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DALA: Digital American Literature Anthology
Edited by Dr. Michael O'Conner, Millikin University
Version 1.1, 2013 Edition
Part Two
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0
Unported License.
digitalamlit.com
Table of Contents
William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878) ............................................................................................. 6
Thanatopsis ............................................................................................................................. 6
The Prairies ............................................................................................................................. 8
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) .............................................................................. 11
Mezzo Cammin ..................................................................................................................... 11
The Cross of Snow ................................................................................................................ 12
My Lost Youth ...................................................................................................................... 12
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809 - 1894) ......................................................................................... 14
The Chambered Nautilus ...................................................................................................... 15
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892) ......................................................................................... 16
excerpt from Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl ............................................................................ 16
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) ............................................................................................... 21
Excerpts from A Fable for Critics ......................................................................................... 21
Susanna Rowson (1762-1824) ...................................................................................................... 31
"Chapter 18: Reflections" from Charlotte Temple ............................................................... 31
Washington Irving (1783-1859) ................................................................................................... 33
Rip Van Winkle .................................................................................................................... 34
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow .............................................................................................. 44
The Devil and Tom Walker .................................................................................................. 63
James Fenimore Cooper (1789-1851) ........................................................................................... 71
The Pioneers, Chapter XXI ................................................................................................... 72
The Pioneers, Chapter XXII ................................................................................................. 80
The Last of the Mohicans, Chapter III .................................................................................. 86
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) ....................................................................................................... 92
THE RAVEN ........................................................................................................................ 93
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TO HELEN (later revision) .................................................................................................. 95
ANNABEL LEE ................................................................................................................... 96
SONNET—TO SCIENCE .................................................................................................... 97
The Fall of the House of Usher ............................................................................................. 98
William Wilson ................................................................................................................... 110
The Tell-Tale Heart............................................................................................................. 122
The Masque of the Red Death ............................................................................................ 126
The Black Cat ..................................................................................................................... 129
The Cask of Amontillado .................................................................................................... 136
The Purloined Letter ........................................................................................................... 142
The Murders in the Rue Morgue ......................................................................................... 155
Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) ............................................................................................. 178
The Maypole of Merry Mount ............................................................................................ 178
The Minister's Black Veil ................................................................................................... 184
My Kinsman, Major Molineux ........................................................................................... 193
The Birth-Mark ................................................................................................................... 206
Young Goodman Brown ..................................................................................................... 218
Rappaccini's Daughter ........................................................................................................ 227
Herman Melville (1819-1891) .................................................................................................... 248
Bartleby, A Story of Wall-Street ........................................................................................ 248
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) .................................................................................................... 276
I never lost as much but twice............................................................................................. 277
Success is counted sweetest ................................................................................................ 277
These are the days when birds come back .......................................................................... 277
Faith is a Fine Invention ..................................................................................................... 278
I taste a liquor never brewed ............................................................................................... 278
I'm nobody! Who are you?.................................................................................................. 278
Wild nights! Wild nights! ................................................................................................... 279
I like a look of agony .......................................................................................................... 279
I felt a funeral in my brain .................................................................................................. 279
Because I could not stop for Death ..................................................................................... 280
I heard a fly buzz when I died............................................................................................. 281
The brain is wider than the sky ........................................................................................... 281
Much madness is divinest sense ......................................................................................... 281
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My Life had Stood - a Loaded Gun - .................................................................................. 282
A narrow fellow in the grass ............................................................................................... 282
Tell All the Truth but tell it slant - ...................................................................................... 282
A route of evanescence ....................................................................................................... 283
Apparently with no surprise ................................................................................................ 283
My life closed twice before its close................................................................................... 283
Walt Whitman (1819-1892) ........................................................................................................ 283
I Hear America Singing ...................................................................................................... 284
Song of Myself .................................................................................................................... 285
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing ............................................................................ 341
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry..................................................................................................... 342
Pioneers! O Pioneers! ......................................................................................................... 346
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.................................................................................. 349
Cavalry Crossing a Ford ..................................................................................................... 355
Bivouac on a Mountain Side ............................................................................................... 356
The Wound-Dresser ............................................................................................................ 356
When Lilacs Last in Dooryard Bloom'd ............................................................................. 359
O Captain! My Captain!...................................................................................................... 367
There Was a Child Went Forth ........................................................................................... 368
A Noiseless Patient Spider .................................................................................................. 369
Good-Bye My Fancy! ......................................................................................................... 370
Harriett Jacobs (1813-1897) ....................................................................................................... 371
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Written by Herself ..................................................... 371
Preface By The Author ....................................................................................................... 371
Introduction By The Editor ................................................................................................. 372
I. Childhood ........................................................................................................................ 373
II. The New Master And Mistress....................................................................................... 375
III. The Slaves' New Year's Day ......................................................................................... 378
IV. The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man ................................................................. 380
V. The Trials Of Girlhood .................................................................................................. 387
VI. The Jealous Mistress ..................................................................................................... 389
VII. The Lover .................................................................................................................... 393
X. A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl's Life .................................................................. 397
XI. The New Tie To Life .................................................................................................... 401
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XXI. The Loophole Of Retreat ........................................................................................... 404
Frederick Douglass (1818-1895) ................................................................................................ 406
The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass ................................................................ 406
Chapter I.............................................................................................................................. 407
Chapter II ............................................................................................................................ 410
Chapter III ........................................................................................................................... 412
Chapter IV ........................................................................................................................... 414
Chapter V ............................................................................................................................ 416
Chapter VI........................................................................................................................... 419
Chapter VII ......................................................................................................................... 421
Chapter X ............................................................................................................................ 424
Harriett Beecher Stowe (1811-1896) .......................................................................................... 432
Excerpts from Uncle Tom's Cabin or Life Among the Lowly ........................................... 433
Chapter I, In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of Humanity................................ 433
Chapter III, The Husband and Father ................................................................................. 441
Chapter VII, The Mother's Struggle ................................................................................... 445
Chapter IX, In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man .......................................... 456
Chapter XII, Select Incident of Lawful Trade .................................................................... 469
Chapter XIII, The Quaker Settlement ................................................................................. 483
Chapter XIV, Evangeline .................................................................................................... 490
Chapter XX, Topsy ............................................................................................................. 498
Chapter XXX, The Slave Warehouse ................................................................................. 511
Chapter XXXI, The Middle Passage .................................................................................. 519
Chapter XXXIV, The Quadroon's Story ............................................................................. 524
Chapter XL, The Martyr ..................................................................................................... 532
Chapter XLIV, The Liberator ............................................................................................. 538
Chapter XLV, Concluding Remarks ................................................................................... 541
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865) ................................................................................................... 547
Address at Gettysburg, November 19, 1863 ....................................................................... 548
Second Inaugural Address, March 4, 1865 ......................................................................... 548
Rebecca Harding Davis (1831-1910).......................................................................................... 549
Life in the Iron Mills ........................................................................................................... 550
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William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] William Cullen Bryant, as an early citizen of the United States, was recognized by his
generation as one of America’s first important poetic voices. Indeed, at the core of the earliest
canon of American literary studies are works by Bryant, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James
Russell Lowell, John Greenleaf Whittier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Bryant was born on November 3, 1794, outside of Cummington, Massachusetts. He was
educated at Williams College, then studied law, practicing in nearby Plainfield. Bryant’s earliest
poems, “Thanatopsis” (1817), and “To a Waterfowl” (1821) were well received. He gradually
shifted from practicing law to a more literary career, as an editor in New York City, and is
greatly known for his work as the Editor-in-Chief of the New York Evening Post. Inspired by the
European Romantics, he updated his volumes of poetry throughout his life, along with writing
travel essays and poetic translations. Bryant died on June 12, 1878 and is buried in Roslyn
Cemetery on Long Island. More recent biographies include Charles H. Brown's William Cullen
Bryant, New York: Scribners, 1971, Albert F. McLean's William Cullen Bryant, Boston: G. K.
