The Book of the Dead

AN INCREDIBLE RARE ALL-ORIGINAL DATE-STAMPED 1882 1ST EDITION THAT HAS BEEN VERY WELL-PRESERVED FOR 142 YEARS
HERE ARE "SOME" OF THE SUBJECTS DISCUSSED: THE GODS, ANCIENT EGYPT, DEATH, THE DIVINE, THE SOUL, HEAVEN AND HELL, FATE, THE CREATOR, GOOD AND EVIL, SPECTRES, DREAMS, MYSTICISM, POETRY, SPIRITUALITY, VISIONS, GHOSTS, AND SO MUCH MORE

"Through the dark path, oer which I tread,
One voice is ever at my ear,
One muffled form deserts the dead And haunts my presence far and near."

This is a hauntingly beautiful collection of poetry and writings pertaining to death, judgment, and redemption. It contains mystical passages on everything from Heaven and Hell to the soul and dreams. It is in incredible condition, considering it was printed during the 19th-century Victorian Era. Throughout this write-up, I have sprinkled in some of the original reviews derived from old articles and passages from the book to give you a better idea of its context. If I had to compare it to a famous poet, it is similar to that of Edgar Allan Poe in its dark, macabre, and ominous verse with hints of spirituality, loss, and love. It's a one-in-a-billion book with no others like it. I would snag this one before it's gone...

"Mr. Boker has written neither to relieve grief, gratify pique, nor elicit sympathy. He has written because there was a voice in his heart clamoring for utterance and would not be stilled."

"Beside the spreading Nile of old, They buried their worthy dead. A scrolled papyrus unfolds His virtues and the life he led.
And all the gods, in council grave, Asked nothing but this written scroll, As evidence, to doom or save The bearer's arbitrated soul."

"Man leaned on man for judgment just, The grave became truth's inner shrine, And every heap of mortal dust Was reverenced as divine. So I, within thy hallowed tomb, Enclose this book, the most loved of men. There, till the dreadful day of doom, May it repose, but open then! Book of the Dead, if any, see False judgments in thy earnest page,
Be all thy gathered sins on me, Man's vengeance and God's juster rage."

"The Book of the Dead. Somewhere, I read or heard the weird, mysterious title. It seemed to me like a sepulcher that, upon being opened, would stifle with its foul breath or loathsome smells. Or, like the entrance to a tomb, where centuries dead lay fostering in their ghastly nakedness of sin and shame, a hideous wilderness of perishing forms, rattling bones, and putrefying souls, from which the flimsy covering that hid their corruption on earth, had fallen. Or, perhaps, it contained tidings of the far-away Spiritual shore, which is veiled in the mists rising from the waters of Oblivion."

"The Book of the Dead followed me in my dreams, like a haunting conscience, and I felt the certainty of what it was could not be worse than the Vague suspicion of what it might be.

"I meet thee, sometimes, in the deep of midnight, on that neutral ground, 'Twixt life and death, which men call sleep: We meet and part, without a sound."

"The day arose in dismal black, In dismal black crept out the morn;
Noon passed unheeded, and the rack Grew darker, thicker, and more forlorn.

"In robes of woe, before me stood
A silent figure. Towards the ground,
His features, muffled in his hood,
Were bowed with sorrow most profound.
I questioned him, but no reply
Was mine, save what might be expressed
By the long quaver of a sigh,
Or hands that beat his troubled breast."

The blended beauty and bitterness of Mr. Boker's book have been un-excelled by anything in literature since Byron gave the world his marvelous deduction of passion and pathos more than seventy years ago. The poem has not been written in a frenzy of spleen, nor has its motive been malignant revenge. It is a careful distillation of wrath and resentment, pregnant with point and purpose. From the initial page to the finale, each hymn of praise is alternated by a wail of persecution and wrong, so direful in its earnestness that it can only emanate from a heart that has quaffed itself drunk from the cup of invidious falsehood and wilful injury.

"Our dead to us are never dead
Until their memories are erased;
For oftentimes, my hands are led
To do the very things he praised.
Not in remembrance are they done,
But timidly, as though he stood
Alive beneath the blessed sun,
And smiled in his approving mood.
I sing some ballads, happy and droll,
Some quip he loved, ore going hence,
And think it strange he does not roll His laughter out,
and drown the sense.
I do not think he cannot smile;
I drop my head and, bend my ear, And only ask myself, " Is he so far he cannot hear?"

