[Mabbott states that Griswold “obviously had
a revised form” for use in the 1856 volume of
Poe’s works. Mabbott does not substantiate
this claim, but it is surely not unreasonable.
An editor, and even typographical errors, may have
produced nearly all of the very minor changes made
in this version. (Indeed, two very necessary words
were clearly dropped by accident.) An editor might
have corrected “Wickliffe’s ‘Epigoniad’
" to “Wilkie’s ’Epigoniad’,”
but is unlikely to have added “Tuckerman’s
‘Sicily’ " to the list of books read by
the narrator. Griswold was not above forgery (in
Poe’s letters) when it suited his purpose, but
would have too little to gain by such an effort in
this instance.]
~~~ End of Text ~~~
======
TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY’S BOOK:
I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine,
an article which I hope you will be able to comprehend
rather more distinctly than I do myself. It is
a translation, by my friend, Martin Van Buren Mavis,
(sometimes called the “Poughkeepsie Seer”)
of an odd-looking MS. which I found, about a year
ago, tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare
Tenebrarum — a sea well described by the
Nubian geographer, but seldom visited now-a-days,
except for the transcendentalists and divers for crotchets.
Truly yours,
{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}
ON BOARD BALLOON “SKYLARK”
April, 1, 2848
NOW, my dear friend — now, for your sins,
you are to suffer the infliction of a long gossiping
letter. I tell you distinctly that I am going
to punish you for all your impertinences by being as
tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as unsatisfactory
as possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in
a dirty balloon, with some one or two hundred of the
canaille, all bound on a pleasure excursion, (what
a funny idea some people have of pleasure!) and I
have no prospect of touching terra firma for a month
at least. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to
do. When one has nothing to do, then is the time
to correspond with ones friends. You perceive,
then, why it is that I write you this letter —
it is on account of my ennui and your sins.
Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to
be annoyed. I mean to write at you every day
during this odious voyage.
Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium?
Are we forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences
of the balloon? Will nobody contrive a more expeditious
mode of progress? The jog-trot movement, to my
thinking, is little less than positive torture.
Upon my word we have not made more than a hundred miles
the hour since leaving home! The very birds beat
us — at least some of them. I assure
you that I do not exaggerate at all. Our motion,
no doubt, seems slower than it actually is —
