“To be sure,” I continued, “the mere ownership of such books may, in certain cases, be proof of nothing beyond intellectual pretension.” (In stressing this latter point, I had in my mind my late guardian, the boorish merchant John Allan, whose personal library was stocked to the point of ostentation with the most costly volumes of classic works—though he himself rarely spent time perusing anything more weighty than a ledger-book.) “Almost without exception, however, the volumes in this room are filled with handwritten annotations, whose author I take to be Montague. These copious marginal comments clearly bespeak a sensibility deeply attuned to the complex intellectual and moral themes—no less than to the sublime aesthetic pleasures—of the material.”

“A most ingenious observation, Mr. Poe,” declared Captain Russell.

“Thank you,” I replied. Clapping shut the volume in my hands, I restored it to its place upon the bureau-top; then—stepping to one of the many piles of old newspapers ranged around the periphery of the chamber—I removed the uppermost copy from the pile. It was, I saw at a glance, a copy of the Baltimore Daily Advertiser, dated October 21, 1809. So fragile—so desiccated with age—was this publication that, as I raised it towards the lamplight, its edges disintegrated in a shower of powdery, yellow dust. Almost at once, the entire area of my frontal sinus cavity was seized with an overpowering itch. I struggled to subdue this tormenting sensation—but to no avail. Throwing back my head, I drew in a series of sharp, increasingly loud inhalations which culminated in the discharge of a thunderous sneeze.

“Great guns!” cried the frontiersman. “What an earsplitter!”

I was in the act of extracting my pocket handkerchief when a second sneeze, equal in both force and volume to the first, erupted from my nasal passages.

With a sympathetic cluck of the tongue, Captain Russell exclaimed: “I fear that you may be contracting a nasty catarrh, Mr. Poe.”

“It is merely a reaction to the intensely unwholesome atmosphere of this room,” I replied, sniffling.

“It’s mighty ripe in here, for a certainty,” said Colonel Crockett.

By now, my eyes had begun to water profusely. Laying down the crumbling newspaper, I declared: “Gentlemen, I fear that there is something in the insalubrious air of this chamber to which my respiratory system is, in the highest degree, susceptible. I think it best, therefore, to return to my abode, where I can employ my energies to better advantage by ruminating in undisturbed solitude on the manifold mysteries that now confront us.”

Stepping before me, Captain Russell shook my hand and solemnly declared: “Your assistance in this grave and troubling affair is deeply appreciated, Mr. Poe.”

I acknowledged this tribute with a little bow.

“And tell them two purty gals of yourn,” said Colonel Crockett, “that I’m right sorry about missing tonight’s shindig» If they ain’t undisposed to the notion, I’ll be there tomorrow—come hell or high water!”