shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence,

from the window to a seat. "These appearances, which bewilder

you, are merely electrical phenomena not uncommon--or it may be

that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the

tarn. Let us close this casement;--the air is chilling and

dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favourite romances.

I will read, and you shall listen;--and so we will pass away this

terrible night together."

The antique volume which I had taken up was the "Mad

Trist" of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favourite

of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there

is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could

have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my

friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and

I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated

the hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental

disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of

the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by

the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he

hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I

might well have congratulated myself upon the success of my

design.

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where

Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for

The Fall of the House of Usher