The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 163

that I cannot, in the first portion of
what is here written, pretend to strict accuracy in respect to dates, or
latitudes and longitudes, having kept no regular journal until after
the period of which this first portion treats. In many instances I have
relied altogether upon memory.

{*5} This day was rendered remarkable by our observing in the south
several huge wreaths of the grayish vapour I have spoken of.

{*6} The marl was also black; indeed, we noticed no light colored
substances of any kind upon the island.

{*7}For obvious reasons I cannot pretend to strict accuracy in
these dates. They are given principally with a view to perspicity of
narrative, and as set down in my pencil memorandum.




LIGEIA

And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries
of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all
things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the
angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his
feeble will.--Joseph Glanvill.

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where,
I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since
elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I
cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character
of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of
beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical
language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and
stealthily progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet
I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old,
decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family--I have surely heard her
speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia!
Ligeia! in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden
impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone--by
Ligeia--that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is
no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that
I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my
betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the
wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or
was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute
no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own--a
wildly romantic offering on the shrine of

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Voir le _Colonial Magazine de Simmond_.