The overall condition of this book is very good; it is the best I have ever owned or seen. It has some normal aging and shelf wear but has been exceptionally well-kept—a lovely book.

Every line glows with the fire of a great and just hatred, and the turning leaves sound the bugle note of war; for beneath these words and rhymes, there is morbid matter from which they sprang, and an aching, bloody chasm, gaping open-mouthed and insatiate as hell.
Throughout, the thought is wild, and the phraseology is a spontaneous outpouring of a soul which grief has stirred to melody.
There are no fatiguing antitheses nor learned parallelisms. Still, here and there, the author has touched social and theological philosophies with innate mystic delicacy, yet withal the depth and fervency shown in his patriotic Ivrics of the civil war, intensified. Side by side with fierce passages of schismatism that seem to have issued as naturally as the breath of an injured man who hungers for the deaf ear and tardy aid of God, are exquisite descriptions of nature, as pure in tone and versification as if they had fallen from the inspired lips of a maiden, before the vitiating air of the world had dried the dew of heaven from her soul. Evil and sorrow set a blister there. The scathing scorn of XOVITI. is in marked contrast to the calm and holy rhythm of the introspective reverie LX X. that seems as if the writer had mused the thought into expression while wrapped in the twilight glamour of a medieval cathedral. The story of the dead and the allusion to Amilcar of old are bright jewels of artistic taste set in this crown of serpents' fangs and devils' claws.

A shadow of profound reflection, such as comes to those alone who have felt the curse of the sickly forms, the social lies, the avarice, and the veiled crimes of modern life, overcasts the picture with a cloud, half divine and half demoniacal.
Inasmuch as the language of an aggrieved heart and brain has no euphuisms, so this song of stain and sadness has made for itself a tongue tipped with gall and frothing with pain; and if man fails to read aright the truths it tells, and the miscreant feel the sting of the strain, then let their insensate souls wither of inward darkness.

"And when the coffin-lid is raised, Where lies the dumb, defenseless man, Let him remember those who praised, And count his virtues if he can."

"It costs an effort of the mind, A stretch of memory strong and dread, Ere, groping through my brain, I find The vision of his dying bed."

"I had a vision of the night,
A presage of the day of doom,
When all the wrongs shall come to light That slumber in the darkened tomb.
I saw the court of heaven unclosed; the risen sinners sadly met;
Our good, our ill, our joys, our woes Stood naked at the judgment seat.
My culprits found a foremost place.
I gazed at them: I bore no grudge
Before his stern, accusing face,
I witness, and our God the judge.
I gazed at them; I gazed around;
No passion held me in control;
The sense of awe was so profound, So deep the clearness of the soul."

"The fierce, rebellious fall of rain
Seems endless through this dreary night:
It pierces in my blind; the pane Is starred and streaked with watery light.
I know the grass upon thy tomb.
Is streaming, like a swimmer's hair And all thy roses' fragrant bloom Is floating on the boisterous air.
Thy recking violets tangled swim, Overburdened bows thy eglantine,
And stains of yellow soil bedim The luster of thy myrtle vine.
The treacherous damp hath slowly slid.
Through oozy roots and melting cay,
To spread upon thy coffin lid,
And help corruption to its prey."

George Henry Boker (October 6, 1823 – January 2, 1890) was an American poet, playwright, and diplomat.

Early years and education
Boker was born in Philadelphia. His father was Charles S. Boker, a wealthy banker whose financial expertise weathered the Girard National Bank through the panic years of 1838–40 and whose honor, impugned after his 1857 death, was defended many years later by his son in "The Book of the Dead." Charles Boker was also a director of the Mechanics National Bank.

Boker was brought up in an atmosphere of ease and refinement, receiving his preparatory education in private schools and entering Princeton University in 1840. While there, he helped found and was the first editor of the college literary magazine, the Nassau Monthly (now the Nassau Lit).

He was left in easy circumstances and could devote his time to literature, boxing, and dancing.

Charles Godfrey Leland, a relative, recounted:

As a mere schoolboy, Boker's knowledge of poetry was remarkable. Even at nine years of age, I can remember that he manifested that wonderful gift that caused him many years after to be characterized by some great actor—I think it was Forrest—as the best reader in America ... While at college ... Shakespeare and Byron were his favorites. He used to quiz me sometimes for my predilections for Wordsworth and Coleridge. We both loved Shelley passionately.