Hall & Company, 1989, and Gilbert H. Muller's William Cullen Bryant: Author of America,
Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2008.
Bryant, William Cullen. Poems by William Cullen Bryant. Dessau, Germany: Katz Brothers,
1854.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16341
Thanatopsis
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
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In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.--The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The vernal woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,-Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning--and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lost thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.-So shalt thou rest--and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh,
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
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Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,-Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
The Prairies
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no nameThe Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch,
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with an his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless forever.- Motionless?No- they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not- ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific- have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no power in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
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And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the skyWith flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above our eastern hills. As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides
The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they hereThe dead of other days?- and did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,
Answer. A race, that long has passed away,
Built them;- a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed
In a forgotten language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremembered form,
Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man cameThe roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone;
All- save the piles of earth that hold their bones,
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods,
The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay- till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
9
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat unscared and silent at their feast.
Haply some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seemed to forget- yet ne'er forgot- the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones,
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face- among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the OregonHe rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.
Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man
Are hear, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic humm, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
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Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, even more than Bryant, had the reputation in the
nineteenth century as America’s best and most beloved poet. He was born in Portland, Maine
(Massachusetts at the time) on February 27, 1807, attended Bowdoin College with Nathaniel
Hawthorne, and would later teach there as a professor of modern languages before moving on to
lengthy teaching career at Harvard. His long list of poetic works includes Voices of the Night
(1839), Ballads (1841), Evangeline (1847), Hiawatha (1855), The Courtship of Miles Standish
(1858), and Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863). Like Bryant, he was also known for his translations,
especially of Dante's Divine Comedy (1867). In 1843, Longfellow married Fanny Appleton and
they had six children. She died tragically in a house fire in 1861, in which Longfellow himself
was badly burned attempting to save his wife. He died on March 24, 1882, with the legacy of
being one of the most distinguished writer that this country had produced. Longfellow’s
biographers include his brother, Samuel Longfellow’s Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1886, and Charles C. Calhoun’s Longfellow: A
Rediscovered Life, Boston: Beacon Press, 2003. A fine introduction to criticism is Robert L.
Gale’s encyclopedic Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Companion, Westport, CT: Greenwood
Press, 2003.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Household
Edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1902
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1365
Mezzo Cammin
Half my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
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Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,-And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
The Cross of Snow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead-Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died, and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
My Lost Youth
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
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I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
13
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809 - 1894)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] Oliver Wendell Holmes was born on August 29, 1809 in Cambridge, Massachusetts and
died on October 7, 1894 in Boston. He became a medical doctor, training in Paris and Harvard,
and he taught at both Dartmouth Medical School and Harvard. A writer of prose and poetry, his
most famous work is The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858). His poems like “Old
Ironsides,” and “The Chambered Nautilus,” helped establish his reputation as an important poet
of his age. His son, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., would go on to become a Supreme Court
Justice in the early twentieth century.
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Holmes, Oliver Wendell. Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Household Edition. Boston:
James R. Osgood and Company, 1877.
source of electronic texts: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7400
The Chambered Nautilus
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main, -The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed, -Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: -Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
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Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] John Greenleaf Whittier was an important American abolitionist and poet from a strong
Quaker background. He is best known for his long pastoral poem, Snow-Bound. Whittier was
born December 17, 1807 near Haverhill, Massachusetts. He grew up on a farm, much like the
one described in his famous poem. Influenced by his Quakerism and helped early by abolitionist
writer and editor, William Lloyd Garrison, Whittier edited a number of publications and
dedicated himself to writing antislavery prose and poetry for decades. He was an earlier
contributor to the Atlantic Monthly, and published the financially successful Snow-Bound in
1866. He died on September 7, 1892 and is buried in Amesbury, Massachusetts.
Illustration: Title page for Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl by American poet John Greenleaf
Whittier. Published by Ticknor & Fields, 1866.
Whittier, John Greenleaf. Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl. Boston: James R. Osgood and Company,
1872.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20226
excerpt from Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl
To the Memory of the Household It Describes, This Poem is Dedicated by the Author
"As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are
augmented not only by the Divine Light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood fire: and as
the celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the same."
-- COR. AGRIPPA, Occult Philosophy, Book I. chap. v.
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm." -- EMERSON.
The sun that brief December day
16
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, -Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.
Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingàd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
So all night long the storm roared on:
17
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature's geometric signs,
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below, -A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.
A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!"
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse thrust his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
18
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornëd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.
All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicëd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.
As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back, -The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
19
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea."
The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.
Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
20
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.
[text omitted]
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] James Russell Lowell succeeded Longfellow as professor of modern languages at
Harvard College in 1855 and is known as an early American satirist and critic. His 1848 A Fable
for Critics offers an interesting and humorous mid-century perspective on the U.S. literary scene.
Lowell was born on February 22, 1819 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Educated at Harvard as a
lawyer, he turned to writing and teaching for his life’s work. He died on August 12, 1891 and is
buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge.
Excerpts from A Fable for Critics
Lowell, James Russell. The Complete Poetic Works of James Russell Lowell. Cabinet Edition.
Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1892.
sources of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13310
[text omitted]
'There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on,
Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows,
Is some of it pr—— No, 'tis not even prose; 530
I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled
From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled;
They're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin,
In creating, the only hard thing's to begin;
A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak;
If you've once found the way, you've achieved the grand stroke;
In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter,
But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter;
Now it is not one thing nor another alone
Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, 540
The something pervading, uniting the whole,
The before unconceived, unconceivable soul,
So that just in removing this trifle or that, you
21
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue;
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be,
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree.
'But, to come back to Emerson (whom, by the way,
I believe we left waiting),—his is, we may say,
A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range
Has Olympus for one pole, for t'other the Exchange; 550
He seems, to my thinking (although I'm afraid
The comparison must, long ere this, have been made),
A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist
And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl coexist;
All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he's got
To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what;
For though he builds glorious temples, 'tis odd
He leaves never a doorway to get in a god.
'Tis refreshing to old-fashioned people like me
To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, 560
In whose mind all creation is duly respected
As parts of himself—just a little projected;
And who's willing to worship the stars and the sun,
A convert to—nothing but Emerson.
So perfect a balance there is in his head,
That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead;
Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort,
He looks at as merely ideas; in short,
As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet,
Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; 570
Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her,
Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer;
You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration,
Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion,
With the quiet precision of science he'll sort 'em,
But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem.
