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 labors 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 clamored. I
      re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I
      did this, and the clamorer 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, Montressor!_”

      “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 labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _In pace
      requiescat!_




THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE


      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 existence to escape our senses, solely through want
      of belief—of faith;—whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith
      in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply
      because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse—for
      the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We could not
      understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the
      notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;—we could not
      have understood in what manner it might be made to further the
      objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be
      denied that phrenology and, in great measure, all
      metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori. The intellectual
      or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man,
      set himself to imagine designs—to dictate purposes to God. Having
      thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah,
      out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined,
      naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity that man
      should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness,
      and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man,
      will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be
      God’s will that man should continue his species, we discovered an
      organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with
      ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,—so, in short,
      with every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral
      sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these
      arrangements of the Principia of human action, the Spurzheimites,
      whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but
      followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors;
      deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived
      destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his
      Creator. It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify
      (if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or
      occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than
      upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended
      him to do. If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how
      then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into
      being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures,
      how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation? Induction, _a posteriori_, would have brought phrenology to
      admit, as an innate and primitive principle of human action, a
      paradoxical something, which we may call _perverseness_, for want
      of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in
      fact, a _mobile_ without motive, a motive not _motivirt_. Through
      its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this
      shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far
      modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we
      act, for the reason that we should _not_.