The only thing I love more than creepy old ads are bizarre old silent films. I will admit I "borrow" a lot from Pics and Portraits (a. k. a. Sleepcore), but he in turn borrows from other sources. I know there are people who lift his entire content, and one channel even sent him a request to CORRECT his material so he could lift it more accurately! I try not to use more than a couple of minutes. This was so surreal I HAD to "quote" it. I do not know where he finds stuff like this!
Friday, August 26, 2022
Tuesday, August 23, 2022
Monday, August 22, 2022
Virgil Thomson: The Plow that Broke the Plains
Just something I love, which I haven't heard for a very long time. Stumbled on it again while watching a harrowing documentary on the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Virgil Thomson sounds a lot like Copland here (a composer known to appropriate "cowboy music" into his highly-symphonic works), but when the banjo breaks in you know you're squarely in the middle of Americana. I first heard this music eons ago on an outdoorsie-type TV show on CBC called Klahanie. I had to make a little visual to go with this!
The Troll Doll Channel: CURSE OF THE JUJU DOLL!
One of my more exotic custom trolls, from Lucretia's Lair. Does he have magical powers? Well, what do you think?
Saturday, August 20, 2022
CLOWN NIGHTMARE: Herky-jerky Circus Puppets!
It's hard to imagine that, back in the day, no one thought clowns were the least bit scary - not even Clarabell, the clown that haunted my dreams on Howdy Doody. In retrospect, they're all pretty grotesque. Maybe it was John Wayne Gacy who spoiled it for everyone? But Pennywise didn't help. Meantime, kids paid good money for bits of paper hanging from a string.
Friday, August 19, 2022
The Troll Doll Channel: GRUMPY CHORUS sings "DREAM, DREAM, DREAM"
What can I say? I never knew my trolls could sing like this. Wakes me up in the middle of the night. I LOVE one of the comments a person left: "Jesus Christ". Oh yeah!
Wednesday, August 17, 2022
Hypocrisy like you've never seen. . . (and hope to never see again!)
Prince Harry and Meghan Markle are 'trying to create an alternative woke royal family' after the Duchess feels 'enormous bitterness' that she wasn't able to 'modernise' the Firm, claims royal biographer Angela Levin
- Royal author Angela Levin commented on the Sussexes upcoming visit to the UK
- Claimed Harry and Meghan are 'trying to create an alternative, woke royal family'
- Ms Levin noted the 'grandeur and pomp that surrounds them' and use of titles
Angela Levin, a royal commentator and author of several biographies about senior members of the Royal Family, told FEMAIL that the Duchess of Sussex, 41, feels 'enormous bitterness' that she wasn’t able to 'modernise' the Firm.
It comes after Harry, 37, and Meghan announced via their spokesman their return to the UK this September to visit two charities, while also heading to Germany for an event to commemorate a year until the Invictus Games in Dusseldorf.
It comes after Harry, 37, and Meghan announced via their spokesman their return to the UK this September to visit two charities, while also heading to Germany for an event to commemorate a year until the Invictus Games in Dusseldorf.
Commenting on the news, Ms Levin claimed the couple, who now live in California with their two children, Archie and Lilibet, after stepping down as working members of the royal family, 'are very determined to show that their way is the best way'.
'When they went to America, when they went to the United Nations, and not just as somebody who's interested and curious and one of us but with good credentials. They are people who are very determined to show that their way is the best way.
'And I think Meghan, who doesn't like losing, she likes to win, feels enormous bitterness and resentment towards the Royal Family for not letting her modernize the Royal Family.'
The royal biographer continued: 'I may be wrong, I hope so, but the impression is that they don't want to be royals yet they're hanging on to their titles very, very tightly.
'When Meghan goes anywhere, she always uses her royal title. Now, why do that if you don't actually like the royal family and you wanted to get shot of them?
'So that's why I think there's a big plot and a plan to show how awful the [Royal Family] are. And I think that in Prince Harry's books, and in that terrible interview with Oprah Winfrey, was trying to smash the Royal Family and the monarchy down.'
Elsewhere, Ms Levin claimed Prince William, 40, will want to avoid Harry until he's had a chance to read his younger brother's memoir
Royal expert Richard Fitzwilliams told FEMAIL that the rift between the Cambridges and the Sussexes is 'very deep', meaning a reunion between the couples in the UK 'probably won't' happen.
Ms Levin said Prince William and Kate, 40, are likely to be waiting to see what Harry says in his upcoming memoir, set to be released this winter, before healing any rift.