'There are persons, mole-blind to the soul's make and style,
Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and Carlyle;
To compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer,
Carlyle's the more burly, but E. is the rarer; 580
He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, truelier,
If C.'s as original, E.'s more peculiar;
That he's more of a man you might say of the one,
Of the other he's more of an Emerson;
C.'s the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb,—
E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim;
The one's two thirds Norseman, the other half Greek,
22
Where the one's most abounding, the other's to seek;
C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass,—
E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass; 590
C. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues,
And rims common-sense things with mystical hues,—
E. sits in a mystery calm and intense,
And looks coolly around him with sharp common-sense;
C. shows you how every-day matters unite
With the dim transdiurnal recesses of night,—
While E., in a plain, preternatural way,
Makes mysteries matters of mere every day;
C. draws all his characters quite à la Fuseli,—
Not sketching their bundles of muscles and thews illy, 600
He paints with a brush so untamed and profuse,
They seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews;
E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe,
And a colorless outline, but full, round, and clear;—
To the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords
The design of a white marble statue in words.
C. labors to get at the centre, and then
Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men;
E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted,
And, given himself, has whatever is wanted. 610
'He has imitators in scores, who omit
No part of the man but his wisdom and wit,—
Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his brain,
And when he has skimmed it once, skim it again;
If at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is
Because their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities,
As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute,
While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected within it.
'There comes——, for instance; to see him's rare sport,
Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short; 620
How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the face.
To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pace!
He follows as close as a stick to a rocket,
His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket.
Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own,
Can't you let Neighbor Emerson's orchards alone?
Besides, 'tis no use, you'll not find e'en a core,—
—— has picked up all the windfalls before.
They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch 'em,
His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch 'em; 630
When they send him a dishful, and ask him to try 'em,
23
He never suspects how the sly rogues came by 'em;
He wonders why 'tis there are none such his trees on,
And thinks 'em the best he has tasted this season.
[text omitted]
'There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified,
As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified,
Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights
With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights.
He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation
(There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation),
Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, 820
But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on,—
He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on:
Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has 'em,
But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm;
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul,
Like being stirred up with the very North Pole.
'He is very nice reading in summer, but inter
Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter;
Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is,
When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. 830
But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in him,
He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him;
And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is,
Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities—
To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet?
No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite.
If you're one who in loco (add foco here) desipis,
You will get out of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece;
But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice,
And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, 840
If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain.
Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning,
Some scholar who's hourly expecting his learning,
Calls B. the American Wordsworth; but Wordsworth
May be rated at more than your whole tuneful herd's worth.
No, don't be absurd, he's an excellent Bryant;
But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client,
By attempting to stretch him up into a giant;
If you choose to compare him, I think there are two per-sons fit for a parallel—Thomson and Cowper;[2] 850
I don't mean exactly,—there's something of each,
There's T.'s love of nature, C.'s penchant to preach;
24
Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice of craziness
Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn for laziness,
And it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet,
Whose internal police nips the buds of all riot,—
A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on
The heart that strives vainly to burst off a button,—
A brain which, without being slow or mechanic,
Does more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic; 860
He's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten,
And the advantage that Wordsworth before him had written.
'But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your ears
Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers;
If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say
There is nothing in that which is grand in its way;
He is almost the one of your poets that knows
How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose;
If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar
His thought's modest fulness by going too far; 870
'T would be well if your authors should all make a trial
Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial,
And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff,
Which teaches that all has less value than half.
'There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart
Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart,
And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect,
Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect;
There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing
Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; 880
And his failures arise (though he seem not to know it)
From the very same cause that has made him a poet,—
A fervor of mind which knows no separation
'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration,
As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing
If 'twere I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing;
Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction
And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection,
While, borne with the rush of the metre along,
The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, 890
Content with the whirl and delirium of song;
Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes,
And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes,
Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats
When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats,
And can ne'er be repeated again any more
25
Than they could have been carefully plotted before:
Like old what's-his-name there at the battle of Hastings
(Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bastings),
Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights 900
For reform and whatever they call human rights,
Both singing and striking in front of the war,
And hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor;
Anne haec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks,
Vestis filii tui, O leather-clad Fox?
Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din,
Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in
To the brain of the tough old Goliath of sin,
With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring
Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling? 910
'All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard
Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard,
Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave
When to look but a protest in silence was brave;
All honor and praise to the women and men
Who spoke out for the dumb and the down-trodden then!
It needs not to name them, already for each
I see History preparing the statue and niche;
They were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard words
Who have beaten your pruning-hooks up into swords, 920
Whose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain
By the reaping of men and of women than grain?
Why should you stand aghast at their fierce wordy war, if
You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff?
Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day long
Doesn't prove that the use of hard language is wrong;
While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such men
As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen,
While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless orators fright one
With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 930
You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers
Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of others;—
No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true
Who, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few,
Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved,
But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved!
[text omitted]
'There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare
That you hardly at first see the strength that is there;
26
A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet,
So earnest, so graceful, so lithe and so fleet, 1000
Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet;
'Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood,
With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood,
Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe,
With a single anemone trembly and rathe;
His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek,
That a suitable parallel sets one to seek,—
He's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck;
When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted
For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, 1010
So, to fill out her model, a little she spared
From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared,
And she could not have hit a more excellent plan
For making him fully and perfectly man.
The success of her scheme gave her so much delight,
That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight;
Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay,
She sang to her work in her sweet childish way,
And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul,
That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. 1020
'Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show
He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so;
If a person prefer that description of praise,
Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays;
But he need take no pains to convince us he's not
(As his enemies say) the American Scott.
Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud
That one of his novels of which he's most proud,
And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting
Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. 1030
He has drawn you one character, though, that is new,
One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew
Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince,
He has done naught but copy it ill ever since;
His Indians, with proper respect be it said,
Are just Natty Bumppo, daubed over with red,
And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat,
Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'wester hat
(Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found
To have slipped the old fellow away underground). 1040
All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks,
The dernière chemise of a man in a fix
(As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small,
27
Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall);
And the women he draws from one model don't vary.
All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie.
When a character's wanted, he goes to the task
As a cooper would do in composing a cask;
He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful,
Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, 1050
And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he
Has made at the most something wooden and empty.
'Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities;
If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease;
The men who have given to one character life
And objective existence are not very rife;
You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers,
Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers,
And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker
Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. 1060
'There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is
That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis;
Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity,
He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity.
Now he may overcharge his American pictures,
But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his strictures;
And I honor the man who is willing to sink
Half his present repute for the freedom to think,
And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak,
Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, 1070
Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store,
Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower.
[text omitted]
'There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge,
Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge,
Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters,
In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, 1300
Who has written some things quite the best of their kind,
But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind,
Who—But hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe,
You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so,
Does it make a man worse that his character's such
As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much?
Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive
More willing than he that his fellows should thrive;
28
While you are abusing him thus, even now
He would help either one of you out of a slough; 1310
You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoarse,
But remember that elegance also is force;
After polishing granite as much as you will,
The heart keeps its tough old persistency still;
Deduct all you can, that still keeps you at bay;
Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray.
I'm not over-fond of Greek metres in English,
To me rhyme's a gain, so it be not too jinglish,
And your modern hexameter verses are no more
Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer; 1320
As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is,
So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes;
I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o't is
That I've heard the old blind man recite his own rhapsodies,
And my ear with that music impregnate may be,
Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea,
Or as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven
To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven;
But, set that aside, and 'tis truth that I speak,
Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, 1330
I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line
In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline.
That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart
Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art,
'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife
As quiet and chaste as the author's own life.
