Падение дома Ашеров

           Soncœurestunluthsuspendu; 

           Sitôtqu’onletoucheilrésonne. 

           DeBéranger. 

           Duringthewholeofadull,dark,andsoundlessdayintheautumnoftheyear,whenthecloudshungoppressivelylowintheheavens,Ihadbeenpassingalone,onhorseback,throughasingularlydrearytractofcountry,andatlengthfoundmyself,astheshadesoftheeveningdrewon,withinviewofthemelancholyHouseofUsher. Iknownothowitwas—but,withthefirstglimpseofthebuilding,asenseofinsufferablegloompervadedmyspirit. Isayinsufferable;forthefeelingwasunrelievedbyanyofthathalf-pleasurable,becausepoetic,sentiment,withwhichthemindusuallyreceiveseventhesternestnaturalimagesofthedesolateorterrible. Ilookeduponthescenebeforeme—uponthemerehouse,andthesimplelandscapefeaturesofthedomain—uponthebleakwalls—uponthevacanteye-likewindows—uponafewranksedges—anduponafewwhitetrunksofdecayedtrees—withanutterdepressionofsoulwhichIcancomparetonoearthlysensationmoreproperlythantotheafter-dreamoftherevelleruponopium—thebitterlapseintoevery-daylife—thehideousdroppingoffoftheveil. Therewasaniciness,asinking,asickeningoftheheart—anunredeemeddrearinessofthoughtwhichnogoadingoftheimaginationcouldtortureintoaughtofthesublime. Whatwasit—Ipausedtothink—whatwasitthatsounnervedmeinthecontemplationoftheHouseofUsher?Itwasamysteryallinsoluble;norcouldIgrapplewiththeshadowyfanciesthatcrowdeduponmeasIpondered.