'[The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge] are extremely busy at the moment,' said the royal author. 'They're moving home, need to settle their children into new schools. They're very busy taking on so many more engagements for the Queen.
'And I don't know whether William would like to make amends with Harry. I think it's very difficult and certainly not before his memoir comes out because we don't know what he's going to say.
'[Harry's] been very unkind and cruel so far. We have to wait to see what he does and maybe they won't want to see them until all that's out in the open and they know what he says.'
Mr Fitzwilliams also suggested a reunion in the UK in September is unlikely to happen, explaining: 'I suspect that that rift is very deep, the reports are that they probably won't.'
On September 5 the Duke and Duchess of Sussex will travel to Manchester for the One Young World Summit, which brings together young leaders from more than 190 countries. Meghan will give the keynote address at the opening ceremony.
The couple will then head to Germany for an event to commemorate a year until the Invictus Games in Dusseldorf on September 6, before returning to the UK for the WellChild Awards in London on September 8 where Prince Harry will deliver a speech.
It is the first time the couple will be in the UK since the Jubilee celebrations in June, when they kept a low profile. They also visited in April, when they secretly met with Charles and the Queen on their way to the Netherlands.
Brothers Prince William and Prince Harry have not spoken face-to-face since they unveiled a statue of their late mother, Diana, Princess of Wales last summer.
The Duke of Cambridge and his family are moving from Kensington Palace to Adelaide Cottage, just a ten-minute walk from Windsor Castle, later this month.
If the Sussexes stay at their home, Frogmore Cottage, they will only be a short five-minute walk from the Cambridges, who will be just 800m away when they relocate to Adelaide in the next few weeks.
It will be the first time the two couples have been neighbours since Prince Harry and Meghan moved out of Kensington Palace in 2019.
But a source reportedly said the Sussexes’s visit will be focused on 'supporting several charities close to their hearts', and they have no plans to see the Cambridges.
Editor of Majesty Magazine, Ingrid Seward, told the Sun: 'I don't think they would bump into one another unless it was pre-arranged.
'I suppose one could go round with some flowers as a peace offering, but remember what happened last time,' referring to claims that Meghan threw flowers from Kate in the bin after a row over bridesmaids dresses before Harry and Meghan tied the knot in 2018.
It is thought unlikely the couple will bring their children Archie, three, and Lilibet, 14 months. Harry began legal action against the Government when he was told he would no longer be given the ‘same degree’ of protection here after stepping back from royal life in 2020.
It will be the first time the two couples have been neighbours since Prince Harry and Meghan moved out of Kensington Palace in 2019.
But a source reportedly said the Sussexes’s visit will be focused on 'supporting several charities close to their hearts', and they have no plans to see the Cambridges.
Editor of Majesty Magazine, Ingrid Seward, told the Sun: 'I don't think they would bump into one another unless it was pre-arranged.
'I suppose one could go round with some flowers as a peace offering, but remember what happened last time,' referring to claims that Meghan threw flowers from Kate in the bin after a row over bridesmaids dresses before Harry and Meghan tied the knot in 2018.
It is thought unlikely the couple will bring their children Archie, three, and Lilibet, 14 months. Harry began legal action against the Government when he was told he would no longer be given the ‘same degree’ of protection here after stepping back from royal life in 2020.
Buckingham Palace declined to comment. But a source told The Daily Telegraph that the visit would come during a busy week with ‘lots of moving parts’. The couple’s spokesman said: ‘Prince Harry and Meghan are delighted to visit with several charities close to their hearts in early September.’
The UK visit comes just weeks ahead of Prince Harry's expected book launch in October, written by Pulitzer prize-winning ghostwriter JR Moehringer, which promises 'to reveal a first-hand account of his life' which is 'accurate and wholly truthful'.
The couple are likely to want to spend time with the Queen after enjoying 'barely 15 minutes' with her during the Platinum Jubilee celebrations this summer, according to royal watchers.
Mr Fitzwilliams suggested a meeting with the monarch would be more likely to take place in London or Windsor, either of which are close to the Cambridges, located in Kensington Palace.
He said: 'It would only make sense for them to see her when she is at Windsor and when they are based at Frogmore, as they could only spend a very little time with her during the Platinum Jubilee.
'If she does come down as anticipated, she may receive the new Prime Minister at Windsor or at Buckingham Palace. There would also be time for her and the Sussexes to discuss the future, which hopefully will be more constructive than the recent past.