[text omitted]
'What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain,
You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 1440
And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there
Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair;
Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,
I sha'n't run directly against my own preaching,
And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes,
Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes;
But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,—
To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele,
Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, 1449
With the whole of that partnership's stock and good-will,
Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell,
The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well,
Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain,
29
That only the finest and clearest remain,
Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives
From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves,
And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving
A name either English or Yankee,—just Irving.
[text omitted]
'There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit;
A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit
The electrical tingles of hit after hit;
In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites 1560
A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes,
Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully
As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully,
And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning
Would flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning.
He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre,
But many admire it, the English pentameter,
And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse,
With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse,
Nor e'er achieved aught in't so worthy of praise 1570
As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise.
You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon;—
Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on,
Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes,
He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes.
His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric
Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric
In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes
That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'.
'There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb 1580
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme,
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,
But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders,
The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching
Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching;
His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,
But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,
And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem,
At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. 1589
[text omitted]
30
Susanna Rowson (1762-1824)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] Susanna Rowson was born in Portsmouth, England in 1762, though she grew up in
Massachusetts, where she worked as a governess, stage actress and operator of a boarding
school. She married William Rowson, a merchant, in 1786. Writing throughout her life, in all
genres, she first published Charlotte: A Tale of Truth in 1791, which was later renamed
Charlotte Temple. The first American edition was published in 1794. It became this country's
most popular and best-selling novel up until Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin was published over 50
years later. Rowson died in Boston on March 2, 1824.
Charlotte is one of many moralizing and melodramatic "seduction novels" published during this
period, unfolding the tale of an innocent English schoolgirl who runs away with handsome
British Lieutenant Montraville, sent to the Colonies to fight the rebellion, and is abandoned by
him, pregnant and penniless. The novel seems greatly influenced by Richardson's Pamela (1740)
and his Clarissa (1747), along with Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield (1766). In the field of
American studies, this popular novel was largely ignored and forgotten by critics until the 1970s
and 80s.
"Chapter 18: Reflections" from Charlotte Temple
Rowson, Susanna. "Chapter 18: Reflections." Charlotte Temple. A Tale of Truth. New York:
Evert Duyckinck, 1784.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/171
"AND am I indeed fallen so low," said Charlotte, "as to be only pitied? Will the voice of
approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will wear
a smile of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I
been! I know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the glance of
compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances of my own sex: they are both equally
humiliating. Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter
whom you so dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out her heavy
hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she can
unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character will appear in my company, and
low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy."
These were the painful reflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had placed
her in a small house a few miles from New-York: he gave her one female attendant, and supplied
her with what money she wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely occupied his time, that he
had little to devote to the woman, whom he had brought from all her connections, and robbed of
innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would steal out at the close of evening, and pass a few hours
with her; and then so much was she attached to him, that all her sorrows were forgotten while
blest with his society: she would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit by him in a little arbour at the
31
bottom of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, harmonious
voice. But often, very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and, forgetful of his promise,
leave her to mourn her disappointment. What painful hours of expectation would she pass! She
would sit at a window which looked toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes, and
straining her eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till blinded with tears of
disappointment, she would lean her head on her hands, and give free vent to her sorrows: then
catching at some new hope, she would again renew her watchful position, till the shades of
evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud: she would then renew her complaints, and,
with a heart bursting with disappointed love and wounded sensibility, retire to a bed which
remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain that comforter of weary nature (who seldom
visits the unhappy) to come and steep her senses in oblivion.
Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind of Charlotte? The wife,
whose breast glows with affection to her husband, and who in return meets only indifference, can
but faintly conceive her anguish. Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman, but she has
many comforts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful wife, though
treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure within her own bosom, she can reflect that she
has not deserved neglect—that she has ever fulfilled the duties of her station with the strictest
exactness; she may hope, by constant assiduity and unremitted attention, to recall her wanderer,
and be doubly happy in his returning affection; she knows he cannot leave her to unite himself to
another: he cannot cast her out to poverty and contempt; she looks around her, and sees the smile
of friendly welcome, or the tear of affectionate consolation, on the face of every person whom
she favours with her esteem; and from all these circumstances she gathers comfort: but the poor
girl by thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting with her honour, has forfeited the esteem
of the very man to whom she has sacrificed every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his
indifference in the fruit of her own folly, and laments her want of power to recall his lost
affection; she knows there is no tie but honour, and that, in a man who has been guilty of
seduction, is but very feeble: he may leave her in a moment to shame and want; he may marry
and forsake her for ever; and should he, she has no redress, no friendly, soothing companion to
pour into her wounded mind the balm of consolation, no benevolent hand to lead her back to the
path of rectitude; she has disgraced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of the world, and
undone herself; she feels herself a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding multitudes;
shame bows her to the earth, remorse tears her distracted mind, and guilt, poverty, and disease
close the dreadful scene: she sinks unnoticed to oblivion. The finger of contempt may point out
to some passing daughter of youthful mirth, the humble bed where lies this frail sister of
mortality; and will she, in the unbounded gaiety of her heart, exult in her own unblemished fame,
and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead? Oh no! has she a heart of sensibility, she will stop,
and thus address the unhappy victim of folly—
"Thou had'st thy faults, but sure thy sufferings have expiated them: thy errors brought thee to an
early grave; but thou wert a fellow-creature—thou hast been unhappy—then be those errors
forgotten."
Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious weed from off the sod, a tear will fall, and consecrate
the spot to Charity.
32
For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy shall record its source, and
the soul from whence it sprang shall be immortal.
My dear Madam, contract not your brow into a frown of disapprobation. I mean not to extenuate
the faults of those unhappy women who fall victims to guilt and folly; but surely, when we
reflect how many errors we are ourselves subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the
recesses of our hearts, which we should blush to have brought into open day (and yet those faults
require the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would be our prospect of futurity) I
say, my dear Madam, when we consider this, we surely may pity the faults of others.
Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who has once strayed into the thorny paths of vice,
would gladly return to virtue, was any generous friend to endeavour to raise and re-assure her;
but alas! it cannot be, you say; the world would deride and scoff. Then let me tell you, Madam,
'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings which a bountiful Providence
showers upon it.
Oh, thou benevolent giver of all good! how shall we erring mortals dare to look up to thy mercy
in the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate
the miseries, of our fellow-creatures.
Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] Washington Irving was born on April 3, 1783 at New York City near the conclusion of
the American Revolutionary War. He was named after war hero and future President, George
Washington. In 1802-1803, Irving began to write in his brother, Peter's, periodical, the Morning
Chronicle,under the pseudonym Jonathan Oldstyle. Irving passed the bar exam in 1806, though
he continued to write essays and anecdotes. In 1807-1808, Irving worked alongside his brother
William and James Kirke Paulding to create the popular magazine Salmagundi. Here, Irving
wrote as William Wizard and Lancelot Lanstaff. Irving served in the New York State Militia for
the War of 1812, a war that helped to cripple the family's business, which failed in 1818. Shortly
after this collapse, starting in 1819 and 1820, Irving published his best known and most popular
works, in The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon. The book was published in seven installments in
New York and in two volumes in London. The popular "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" appeared in
this collection. Some additional works from Irving include Tales of a Traveler (1822), The Life
and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828)—which was the first of his works to be published
under his real name—, The Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada (1829), Tales of the
Alhambra (1832), and the five volume biography The Life of Washington (1855-1859).
