the clouds
               hung oppressively low
                   in the heavens,
         I had been passing alone,
           on horseback,
         through a singularly dreary tract
               of country;
        and at length found myself,
           as the shades
               of the evening
            drew on,
         within view
            of the melancholy
                House of Usher.

    I know not
         how it was
          --but,
           with the first glimpse
               of the building,
         a sense of insufferable gloom
              pervaded my spirit.

    I say insufferable;
        for the feeling
            was unrelieved by any of
             that half-pleasureable,
           because poetic,
         sentiment,
           with which
               the mind usually receives
             even the sternest natural images
                   of the desolate or terrible.

    I looked
           upon the scene before me
         --upon the mere house,
               and the simple landscape
                   features of the domain--
           upon the bleak walls
       --upon the vacant eye-like
               windows--upon a
               few rank sedges--and
             upon a
                   few white trunks
                       of decayed trees--with an
              utter depression of soul which
             I can
                  compare to
                       no earthly sensation more properly
                     than to the after-dream
                           of the reveller
                         upon opium--the bitter lapse
                               into everyday life--the hideous
                      dropping off of the veil.

    There was an iciness,
           a sinking,
         a sickening of the heart
          --an unredeemed dreariness of thought
              which no
                  goading of the imagination
                could torture
                       into aught of the sublime.

    What was it
         --I paused to think--
           what was it
             that so
                  unnerved me
                       in the
                         contemplation
                            of the House of Usher?

    It was a mystery
           all insoluble;
        nor could
             I grapple
                   with the shadowy fancies
             that crowded upon me
                   as I pondered.

    I was
          forced to fall
               back upon the
                 unsatisfactory
                    conclusion,
           that while,
         beyond doubt,
           there are
             combinations
                of very simple natural objects
              which have the power
                   of thus
                  affecting us,
         still the analysis
               of this power
             lies among considerations
                   beyond our depth.

    It was possible,
           I reflected,
         that a mere different arrangement
               of the particulars
             of the scene,
           of the
            details of the picture,
         would be sufficient to modify,
           or perhaps
              to annihilate its capacity
                   for sorrowful impression;
        and,
           acting upon this idea,
         I reined my horse
               to the precipitous brink
                   of a black
                 and lurid tarn
             that lay in unruffled lustre
                   by the dwelling,
           and gazed down
         --but with a shudder
             even more thrilling than before--
           upon the remodelled and inverted
               images of the grey sedge,
           and the ghastly tree-stems,
         and the vacant
               and eye-like windows.

    Nevertheless,
           in this mansion of gloom
             I now proposed
                   to myself a sojourn
                       of some weeks.

    Its proprietor,
           Roderick Usher,
         had been
               one of my boon companions
             in boyhood;
        but many years had elapsed
             since our last meeting.

    A letter,
           however,
         had lately
              reached me
                   in a distant part
                       of the country
         --a letter from him--
            which,
         in its wildly importunate nature,
         had admitted of no
               other than a personal reply.

    The MS
        gave evidence of nervous agitation.

    The writer spoke
           of acute bodily illness
         --of a mental disorder
              which oppressed him--
           and of an earnest desire
              to see me,
           as his best,
         and indeed his
              only personal friend,
           with a view of attempting,
         by the
             cheerfulness
                of my society,
           some alleviation of his malady.

    It was the manner
         in which all this,
           and much more,
         was said
           --it was the apparent heart
             that went with his request--
           which allowed me no room
               for hesitation;
        and I accordingly obeyed forthwith