'They also must be aware that some form of reconciliation in the Platinum Jubilee year would surely be beneficial for the image they want as philanthropists.'
ROYAL FOLLIES: This is just a tiny sampling of over 5,000 comments on the Daily Mail website. Just dip in anywhere, the water's fine!
Hey everyone: don't give these two woke jokes
a dime. They set up their charities in
She is a joke. We know very well who runs
that show. They need to go away like yesterday.
CNN did an expose about the Oprah debacle and
Markle insisted they remove it...they did! and she wanted the reporter punished
just like Piers Morgan. FREE SPEECH
Just
She knows if they're stripped of their titles
she will be a nobody again. She was a nobody as far as
Bring back the Tudors!
Degeneracy in dying societies almost always
starts at the 'top.'
Her next task will be to modernise the USA
Constitution.
Clara7,
elsewhere,
Wasted space, both of them. Her ego is so big
its a wonder her hat fits
I'm not a fan of the
Should start on herself first - give up the
f@ke nose and the straightened hair for a start
That "enormous bitterness" eating
away at you, Meghan? How sad never mind just call us if you need us.
This couple live in their own alternative
universe from the rest of us. What else would you expect from such a pair of
self absorbed narcissists
I have found an island for these two to buy,
It is in the Carribean -
As soon as the Queen had gone William should
strip Harry and Meghan of their royal titles. If they dont live in the
Perhaps they are, but they are not making a
success of it. Woke is out of favor with the public and they are having to pay
good money to be placed on speaker's lists. No one wants to listen to their
crap.
Journalists and the internet at large need to
just stop with using woke for everything. They have overused it so much it has
ceased to have any meaning, other than as bait to dangle when someone wants to
rile people up. Crack open a thesaurus and try out some other adjectives;
descriptive words that take a few brain cells to come up with and actually
accurately paint a picture of the person or thing they are speaking/writing
about.
How many alternative families has this
divorcee tried so far?
Who does she think she is??? First what
business does a American have to "modernize" the monarchy??
Theyve chopped the wrong head in 1536.
She's a joke. She's making a laughing stock
of her little sect
Someone please tel the malignant markles the
Americans fought a war to get rid of the BRF. Apart from the sycophants noone
in the
GIANT EGO, BIG on ambition, low on
sensitivity and self awareness ..: what can go wrong ?
She feels "enormous bitterness"
because her little ruse has been laid bare for the whole world to mock. Using
the halfwit as a platform for your globetrotting champagne socialism didn't
quite work out the way you were expecting, did it Meghan? How sad never mind
there's always a captive audience for that kind of BS in
If she creates an alternative woke monarchy (it won't work) it will be time to create an alternative non-woke Oliver Cromwell to scuttle such a creation. That would be the only time they would make sense.
Tuesday, August 16, 2022
😳1980s Anti-Computer FANATIC goes COMPLETELY INSANE!
I am still trying to figure out WHO this guy is and WHY he is so upset. In the olden days, we would have called him a Luddite, anyone who was "against progress" or against the crushing uniformity of the Machine Age. But this guy! He not only gets upset about computer technology - he becomes HYSTERICAL, ranting and almost weeping from grief and despair! Or something like that. Maybe he just hadn't figured out computers yet. As it turned out, NOBODY had to figure out ANYTHING, so all my own worst fears never came true. Technology was dumbed down and dumbed down until there was nothing much to learn any more. No one saw THAT coming, I'll tell you!
Sunday, August 14, 2022
💥SWARMED! Nasty blackbirds on Burnaby Lake💥
I could do worse than to be swarmed with blackbirds. The pickings have been extremely lean this summer, with maybe 1/10 of the usual number of flocks or even singles or pairs. There has been a modest return in a couple of places. The back yard, replete with food and watering stations, attracts only a sprinkle throughout the day. I don't know what has happened. There has been a serious outbreak of avian flu, which may well be the COVID of the bird world. So I try to make do with what I have. This video is from a couple of months ago, but things are even more sparse now, with no blackbirds flying down at all last time we were there. This comes in a regular, consistent pattern every year, and at this moment the adults are still feeding the juveniles, which are well out of the nest and mostly capable of feeding themselves. So I'll have to wait for the next feeding cycle. We also get a "massing of the blackbirds" every single year, with dozens and dozens of them hiding in the bushes, barely visible, making an incredible racket. THIS happens every year, too. Birds think with a single mind, but right now their mind seems to be elsewhere.
