[J1] “An Eastern Apologue,” Spirit of the Times, April 5, 1842

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE.

By A. Brownson Smallcott.

            We select the following apologue from a small volume in the Arabic, entitled Kornham Hokem, which interpreted means Pate-Scratchings or Scratchings of the Pate, thus delicately insinuating that the short stories which this recovered manuscript contains, are all products of the fancy, being in fact, not only drawn from the author's own brain, but literally scratched from his pate.  The apologue, which smacks of transcendentalism, is styled

THE TORTURE OF TORTURES.

            Gloom was upon the brow of the Evil One.

            He cast his eyes of flame over the gloomy abyss.  The shrieks of ten thousand, thousand souls, the souls once encased in the clay of kings and emperors, arose in one wild howl of despair, the smoke of eternal doom blackened the sky of heated brass.  Despair walked abroad, and misery chaunted her song of howls and yells.

            The Evil One spoke, and from her darkest chasm, fell Tartarus sent forth her myriad fiends.  High they swarmed on their vampire wings, loud was their shouting, terrible their yells.

            He spoke—Dark Baalzebub spoke, and said:

            "Lo! Brothers of Darkness we want some new torture in these our dominions of darkness.  We want some new horror.  Something to strike accumulated terror in the souls of the Lost, we want.  Brothers, let all Pandemonium be ransacked.  Let the Torture of Tortures be found.  It is a decree!"

            Loud rose the subterranean thunder.  Lifting to his sable lips, a thundercloud in the way of a handkerchief, old Baalzebub applied it to his blackened nose, and like the sound of ten thousand thunders was its blowing.

            The fiends of darkness departed on their mission.  Tartarus was searched—Pandemonium ransacked for the Torture of Tortures.  Spirit after spirit came trooping by, each offering for the acceptance of their master, some new and hitherto unheard of torture.

            Deeper grew the gloom upon the brow of Baalzebub.

            "It is in vain," he cried, "the Torture of Tortures cannot be found.  Your search is bootless."

            And as he spoke, a vulgar fiend, named Snobbe, with legs inverted, and with hump on his back, drew near.  One hand grasped a knife.  The other held something concealed by a veil of coarsest leather.

            "The search is not bootless," shrieked the vulgar fiend.  "Look here old 'un.  See what I've got! Behold!"

            Back he threw the leather veil, and the light of the lower regions, all pale and ghastly, fell upon a pair of tight boots, which the vulgar fiend held in his hands.

            "It is the Torture of Tortures," shouted the Evil One.  "Let it be a decree!  Shout, ye fiends, shout.  All hail tight boots—the Torture of Tortures!  All hail."

            The fiends gave three cheers, the vulgar fiend Snobbe grinned, and the concave vault of darkness, gave back the shout.

            "All hail the torture of tortures!  All hail tight boots!  All hail!"