Throughout his life, Irving received awards from the Royal Society of Literature in 1830 and an
honorary doctorate of civil law from Oxford University in 1831. In 1842, Irving became the
minister to Spain and held this position for four years. Finally, in 1859, just a short eight months
after completing his Washington series, Irving passed away. He died on November 28, 1859 in
Tarrytown, New York and was buried under a simple headstone in Sleepy Hollow
33
Cemetery. Irving's key biographers are Stanley T. Williams (1935), William L. Hedges (1965),
Andrew Burstein (2007), and Brian Jay Jones (2008). Important criticism can be found in
Andrew Myer's A Century of Commentary on the Works of Washington Irving (1976), James
Tuttleton's Washington Irving: The Critical Reaction (1993), and Jeffrey Rubin-Dorsky's Adrift
in the Old World: The Psychological Pilgrimage of Washington Irving (1988).
Rip Van Winkle
Irving, Washingon. "Rip Van Winkle." The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. New York:
C.S. Van Winkle, 1819.
Source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2048
Illustration: The Return of Rip Van Winkle, by John Quidor, 1849.
By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing
that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre-- CARTWRIGHT.
The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old
gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch History of the province and the
manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not
lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite
topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore,
so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family,
snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a
little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province, during the reign of the Dutch
governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the
literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its
chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first
appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical
collections, as a book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and now that he is dead and
gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better
employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it
did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of
some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are
remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended
to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear
among many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuitbakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus
given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a
Queen Anne's farthing.]
34
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They
are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the
river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of
season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day produces some change in the
magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and
near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and
purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the
landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the
last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up
from a Village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the
upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest
in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years,
built of small yellow bricks, brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly
time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a
province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He
was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little
of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured
man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the
latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal
popularity; for those men are apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the
discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world
for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some
respects, be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual
with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle.
The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at
their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long
stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was
surrounded by a troop of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the
neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor.
It could not be for want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as
long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not
35
be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder, for hours
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few
squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil,
and was a foremost man in all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences;
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd
jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he
found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of
ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds
were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of
setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin
begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her
train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions,
who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or
trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would
have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears
about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon,
and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure to produce a
torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and
that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that
he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house--the only side which, in
truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an
evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit
befitting in honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods--but what
courage can withstand the evil-doing and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment
Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs,
he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with
36
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait
of his Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer's
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless, sleepy stories about nothing. But it
would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions which
sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van
Bummel, the school-master, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most
gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some
months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just
moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors
could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard
to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any thing that
was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send
forth, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and
tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth,
and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect
approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who
would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to
nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue
of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of
idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor
of the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods.
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet
with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he
would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his
master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his
heart.
In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of
the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting,
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued,
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far
below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the
37
sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom and at last losing itself in the
blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the
bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays
of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually
advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it
would be dark long before he could reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance hallooing: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip
Van Winkle!" He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend,
when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van
Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his
master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing
over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be
some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance.
He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress
was of the antique Dutch fashion--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist--several pairs of
breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made
signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this
new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving each other, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended,
Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of
a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thundershowers which often take place in the mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the
ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices,
over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of
the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had
labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and
incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe, and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in
the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in
quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their
visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off
38
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance;
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old
Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been
brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing
themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal,
the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared
at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange uncouth, lack-lustre countenances,
that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the
contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He
obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to
their game.
By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed
upon him, to taste the beverage which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He
was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked
another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep
sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the
glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell
asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the
rocks--the woe-begone party at ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!"
thought Rip--"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old
firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock wormeaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountains had put a trick upon him, and,
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he
might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his
name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and
wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if
this frolic, should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame
39
Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen: he found the gully up which he
and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild
grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in
his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but
no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which
the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black
from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He
again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle
crows, sporting high in the air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure
in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be
done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He
grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of
trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he new, which
somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country
round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They
all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture, induced Rip, involuntarily, to do, the
same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting
after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an
old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was larger and
more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at
the windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether
both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which
he had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains--there ran the silver Hudson at
a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been--Rip was sorely
perplexed--"That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the
house gone to decay--the roof had fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges.
A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the
cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed.--"My very dog,"
sighed poor Rip," has forgotten me!"
40
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It
was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial
fears--he called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his
voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn--but it too was gone. A large
rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken,
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by
Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore,
there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap,
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes--all this
was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King
George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted
in large characters, "GENERAL WASHINGTON."
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very
character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it,
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage
Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobaccosmoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of
an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of
handbills, was haranguing, vehemently about rights of citizens-elections--members of Congress-liberty--Bunker's hill--heroes of seventy-six-and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress,
and the army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern
politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The
orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on which side he voted?" Rip
stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising
on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat,
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed,
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his
keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone,
"What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels; and
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place,
and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him!
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders-"a tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him!
away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat
restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
41
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to
keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, Where's Nicholas Vedder?
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas
Vedder? why, be is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the
churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming
of Stony-Point--others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know
--he never came back again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is now in Congress."
Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war--Congress-Stony-Point;--he
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know
Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder,
leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently
as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted
his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows!" exclaimed he at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'm somebody else--that's me
yonder-no--that's somebody else, got into my shoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on
the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I
can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers
against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old
fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the
cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman
pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her
42
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool;
the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice,
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.
"What is your name, my good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Cardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from
home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,--his dog came home without him; but
whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a
little girl."
Rip had but one more question to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:
"Where's your mother?"
Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a NewEngland pedler.
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself
no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he-"Young
Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now--Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her
brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment exclaimed, "sure enough! it is Rip Van
Winkle--it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these
twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The
neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues
in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head--upon which
there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly
advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once,
and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a
fact, handed down from his ancestor, the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first
discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of
the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a
43
guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen
them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in the hollow of the mountain; and that he
himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns
of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished
house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning
against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to
attend to any thing else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all
rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising
generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with
impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one
of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the
strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary
war--that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England--and that, instead of being a
subject to his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in
fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but
there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was--petticoat
government. Happily, that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and
could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle.
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and
cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his
deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed,
at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having
so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man,
woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the
reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which
he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full
credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the
Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a
common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
Irving, Washingon. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon,
Gent. New York: C.S. Van Winkle, 1819.
44
Source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2048
Illustration: The Headless Horseman Pursuing Ichabod Crane, by John Quidor, 1858.
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pays,
For ever flushing round a summer sky. - - Castle of Indolence
IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at
that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee,
and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when
they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port which by some is called Greensburg,
but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was
given, we are told, in former days by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the
inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that
as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it for the sake of being precise and
authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap
of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook
glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a
quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform
tranquillity.
I recollect that when a stripling my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut
trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all Nature is
peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness
around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a
retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions and dream quietly away the
remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.
From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are
descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the
name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land and to
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor
during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of
his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick
Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power that holds
a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are
given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see
strange sights and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local
tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the
valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to
make it the favorite scene of her gambols.
45
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-inchief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is
said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper whose head had been carried away by a
cannonball in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon
seen by the country-folk hurrying along in the gloom of night as if on the wings of the wind. His
haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to
the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of
those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this
spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides
forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he
sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated and in a
hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for
many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides
by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native
inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time.