Wednesday, August 10, 2022
🐟"INSTANT FISH!" Weird WHAM-O ads from the '60s🐠
Oh, God, these ads. WHAM-O had this aggressive-sounding whip-crack as its signature sound (like an auditory logo), and their products were so strange and obscure that I just had to post some of them on my channel. I don`t remember Instant Fish or most of the others I`ve run across on YouTube. About all I remember are Frisbees, and I am not even sure WHAM-O originated them. But there are instant gardens, cricket condos, wheelie bars that would probably put you in the hospital, air-blaster thingies that do absolutely nothing. . . The products seem incredibly cheap by today`s standards, and the Instant Fish did not fly as a product and may never have even hit the store shelves. I believe it was an attempted followup to sea monkeys, which in spite of the hype and disappointing reality were actually quite the thing in the early '60s.
To quote the info under my video:
WHAM-O had some of the strangest products in toy history. The INSTANT FISH AQUA-RAMA allowed you to raise REAL FISH from a packet of "magic seeds". This reminds me of the scandal over Sea Monkeys, which were in reality just slimy, stinky brine shrimp that promptly died. After a few WHAM-O whip cracks, we see another ad for the WHAM-O "Fun Farm" (in which you can grow pumpkins in a tiny cup!), featuring the most absurd voice-dubbing I've ever heard.
MORE ABOUT INSTANT FISH! On safari in Africa in the 1960s, someone discovered a species of fish that lays eggs in mud, which dried up during the drought season but later hatched after the ground was soaked in rain. WHAM-O immediately came up with a million-dollar idea: they could sell the dehydrated fish eggs and a cheapie plastic aquarium, creating magical, miraculous INSTANT FISH! When WHAM-O pitched the idea at the New York Toy Fair, they sold every Instant Aquarium they had and walked away with millions in pre-orders. However, there was a snag. The fish they intended on using, an African breed of killfish, couldn’t breed fast enough for them to make the idea economically viable, and INSTANT FISH was. . . well. . . dead in the water.
Tuesday, August 9, 2022
Victorian Post-Mortem Photography: Readers' Comments from 2012
To celebrate the tenth anniversary of this blog, I'm repeating responses to the post that received the most attention (125,000+ views and almost 100 comments). To my surprise, I am still getting comments on this post, which (hard as it is to believe) I wrote in 2012! Here are some selected comments from the many I received. Some are truly heartfelt and even heartbreaking. I wish to honor them here, but have removed names and identifying marks to maintain their privacy.
A lady I worked with did this. Her baby passed away about two weeks after she was born so the took away all the tunes and wire and she took a picture of her holding her baby. She looked like a beaming proud mommy in the picture. :(
Very informational - I was always thinking that the photos of people standing up and such were mislabeled by unscrupulous antique dealers - Now I see - it was quite a Jim Henson type production to be photographed post mortem. I have just aquired my second post mortem photo & now your page has educated me a bit more - many thanks.
Thank you, Margaret. I spend a lot of time with medical and social work records from the 1st half of the 20th century in China for a Ph.D. dissertation. The stories stick with me in a way I can't quite describe. As medical records, photos are either of living people or parts of their bodies that were removed. The social work narratives live with me, although these people are now gone.
This practice still occurs today - I volunteer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep and do infant memorial photography. The pictures are not so disturbing looking, but yes, we photograph babies who have passed so their parents have something to remember of them.
Bless the work you do. I know of several mothers who have unfortunately had to call upon NILMDTS for portraiture of their lost babies and they so treasure those only images they'll ever have of so much promise lost.
IN the old days, I was told, in the South especially, they made these for people who could not travel to attend the funerals, and it allowed closure, as a visitation does. I found photos of my great-great grandparents in my grandmothers' things.
I'm not that old and even my southern grandparents did this.
Regarding the open eyes... Some of the "open eyes" were painted on the lids, and if you look at many of them, like that man standing up by himself (diagram of post mortem stand beneath him) his eyes looks ANYTHING but "normal". The eyes ALL have a very vacant look to them or else they look peculiar (i.e painted on). Thhe subject of these photos facinates me, too... and that bothers me. I have 4 children, aged 2-8 and it IS hard to NOT put yourself in the place of these poor families, when you see these poor children. You catch yourself saying "oh, Lord, if that was one of MY children" then you immediately get disturbed. And of course you are GLAD it isnt one of your own loved ones, but the depth of the subject makes you bond in a heartbreaking way with these people.
