Derniers Contes

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 48

pieds, il ne
s'en inquiete pas, il poursuit imperturbablement son but, et

"Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto[55]",

ainsi ne laissera-t-il jamais aller sa partie.

_Ingeniosite_.--Notre filou est ingenieux. Il a la bosse de la
constructivite. Il saisit bien un plan. Il sait inventer et circonvenir.
Si Alexandre n'avait pas ete Alexandre, il eut voulu etre Diogene. S'il
n'etait pas un filou, il serait fabricant de souricieres brevetees, ou
pecheur de truites a la ligne.

_Audace_.--Notre filou est audacieux. C'est un homme hardi. Il porte la
guerre en pleine Afrique. Il emporte tout d'assaut. Il ne craindrait pas
les poignards de Frei-Herren. Avec, un peu plus de prudence, Dick Turpin
aurait fait un excellent filou; Daniel O'Connel, avec un peu moins de
blague; et Charles XII, avec une livre ou deux de cervelle de plus dans
la tete.

_Nonchalance_.--Notre filou est nonchalant. Il n'est pas du tout
nerveux. Il n'a jamais _eu_ de nerfs. Il ne sait pas ce que c'est que
l'emoi. On peut le mettre hors de la maison par la porte, mais non
hors de lui-meme. Il est froid--froid comme un concombre. Il est
calme--"calme comme un sourire de Lady Bury". Il est souple--souple
comme un vieux gant, ou les demoiselles de l'ancienne Baies.

_Originalite_.--Notre filou est original--consciencieusement original.
Ses pensees sont bien a lui. Il dedaignerait d'employer celles d'un
autre. Il a en aversion les trucs eventes. Il rendrait plutot une
bourse, j'en suis sur, s'il decouvrait qu'il la doit a une filouterie
qui ne soit pas originale.

_Impertinence_.--Notre filou est impertinent. Il fait le crane. Il met
les poings sur les rognons. Il fourre ses mains dans les poches de son
pantalon. Il ricane a votre barbe. Il marche sur vos cors. Il mange
votre diner, il boit votre vin, il vous emprunte votre argent, il vous
tire le nez, il donne des coups de pied a votre chienne, et il embrasse
votre femme.

_Grimace_.--Le vrai filou termine toutes ses operations par une
grimace. Mais personne ne la voit que lui. Il grimace, lorsque sa tache
du jour est remplie--quand ses divers travaux sont accomplis--le soir
dans sa chambre, et uniquement pour son amusement particulier. Il arrive
chez lui. Il ferme sa porte. Il se deshabille. Il eteint sa chandelle.
Il se met au lit. Il etend sa tete sur l'oreiller. Apres quoi, notre
filou _fait sa grimace_. Ce n'est pas une hypothese. Rien de plus
naturel. Je raisonne _a priori_, et dis qu'un filou ne serait pas un
filou sans sa grimace.

On peut faire remonter l'origine de la filouterie a l'enfance de la race
humaine. Adam fut peut-etre le premier filou. En

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Text Comparison with The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Including Essays on Poetry

Page 7
When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully.
Page 19
At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more engaged to marry her.
Page 23
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.
Page 25
" And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! Published, 1845.
Page 32
Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando-- Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
Page 48
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.
Page 62
Madam, what is it? _Lal_.
Page 65
I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below; Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray-- The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe! _Monk_.
Page 70
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile We have been boys together--school-fellows-- And now are friends--yet shall not be so long-- For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me A kind and gentle office, and a Power-- A Power august, benignant, and supreme-- Shall then absolve thee of all further duties Unto thy friend.
Page 74
Remember, pray, Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness Unto the Duke.
Page 93
I fear me 'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
Page 95
I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would be the justice of a critique upon poetry.
Page 104
PART II.
Page 135
Vacantly I walked beside her.
Page 143
'Agathos'.
Page 150
This the mass of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see.
Page 154
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side.
Page 160
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the atmosphere.
Page 168
After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say, commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had previously so much admired.
Page 200
Hall.