The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories
But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how
veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its
windings—to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult,
at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two
stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there
were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or
descent. Then the lateral branches were
innumerable—inconceivable—and so returning in upon themselves,
that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not
very far different from those with which we pondered upon
infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never
able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the
little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or
twenty other scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help
thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally
low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a
remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight
or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, “during hours,” of our
principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure,
with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the
“Dominie,” we would all have willingly perished by the _peine
forte et dure_. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of
these was the pulpit of the “classical” usher, one of the
“English and mathematical.” Interspersed about the room, crossing
and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches
and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with
much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names
at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts
of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original
form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge
bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock
of stupendous dimensions at the other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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