Those are myths brought on by the internet and greed. Death was a common occurrence in the Victorian era, and photography was a new concept. It is true the Victorians took post mortem photos, but they certainly didn't consider it morbid to photograph the dead as they were, dead. That is a concept started in more recent times, and gained popularity as the internet gained popularity. The earliest mention I can find is from 2003. They did not stand the dead, sit them upright, paint eyelids or do anything else so the dead appeared alive. A photographer may have altered a photo itself, but not so the dead appeared alive,but in cases where a person may have blinked, etc.VPMP were usually quite obvious with decedent in a bed or coffin surrounded by flowers. Closed eyes do not always mean dead because they often photographed small children as they slept because they were still. MANY pics on the net are labeled pm when they are not pm. Don't you wonder when looking at a photo, why you can't tell who is deceased? Because it isn't a post mortem photo. If you question the validity of a VPMP, 9x out of 10 it is not post mortem. Why do these myths continue? Look up VPMP on Etsy and you'll see why. You'll also notice pics are now labeled "possibly pm" because reports of fraud. Sellers know many believe these myths and are adamant about it, so they need not worry about selling these fake VPMP. They also know many perpetuate these myths, therefore the concept isn't likely to die down any time soon.
We are ushered away from death as if it is some sort of shameful secret. This has been especially true of infant death, where parents are made to feel ashamed of their grief. I worked at a children's hospital about 12 years ago. Cutting a long story short, I was required to photocopy a pathology report for a baby who died not long after birth, and who also had physical deformities. I must have photocopied those photos about 6 times before I was satisfied with the quality. I was very anxious that the parents would be upset seeing their baby (the photos were somewhat unsettling), but I was also concerned that they would also want a clear photo of the baby they had never stopped grieving for. When they met with the counsellor, who warned them they might find the photo upsetting, the mother said how much the baby looked like its father (l don't recall if baby was a boy or a girl). I was so relieved when she told me this. I learnt a lot about the grief of losing a child, and in this particular case, how important that picture was to the parents-they had buried their grief for all those years, and the only concrete thing left was baby's post mortem photo. The photos of the children in this blog post are poignant beyond words, not creepy. It shows a maturity about death that we have lost in the intervening years. I'm sure there are many folks out there who wish they had a picture of their deceased child. The photos are dignified and sensitive and must have been of great emotional value to their bereaved parents and wider family.
You are such a caring person to have taken the time to make sure the photocopies were the best possible quality for the parents. Not many would take the time to do that today. I agree that the photos here are dignified and quite moving, to me at least. The photos of the children are the most heartbreaking. I can understand why parents and other family members would want to have a keepsake of their loved one. I can remember my own grandmother having a photo of a mother holding her recently deceased child, who appeared to be about 10 years old. I was a child when I first saw that photo and I just thought the mother was holding the child awkwardly; I did not realize the child was dead. It was only later on as an adult did I found out the truth about the photo. I do think it is a shame that we are so 'afraid' of death in today's world. It is a natural part of our existence and yet we want to sanitize it with funeral homes and all the modern trappings of a visitation and funeral. Sometimes I think it would be better if we _could_ die in peace at home, surrounded by loved ones and knowing they will be the ones to handle our body.
I think these pictures are beautiful. I know, with our thinking today, they seem creepy... and yeah it could be pretty creepy having pictures of dead people. But these pictures are commemorating a life that once was. A life that was short lived. In that era the death rate was high.. expecially in children. We are lucky enough today to have access to cameras where we can take pictures of our childrens (and other loved ones) every second if we choose. This was not an option then. For most, the post mortem photos was the ONLY picture they had of their loved ones. My heart breaks for all the loss back then. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a child let alone multiple children over a period of time. I have a picture of my grandmother in her casket. It helped me to gain closure by having that. As it most likely did these people so long ago.
Our society has lost all compassion and been highly desensitized to the fact that death is ALWAYS around the corner.
My nephew was 2 when he died a few weeks ago, and I was by his side every day for the 2 weeks that he was dying. It was very dignified, and I held his hand, kissed him, talked to him the whole time. Even in the hours after he died, when he was cold, it wasn't difficult. Until the funeral. I had to put his shoes on, and I just couldn't do it. The stiffness didn't make it impossible, it just really hit me then. I couldn't imagine the parents of these children having to position them when their bodies were that way...
