It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and
      louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been
      extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark
      me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at
      the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old
      house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable
      terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must
      burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard
      by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I
      threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked
      once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and
      pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the
      deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a
      muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be
      heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was
      dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was
      stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it
      there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I
      describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the
      body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the
      arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and
      deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards
      so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could
      have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no
      stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for
      that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still
      dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a
      knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
      heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who
      introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the
      police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night;
      suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been
      lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been
      deputed to search the premises. I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I
      mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over
      the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length,
      to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the
      room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I
      myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own
      seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the
      victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
      singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they
      chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting
      pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing
      in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing
      became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I
      talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued
      and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise
      was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew _very_ pale;—but I talked more fluently, and
      with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I
      do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch
      makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the
      officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but
      the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles,
      in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise
      steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor
      to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the
      observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon
      which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the
      noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
      louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and
      smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery
      of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
      better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this
      derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I
      felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! _louder!_

      “Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the
      deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his
      hideous heart!”




BERENICE


     Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas
     aliquar tulum 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 type of
      unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But
      as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of
      joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the
      anguish of to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin
      in the ecstasies which _might have been_. My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not
      mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored
      than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called
      a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars—in the
      character of the family mansion—in the frescos of the chief
      saloon—in the tapestries of the dormitories—in the chiselling of
      some buttresses in the armory—but more especially in the gallery
      of antique paintings—in the fashion of the library chamber—and,
      lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library’s
      contents—there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the
      belief. The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that
      chamber, and with its volumes—of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Herein was I born.