Boker graduated from Princeton in 1842. His marriage to Julia Riggs of Maryland followed shortly after while he was studying law, a profession which was to serve him in good stead during his diplomatic years but which he gave up for the stronger pull of poetry.

Literary recognition
In 1848, his first volume of verse, The Lessons of Life and Other Poems, was published.

Also, he met Bayard Taylor and Richard Henry Stoddard, who would be long-lasting friends. This group of young men supported and encouraged. Each other in the face of official journalistic criticism.

Launched in the literary life, Boker began to write assiduously. His first play, Calaynos, went into two editions during 1848, and the following year, was played by Samuel Phelps at Sadler's Wells Theatre, London, May 10. This tragedy is notable for its depiction of the racial issues between the Spanish and the Moors.

This was soon followed by other plays. The next to be staged was a comedy, The Betrothal (1850). Two other tragedies from this time are Anne Boleyn (1850) and Leonor de Guzman (1853).

During this time, in correspondence with his friends, Boker was determining to himself the distinction between poetic and dramatic style. But Boker was not wholly wed to theatrical demands; he still approached the stage in the spirit of the poet who was torn between loyalty to poetic indirectness and the necessity for direct dialogue.

Francesca da Rimini (1853) is the play he is most well-remembered for. It is a verse tragedy based on the story of Paolo and Francesca from the fifth canto of Dante's Inferno. Boker published the original version, called the reading version, but used an acting version for the stage, which had more directness and dramatic flow. This allowed for a compromise between the poet of the reading version and the demands of the theatre. "Francesca da Rimini is one of our finest verse dramas, certainly the best American romantic tragedy written before the twentieth century."

The American Civil War not only turned Boker's pen to the Union Cause, but changed him politically from a Democrat to a staunch Republican. In fact, his name is closely interwoven with the rehabilitation of the Republican party in Philadelphia. His volume "Poems of the War," was issued in 1864.

In 1862, the Union League Club was founded, with Boker as the leading spirit; through his efforts, the war earnestness of the city was concentrated here; from 1863 to 1871, he served as its secretary; from 1879 to 1884 as its president. But Boker's thoughts were also concerned with poetry. In 1869, Boker issued Königsmark, The Legend of the Hounds, and other Poems, and this ended his dramatic career until his return from abroad.

Diplomatic activities
President Ulysses S. Grant sent Boker to Constantinople as U.S. Minister (his appointment dated November 3, 1871)—an honor undoubtedly bestowed in recognition of his national service. Here he remained for four years, "and during that time secured the redress for wrongs done American subjects by the Syrians, and successfully negotiated two treaties, one having reference to the extradition of criminals, and the other to the naturalization of subjects of little power in the dominions of the other."

Boker's initial enthusiasm for Turkish scenery and culture was unbounded, but after a time, his ignorance of the tongue, and distrust of interpreters, contributed to his frustration. By the time his Government was ready to transfer him to another post he was glad to leave Turkey. Despite this, he had developed his diplomatic skills and shown a talent for cultivating personal contacts.

In 1875, he was transferred to Russia, which was considered a more prestigious position.

The new political administration resulting from the 1876 American election viewed Boker unfavorably. Despite securing support from Emperor Alexander II of Russia, Boker was recalled in 1878.

Later years
Boker in his later years by Frederick Gutekunst
On January 15, 1878, Boker withdrew from diplomatic life, returning to the United States. At this time he was depressed, feeling that both his literary and diplomatic careers had been failures.

In 1882 Lawrence Barrett mounted a revival of Francesca da Rimini. This brought more public interest in Boker and his other work, which necessitated the reprinting of several of his books. In 1884, he was elected as a member to the American Philosophical Society.

His home in Philadelphia—one of the literary centres of the time,—bore traces of his Turkish stay—carpets brought from Constantinople, Arabic designs on the draperies, and rich Eastern colours in the tapestried chairs.

Boker was also a director of the Mechanics National Bank of Philadelphia for several years later in his life.


George Henry Boker tombstone in Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia
Boker died on January 2, 1890, in Philadelphia and was interred at Laurel Hill Cemetery.

In addition to the works already mentioned, Boker also wrote hundreds of sonnets. A collection of these, Sequence on Profane Love, was discovered in manuscript after his death, and published in 1927. He has been compared to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as one of the premier American sonnet writers