Not all of the post mortem photos were so easy to spot. Writing a lovely blog about this subject is so titillating when you show only gruesome and creepy dead babies, gives you the impression that the only photographs of post mortem children were the “in your face dead babies and toddlers”. Most post mortem photos are sweet and sad and very respectful, you see a life, not a death. The “in your face dead” was a later transformation as more middle class had access to photography and the abundance of less talented photographers who did not take the time to pose subjects as lifelike as possible. There are subtle hints. I have seen many, many, many post mortem photos, they certainly don't catch the eye as well as the preceding photos. I see so many wonderful examples of post mortem children and so many “Post Mortem????” EBay rip-offs, some wonder what we value anymore.
I just don't think there is a definitive answer, some children looked very much alive although they were very much dead. To the contrary not all children with eyes closed or creepy expressions or blank stares are dead, some are just that, really creepy kids. I like to believe in good old fashioned intuition, it's just genetically programed into our subconscious to know when someone is dead and in many photos there are subtle hints, you just have to look.
As a parent who lost a baby to miscarriage...the void carries on. You have certain expectations, they are stifled and cut short before they have a chance to begin. Not having the opportunity to hold my unborn baby, touch its tiny little hands...it leaves no room for closure but a void that lingers. The only "proof" I had that my baby was ever real...the sonogram photo. Even that allows me to know that the pain I still carry was for a reason. It wasn't real to everyone else, but it was certainly real to me. Something as simple as a photo...even a poor one...can become a priceless treasure to anyone experience grief and loss. Thank you for being so sensitive about this post and for sharing the information.
I am a graveyard photographer, and many times I come across graves of children that died so many years ago that their siblings are probably dead too, and that headstone is the only record of their passing. I couldnt make up my mind about these post mortem images initially, but as I read more over the months they began to be less creepy and more of a last impression of that loved one. I think that black and white photography does give them a slightly surreal feel, and I doubt if it would work well in colour. I have a niece in my family that drowned when she was just over 4, and many times I wish there was some record of her in pictures, but alas there is nothing.
My little girl was a preemie (29 weeks) and the last picture of the baby in the parents hands is about the size she was when she was born. You had better believe that had she not made it, we would have had pictures taken of her with us in as normal a way as possible and might have even had our son take pictures with her. I guess because I have had to on several occasions thought of what would happen if my daughter did not make it, that this seems less unusual for me. My thoughts on this are that these are not dead children. These are someone's babies that they had hopes and dreams for and this is their desperate attempt to somehow hold onto those babies just a small while longer. God bless anyone who loses a child.
I understand what you're saying. Our whole culture has become so removed from death that it's seen as an aberration. It's "normal" to die alone in a hospital bed and be immediately cremated. Even wanting to spend some time with the "body" is seen as "creepy" and somehow abnormal and unhealthy, when it was once normal to wash and dress the body for burial as a last act of love. Now we are told over and over again that we must "let go". At best, the stages of grief are assigned to us and we must pass through each of them in order. Memorial services have become "a celebration of his/her life", and while I can see the value in this, sometimes it's like one big party and if you have to cry, you have to leave the room or you will be seen as "negative" and gloomy or unable to "let go". In other words, we're lousy at grief. The Victorians had no such hangups. Death was part of life. I don't think they felt any less agony at the death of a child however. People wore black as a visible sign of mourning, perhaps so others would treat them more gently. Now we slap a smile on and say, boy, he had a great life!
Monday, August 8, 2022
"I see dead people": Victorian Post-Mortem Photography (10th anniversary re-issue)
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There's a slightly macabre story about the great Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, a man so dissipated he expired from chronic alcoholism in his late 30s. (His last words purportedly were, "I've had eighteen straight whiskeys. I think that's the record.") Lionized in America, he found the seductions of the White Horse pub a little too much for him and keeled over with a brain hemorrhage. His widow Caitlin recalls that when his body was being shipped back to Wales for burial, some of the deckhands noticed his coffin and sat down around it to play a spirited game of poker.
"How Dylan would have loved that!" she exclaimed.
Indeed.
The coffin in the picture above doesn't contain Dylan Thomas. More likely the photo depicts one of those Irish wakes where they like to prop up the body with a drink in its hand and carouse all night long. It does not really qualify as post-mortem photography except in the broadest sense: the subject is someone who is being memorialized in a permanent and significant way.
Before we look at any more of these, let's quote the Great and Powerful Wikipedia:
Post-mortem photography (also known as memorial portraiture or memento mori) is the practice of photographing the recently deceased.
The invention of the daguerreotype in 1839 made portraiture much more commonplace, as many of those who were unable to afford the commission of a painted portrait could afford to sit for a photography session. This cheaper and quicker method also provided the middle class with a means for memorializing dead loved ones.