However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure in
a little time to inhale the witching influence of the air and begin to grow imaginative--to dream
dreams and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys,
found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and
customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making
such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They
are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream where we may see the straw
and bubble riding quietly at anchor or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the
rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families
vegetating in its sheltered bosom.
In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of American history--that is to say,
some thirty years since--a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he
expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the children of the
vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country
schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but
exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of
his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung
together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long
snip nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way
the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes
bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of Famine
descending upon the earth or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.
46
His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs, the windows
partly glazed and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured
at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the door and stakes set against the windowshutters, so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some
embarrassment in getting out---an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van
Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by and a formidable birch
tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over
their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day like the hum of a bee-hive, interrupted
now and then by the authoritative voice of the master in the tone of menace or command, or,
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch as he urged some tardy loiterer along the
flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the
golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not
spoiled.
I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school
who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with
discrimination rather than severity, taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying it on
those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was
passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion
on some little tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and
grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called "doing his duty by their parents;"
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the
smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live."
When school-hours were over he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys, and
on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home who happened to have
pretty sisters or good housewives for mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it
behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was
small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge
feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance
he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the
farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus
going the rounds of the neighborhood with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton
handkerchief.
That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider
the costs of schooling a grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways
of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the
lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water,
drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the
dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and
became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting
the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously
the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole
hours together.
47
In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood and picked up
many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little
vanity to him on Sundays to take his station in front of the church-gallery with a band of chosen
singers, where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it
is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers
still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite
side of the mill-pond on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which is
commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough,
and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully
easy life of it.
The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural
neighborhood, being considered a kind of idle, gentleman-like personage of vastly superior taste
and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the
parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a
farmhouse and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure,
the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of
all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard between services
on Sundays, gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees;
reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy
of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond, while the more bashful country bumpkins
hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.
From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget
of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction.
He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several
books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New England
Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.
He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the
marvellous and his powers of digesting it were equally extraordinary, and both had been
increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his
capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering dusk of the evening made
the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream
and awful woodland to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of Nature
at that witching hour fluttered his excited imagination--the moan of the whip-poor-will* from the
hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the
screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him as one of
uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a
beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions,
either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; and the good people
48
of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing
his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill or along the
dusky road.
* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its name from its note,
which is thought to resemble those words.
Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch
wives as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the
hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted
brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or
Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally
by his anecdotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the
air which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and would frighten them woefully with
speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did
absolutely turn round and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.
But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a chamber
that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared
to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What
fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!
With what wistful look did be eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields
from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow,
which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at
the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his
shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often
was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast howling among the trees, in the idea
that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness;
and though be had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in
divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he
would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had
not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and
the whole race of witches put together, and that was--a woman.
Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in each week to receive his
instructions in psalmody was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial
Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her
beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived
even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off
her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her great-great-grandmother had
brought over from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly
short petticoat to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
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Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex, and it is not to be wondered at that so
tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her
paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberalhearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries
of his own farm, but within those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was
satisfied with his wealth but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance,
rather than the style, in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson,
in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling.
A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the
softest and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away
through the grass to a neighboring brook that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows.
Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church, every window and
crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily
resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the
eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with
their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and
bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were
grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of
sucking pigs as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining
pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the
farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish,
discontented cry. Before the barn-door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a
warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and
gladness of his heart--sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling
his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.
The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter
fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a
pudding in his belly and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a
comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own
gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent
competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon and
juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its
wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright Chanticleer himself lay
sprawling on his back in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.
As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat
meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards
burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with
the idea how they might be readily turned into cash and the money invested in immense tracts of
wild land and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes,
and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top
of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath, and he
50
beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky,
Tennessee, or the Lord knows where.
When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious
farmhouses with high-ridged but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the
first Dutch settlers, the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front capable of being
closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry,
and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use,
and a great spinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed the various uses to which
this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall,
which formed the centre of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here rows of
resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of
wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian
corn and strings of dried apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with
the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the clawfooted chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying
shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells
decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds' eggs were suspended above it; a
great ostrish egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left
open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.
From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight the peace of his mind was
at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van
Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a
knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and suchlike easily-conquered adversaries to contend with, and had to make his way merely through gates
of iron and brass and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was
confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a
Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the
contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette beset with a labyrinth of whims
and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he had to
encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers who
beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to
fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.
Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roistering blade of the name of Abraham-or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom--Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which
rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with
short curly black hair and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun
and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the
nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great
knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was
foremost at all races and cockfights, and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength acquires in
rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side and giving his decisions with
an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a
frolic, but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing
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roughness there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon
companions who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country,
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles around. In cold weather he was
distinguished by a fur cap surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard
riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past
the farm-houses at midnight with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old
dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered
by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon
him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will, and when any madcap prank or rustic
brawl occurred in the vicinity always shook their heads and warranted Brom Bones was at the
bottom of it.
This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his
uncouth gallantries, and, though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and
endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes.
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire who felt no inclination to
cross a line in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was scene tied to Van Tassel's paling
on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting--or, as it is termed, "sparking"-within, all other suitors passed by in despair and carried the war into other quarters.
Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all
things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition and a wiser (*)man would
have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature;
he was in form and spirit like a supple jack--yielding, but although; though he bent, he never
broke and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet the moment it was away, jerk! he
was as erect and carried his head as high as ever.
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness for he was not man to
be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made
his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singingmaster, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he had anything to apprehend from
the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of
lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his
pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His
notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry
for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be looked after, but girls
can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house or plied her
spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the
other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a sword in each
hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or
sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been
matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access,
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while otheres have a thousand avenues and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but still greater proof of generalship to maintain
possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He
who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown, but he who keeps
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case
with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the
interests of the former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on
Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy
Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open
warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode of those most
concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore--by single combat; but Ichabod was too
conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him: he had overheard a
boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own
school-house;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely
provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the
funds of rustic waggery in his disposition and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.
Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They
harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school by stopping up the
chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and
window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think
all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But, what was still more annoying, Brom
took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel
dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of
Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody.
In this way, matters went on for some time without producing any material effect on the relative
situation of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat
enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary
realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed
on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evildoers; while on the desk before him
might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons detected upon the persons of
idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of
rampant little paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently
inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books or slyly whispering behind them
with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers,
a round-crowned fragment of a hat like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a
ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came
clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or
"quilting frolic" to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and, having delivered his
message with that air of importance and effort at fine language which a negro is apt to display on
petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the
hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
53
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. The scholars were hurried through
their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity,
and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear to quicken their speed
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves,
inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an
hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing
about the green in joy at their early emancipation.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up
his best, and indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken lookingglass that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in
the true style of a cavalier, be borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated,
a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued
forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of
romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The
animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse that had outlived almost everything but his
viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty
mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil and was glaring and
spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still, he must have had fire and
mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a
favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused,
very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken down as he looked,
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his
knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he
carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand like a sceptre; and as his horse jogged on the motion
of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of
his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat
fluttered out almost to his horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is
seldom to be met with in broad daylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore that
rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had
put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by
the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild-ducks began to
make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of
beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring
stubble-field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered,
chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion
and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable clouds; and
the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid
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plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap
of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, bobbing and nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on
good terms with every songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary
abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly Autumn. On all sides he beheld vast
store of apples--some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into baskets
and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts and holding out
the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat-fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld
them soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered and garnished with
honey or treacle by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along
the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty
Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the
Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved
and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky,
without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually
into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray
lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving
greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the
distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast, and as
the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in
the air.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found
thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country--old farmers, a spare leathern-faced
race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter
buckles; their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns,
homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions and gay calico pockets hanging on the
outside; buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine
ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation; the sons, in short squareskirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being
esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite
steed Daredevil--a creature, like himself full of metal and mischief, and which no one but
himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of
tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse
as unworthy of a lad of spirit.
