The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not
greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the
earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a
noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a
company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a
lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan
Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within.
Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our
view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets- but the
boding and the memory of Evil they would not be so excluded. There
were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct
account- things material and spiritual- heaviness in the atmosphere- a
sense of suffocation- anxiety- and, above all, that terrible state
of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly
living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A
dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs- upon the household
furniture- upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were
depressed, and borne down thereby- all things save only the flames
of the seven lamps which illumined our revel.
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