These photographs served less as a reminder of mortality than as a keepsake to remember the deceased. This was especially common with infants and young children; Victorian era childhood mortality rates were extremely high, and a post-mortem photograph might have been the only image of the child the family ever had. The later invention of the carte de visite, which allowed multiple prints to be made from a single negative, meant that copies of the image could be mailed to relatives.
The practice eventually peaked in popularity around the end of the 19th century and died out as "snapshot" photography became more commonplace, although a few examples of formal memorial portraits were still being produced well into the 20th century.
The earliest post-mortem photographs are usually close-ups of the face or shots of the full body and rarely include the coffin. The subject is usually depicted so as to seem in a deep sleep, or else arranged to appear more lifelike. Children were often shown in repose on a couch or in a crib, sometimes posed with a favorite toy or other plaything. It was not uncommon to photograph very young children with a family member, most frequently the mother. Adults were more commonly posed in chairs or even braced on specially-designed frames. Flowers were also a common prop in post-mortem photography of all types.
The effect of life was sometimes enhanced by either propping the subject's eyes open or painting pupils onto the photographic print, and many early images (especially tintypes and ambrotypes) have a rosy tint added to the cheeks of the corpse.
Later examples show less effort at a lifelike appearance, and often show the subject in a coffin. Some very late examples show the deceased in a coffin with a large group of funeral attendees; this type of photograph was especially popular in Europe and less common in the United States.
I knew nothing of this practice, one which seems so macabre by today's standards, until I stumbled upon it while searching for something else on YouTube. A lot of the videos contained severe warnings about content (so of course I had to look).
And it's true that on the surface of it, the images seem creepy and provoke a visceral response. We're not used to seeing dead people, except perhaps at open-casket funerals. Not used to seeing them arranged like furniture or braced so they could stand up beside their living kin.
But some sites devoted to this strange practice claim (correctly, I think) that post-mortem photography reflects a fascinating and very significant cultural shift in attitudes toward mortality. Death was much closer then, and less sanitized; people died in their beds, were washed and dressed and prepared for burial by loved ones. The camera was magic in those days, a way to paint an instant portrait, but not to be used lightly due to scarcity and cost (i.e. no one owned a camera then; you went to a portrait studio in your best clothing, sat very still, and didn't smile).
The babies are the saddest, of course. Victorian women must have gone through agony in their childbearing years, with primitive or non-existent obstetrics, high mortality rates and a complete absence of birth control. Almost everyone would lose an infant, more likely several. Were people more hardened to loss back then? I doubt it. They had to put their grief somewhere, just as we have to today.
They needed something to hold on to, a memento. Because there were no Kodak moments then, no digital cameras or phones or any of the gadgets with which we so casually snap a picture, there would be no record of Junior's first smile or first steps or first day of school.
The post-mortem photograph, the only existing image of a baby or a child or even an adult, would be cherished and preserved for generations (as witness the thousands of images I found on the internet). I can feel the melancholy behind this gesture, the aching grief in the attempt to make a dead infant appear "lifelike".
These waxen dolls are disturbing, but only if seen through our modern abhorrence of anything to do with death. We die in hospitals now, often alone. Life is prolonged past the point of any real meaning: we do it because we can, which has come to mean that we're supposed to, that there's no other choice. Death is the enemy, to be beaten back as long and fiercely as possible.
People "fight" cancer, "triumph" over it or "lose the battle". The medical community seems embarrassed by it all. Disease isn't supposed to happen, and if it does, it must be vanquished. I don't think the Victorians thought in terms of losing battles, or even winning. The majority of them were deeply Christian, which means they believed the dead were gathered up by the Almighty and transported to a better place for all eternity.
Spiritualism became tremendously popular in this era, along with the belief that the ghosts of loved ones sometimes appeared in photos. And they did, if the photographer knew what he was doing.
The Victorians knew that life and death were separated not by a doorway or a passageway but by a gossamer veil, something the merest breeze could draw aside. These eerie portraits of life-in-death convey a sense of dwelling in that mysterious other world, even while still embodied on earth. It's a bizarre and even repugnant concept to us, but not to them.
I try to imagine it. It's hard to go there, to put myself there. I wonder what it would be like to touch a dead baby, to tenderly position it for a portrait under blazing lights, to hold its likeness close for years and years while other children came and went.
Their haunted eyes seem to stare at us through time, through space, even through the mists of death itself.
BLOGGER'S NOTE. Many of these photos have been blogged and reblogged, pinned and repinned so many times that it was impossible for me to discover their true provenance, which fills me with regret. There was a time when these pictures were incalculably precious to someone and, in fact, irreplaceable. Try to see them in that light.
Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!
These waxen dolls are disturbing, but only if seen through our modern abhorrence of anything to do with death. We die in hospitals now, often alone. Life is prolonged past the point of any real meaning: we do it because we can, which has come to mean that we're supposed to, that there's no other choice. Death is the enemy, to be beaten back as long and fiercely as possible.
People "fight" cancer, "triumph" over it or "lose the battle". The medical community seems embarrassed by it all. Disease isn't supposed to happen, and if it does, it must be vanquished. I don't think the Victorians thought in terms of losing battles, or even winning. The majority of them were deeply Christian, which means they believed the dead were gathered up by the Almighty and transported to a better place for all eternity.
Spiritualism became tremendously popular in this era, along with the belief that the ghosts of loved ones sometimes appeared in photos. And they did, if the photographer knew what he was doing.
The Victorians knew that life and death were separated not by a doorway or a passageway but by a gossamer veil, something the merest breeze could draw aside. These eerie portraits of life-in-death convey a sense of dwelling in that mysterious other world, even while still embodied on earth. It's a bizarre and even repugnant concept to us, but not to them.
I try to imagine it. It's hard to go there, to put myself there. I wonder what it would be like to touch a dead baby, to tenderly position it for a portrait under blazing lights, to hold its likeness close for years and years while other children came and went.
Their haunted eyes seem to stare at us through time, through space, even through the mists of death itself.
BLOGGER'S NOTE. Many of these photos have been blogged and reblogged, pinned and repinned so many times that it was impossible for me to discover their true provenance, which fills me with regret. There was a time when these pictures were incalculably precious to someone and, in fact, irreplaceable. Try to see them in that light.
Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!
NOTE: This is a repeat of one of my very first posts, circa 2012 - all of TEN years ago. It received more than 125,500 views and nearly 100 comments (which I am still getting today!). Only a few of my posts ever garnered this kind of response (and the Korean Crow-tit one was, for some reason, both popular and contentious, as people argued back and forth about WHAT BIRD it really was!) I may repeat that one, as well as some of the comments on the post-mortem one. The topic has since become very popular, but also very contentious, as many of the photos have turned out NOT to be post-mortem at all, but just the odd, stiff way early photography was taken, in which people could not even blink.
Sunday, August 7, 2022
💗The Troll Doll Channel: TROLL VILLAGE!💜
The only thing more gratifying than collecting trolls is displaying trolls on my YouTube channel. This has become an aesthetic exercise for me, which I share on a modest level with others (meaning not that many views - but the way I see it, if ONE person watches it, it's one more than if I HADN'T posted it). I've had a number of comments from people admiring my collection, which is gratifying as well. It has become an organizing activity in my life as well as a compulsively enjoyable one.
My channel has burgeoned to nearly 13,000 subscribers in the past few months, due to ONE silly video which, for reasons I never counted on, blew up to over SEVEN MILLION views. All due to the algorithm and a similar video on Tik-Tok, which I was barely aware of over a year ago when I first posted it. It`s oh-so-typical of the capriciousness of the internet that the video I just threw together in five minutes went that ``big``, whereas one like this - which took a lot of troll arrangement, fancy camera work, several retakes, and finding a compatible audio track - gets just a handful. But it was ever thus! At one point in my life, in fact at many points in my life, I wanted to be famous, or thought I did. Now I think perhaps I was spared. Famous people now strike me as perhaps the single most miserable group of human beings in existence. Maybe it`s just more wholesome and even safer to do what you want to do, and if someone sees your creation, enjoys it, or even wants to see another one, then that`s an added blessing.
Saturday, August 6, 2022
Friday, August 5, 2022
KNOW YOUR POE: The Cask of Amontillado
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A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile NOW was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian MILLIONAIRES. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" --
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" --
"I have no engagement; come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .
"Nitre?" he asked, at length
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough!"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" --
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" --
"It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" --
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said --
"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said "let us be gone."
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.
In pace requiescat!
He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian MILLIONAIRES. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" --
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" --
"I have no engagement; come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .
"Nitre?" he asked, at length
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough!"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" --
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" --
"It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" --
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said --
"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said "let us be gone."
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.
In pace requiescat!
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