55
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my
hero as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom
lasses with their luxurious display of red and white, but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch
country teat-able in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the
doughty doughnut, the tenderer oily koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and
short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were
apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and
moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums and peaches and pears and quinces; not to
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream,--all mingled
higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up
its clouds of vapor from the midst. Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was
not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with
good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could not help,
too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might
one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought,
how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school-house, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van
Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that
should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and goodhumor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive,
being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing
invitation to "fall to and help themselves."
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The
musician was an old gray-headed negro who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood
for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part
of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a
motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh
couple were to start.
Ichobod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a
fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering
about the room you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance,
was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having
gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of
shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their
white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the
dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.
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When the dance was at an end Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old
Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza gossiping over former times and drawing out
long stories about the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places
which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it
during the war; it had therefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller
to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and in the indistinctness of his recollection to
make himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a
British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at
the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a
mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of
defence, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round
the blade and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the
sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field,
not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a
happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The
neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best
in these sheltered, long-settled retreats but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that
forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for
ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn
themselves in their graves before their surviving friends have travelled away from the
neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds they have no acquaintance
left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our longestablished Dutch communities.
The immediate causes however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew
from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the
land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains
and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major
Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the
woman in white that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on
winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories,
however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had
been heard several times of late patrolling the country, and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly
among the graves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of
troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which
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its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the
shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water bordered by high
trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at
least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along,
which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part
of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to
it and the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it
even in the daytime, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite
haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The
tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they
galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away
over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice-marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who
made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night
from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing he had been over taken by this midnight trooper; that
he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil
beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge the Hessian bolted
and vanished in a flash of fire.
All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances
of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in
the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author,
Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native state of
Connecticut and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their
wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills.
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted
laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter
and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent
and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a
tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What
passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however,
I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with
an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. Oh these women! these women! Could that girl have been
playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a
mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say,
Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth on which he had so
often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his
steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping,
dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole valleys of timothy and clover.
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It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his
travel homewards along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he
had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the
Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a
sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight he could even hear
the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and
faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then,
too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from
some farm-house away among the hills; but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of
life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural
twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning
suddenly in his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon
his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky,
and driving clouds occasionally had them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal.
He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost-stories had
been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip tree which towered like a giant above
all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed a: kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled
and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth
and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre,
who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's
tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and
doleful lamentations told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to whistle: he thought his whistle was
answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little
nearer he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased
whistling, but on looking more narrowly perceived that it was a place where the tree had been
scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan: his teeth chattered
and his knees smote against the saddle; it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another as
they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before
him.
About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road and ran into a marshy and
thickly-wooded glen known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side,
served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood a
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over
it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate
Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen
concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his
resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across
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the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement and
ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins
on the other side and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is
true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder
bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old
Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge
with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a
plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of
the grove on the margin of the brook he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering.
It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring
upon the traveller.
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To
turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if
such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of
courage, he demanded in stammering accents, "Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated
his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the
sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor
into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble
and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet
the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a
horseman of large dimensions and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no
offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the
blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the
adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of
leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled
up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the same. His heart began to sink
within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of
his mouth and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence
of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in
relief against the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on
perceiving that he was headless! but his horror was still more increased on observing that the
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the
saddle. His terror rose to desperation, he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder,
hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump
with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing at
every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air as he stretched his long lank body
away over his horse's head in the eagerness of his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed
possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn and plunged headlong
down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter
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of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed bad given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase;
but just as he had got halfway through the hollow the girths of the saddle gave away and he felt it
slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain,
and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of
Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no
time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches, and (unskilled rider that he was) he had
much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and
sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back-bone with a violence that he verily feared
would cleave him asunder.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken.
He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place
where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought
Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he heard the, black steed panting and blowing close behind him;
he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old
Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the
opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according
to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in
the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too
late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash; he was tumbled headlong into the dust,
and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found, without his saddle and with he bridle under his feet,
soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast;
dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house and strolled idly
about the banks of the brook but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some
uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after
diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was
found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs, deeply dented in the road and
evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part
of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod,
and close beside it a spattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van
Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects.
They consisted of two shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or two of worsted
stockings, an old pair of corduroy small-clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes full of dog's
ears, and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged
to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac,
and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled
and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van
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Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans
Van Ripper, who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school,
observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money
the schoolmaster possessed--and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before--he
must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of
gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat
and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others
were called to mind, and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with
the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads and came to the conclusion that
Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor and in nobody's
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him, the school was removed to a different
quarter of the hollow and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.
It is true an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from
whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that
Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the gob in
and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the
heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept school and
studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician electioneered,
written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom
Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph
to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was
related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to
suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about
the neighborhood round the interevening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of
superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to
approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to
decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the
plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a
distance chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
POSTSCRIPT
FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.
THE preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a
Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest
and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in
pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being
poor, he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded there was much
laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen who had been asleep
62
the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with
beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then
folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over
in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds--when they
have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided
and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other
akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the
brow, what was the moral of the story and what it went to prove.
The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips as a refreshment after his toils,
paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the
glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove-"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures--provided we will but take
a joke as we find it;
"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.
"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to
high preferment in the state."
The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely
puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while methought the one in pepper-and-salt eyed
him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but
still he thought the story a little on the extravagant--there were one or two points on which he
had his doubts.
"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K.
The Devil and Tom Walker
Illustration: The Devil and Tom Walker, by John Quidor, 1856.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10135
A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the
interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly wooded swamp or morass.
On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly
from the water's edge into a high ridge, on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and
immense size. Under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a great
amount of treasure buried by Kidd the pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a
boat secretly, and at night, to the very foot of the hill; the elevation of the place permitted a good
lookout to be kept that no one was at hand; while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks
by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil
presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well known,
he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may,
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Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to
England, and there hanged for a pirate.
About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook
many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre, miserly fellow, of
the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly that they
even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on she hid away; a hen
could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was
continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that
took place about what ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn-looking
house that stood alone and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin-trees, emblems of
sterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. A
miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field,
where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalized and
balked his hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look piteously at the
passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine.
The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was a tall termagant, fierce of
temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her
husband; and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words.
No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. The lonely wayfarer shrank within himself
at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance; and hurried on his
way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.
One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he
considered a short-cut homeward, through the swamp. Like most short-cuts, it was an ill-chosen
route. The swamp was thickly grown with great, gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them
ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday and a retreat for all the owls of the
neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where
the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering mud; there were
also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake, where
the trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, looking like alligators sleeping
in the mire.
Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest, stepping from tuft
to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs, or pacing
carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of trees, startled now and then by the sudden
screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary
pool. At length he arrived at a firm piece of ground, which ran like a peninsula into the deep
bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the
first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had looked upon as almost
impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained
of the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding
earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a
contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamps.
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It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there
awhile to rest himself. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely,
melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it, from the stories handed down
from the times of the Indian wars, when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here
and made sacrifices to the Evil Spirit.
Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind. He reposed
himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the treetoad, and delving with his walking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up
the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable
mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The
rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death-blow had been given. It
was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the
Indian warriors.
"Humph!" said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to shake the dirt from it.
"Let that skull alone!" said a gruff voice. Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man
seated directly opposite him, on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having
neither heard nor seen any one approach; and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well
as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true he
was dressed in a rude Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body; but his face
was neither black nor copper-color, but swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with soot, as if he had
been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood
out from his head in all directions, and bore an axe on his shoulder.
He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.
"What are you doing on my grounds?" said the black man, with a hoarse, growling voice.
"Your grounds!" said Tom, with a sneer; "no more your grounds than mine; they belong to
Deacon Peabody."
"Deacon Peabody be damned," said the stranger, "as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not
look more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, and see how Deacon
Peabody is faring."
Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and
flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that
the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of
Deacon Peabody, an eminent man who had waxed wealthy by driving shrewd bargains with the
Indians. He now looked around, and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some
great man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he had been
seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he
recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was
whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.
65
"He's just ready for burning!" said the black man, with a growl of triumph. "You see I am likely
to have a good stock of firewood for winter."
"But what right have you," said Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody's timber?"
"The right of a prior claim," said the other. "This woodland belonged to me long before one of
your white-faced race put foot upon the soil."
"And, pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" said Tom.
"Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries; the black miner in others.
In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red
men consecrated this spot, and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white man, by way
of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I
amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers and Anabaptists; I am the great patron
and prompter of slave-dealers and the grand-master of the Salem witches."
"The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you are he commonly
called Old Scratch."
"The same, at your service!" replied the black man, with a half-civil nod.
Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story; though it has almost too
familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this
wild, lonely place would have shaken any man's nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not
easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife that he did not even fear the devil.
It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest conversation together, as
Tom returned homeward. The black man told him of great sums of money buried by Kidd the
pirate under the oak-trees on the high ridge, not far from the morass. All these were under his
command, and protected by his power, so that none could find them but such as propitiated his
favor. These he offered to place within Tom Walker's reach, having conceived an especial
kindness for him; but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these conditions were
may be easily surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have been very
hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles when money
was in view. When they had reached the edge of the swamp, the stranger paused. "What proof
have I that all you have been telling me is true?" said Tom. "There's my signature," said the
black man, pressing his finger on Tom's forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets of
the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but
his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared.
When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burned, as it were, into his
forehead, which nothing could obliterate.
The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of
Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the
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papers, with the usual flourish, that "A great man had fallen in
Israel."
Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for
burning. "Let the freebooter roast," said Tom; "who cares!" He now felt convinced that all he had
heard and seen was no illusion.
He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he
willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she
urged her husband to comply with the black man's terms, and secure what would make them
wealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was
determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of
contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject; but the more she talked,
the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her.
At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and, if she succeeded, to keep
all the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she set off for the old
Indian fort toward the close of a summer's day. She was many hours absent. When she came
back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man, whom she
had met about twilight hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not
come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forbore to
say.
The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and
waited for her, but in vain; midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon,
night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially as he
found she had carried off in her apron the silver tea-pot and spoons, and every portable article of
value. Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she was never heard
of more.
What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know. It is one
of those facts which have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she
lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp, and sank into some pit or slough; others,
more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty, and made off to some
other province; while others surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire,
on the top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said a great black
man, with an axe on his shoulder, was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp,
carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air of surly triumph.
The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about
the fate of his wife and his property that he set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort.
During a long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be
seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be heard. The bittern alone
responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a
neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to
hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows hovering
about a cypress-tree. He looked up and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in the
67
branches of the tree, with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped
with joy, for he recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables.
"Let us get hold of the property," said he, consolingly, to himself, "and we will endeavor to do
without the woman."
As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings and sailed off, screaming, into the
deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the checked apron, but, woful sight! found nothing but a
heart and liver tied up in it!
Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom's wife. She
had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her
husband; but though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this
instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died game, however; for it is said
Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found handfuls of
hair, that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom
knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of
fierce clapper-clawing. "Egad," said he to himself, "Old Scratch must have had a tough time of
it!"
Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of
fortitude. He even felt something like gratitude toward the black woodsman, who, he considered,
had done him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but
for some time without success; the old black-legs played shy, for, whatever people may think, he
is not always to be had for the calling; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his
game.
At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to the quick and prepared him to
agree to anything rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening
in his usual woodsman's dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the swamp and
humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advances with great indifference, made brief
replies, and went on humming his tune.
By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to haggle about the terms on
which the former was to have the pirate's treasure. There was one condition which need not be
mentioned, being generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were
others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the
money found through his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that
Tom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that he should fit out a slave-ship. This,
however, Tom resolutely refused; he was bad enough in all conscience, but the devil himself
could not tempt him to turn slave-trader.
Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he
should turn usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon
them as his peculiar people.
68
To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste.
"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month," said the black man.
"I'll do it to-morrow, if you wish," said Tom Walker.
"You shall lend money at two per cent. a month."
"Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom Walker.
"You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchants to bankruptcy—"
"I'll drive them to the devil," cried Tom Walker.
"You are the usurer for my money!" said black-legs with delight. "When will you want the
rhino?"
"This very night."
"Done!" said the devil.
"Done!" said Tom Walker. So they shook hands and struck a bargain.
A few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting-house in Boston.
His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for a good consideration,
soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the time of Governor Belcher, when money was
particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government
bills; the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for speculating; the
people had run mad with schemes for new settlements, for building cities in the wilderness; landjobbers went about with maps of grants and townships and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where,
but which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating fever which breaks
out every now and then in the country had raged to an alarming degree, and everybody was
dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the fever had subsided, the dream
had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful plight, and the
whole country resounded with the consequent cry of "hard times."
At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as usurer in Boston. His door
was soon thronged by customers. The needy and adventurous, the gambling speculator, the
dreaming land-jobber, the thriftless tradesman, the merchant with cracked credit—in short,
everyone driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices hurried to Tom
Walker.
Thus Tom was the universal friend to the needy, and acted like "a friend in need"; that is to say,
he always exacted good pay and security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the
69
hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages, gradually squeezed his customers
closer and closer, and sent them at length, dry as a sponge, from his door.
In this way he made money hand over hand, became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his
cocked hat upon "Change." He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation, but left
the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in
the fulness of his vain-glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and, as the
ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard
the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.
As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world,
he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret of the bargain he had
made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He
became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously, as if
heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned
most during the week by the clamor of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians who had been
modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward were struck with self-reproach at seeing
themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid
in religious as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and
seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the
page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists.
In a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches.
Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after
all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always
carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house
desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such
occasions he would lay his green spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned round
to drive some usurious bargain.
Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and that, fancying his end
approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled, and bridled, and buried with his feet
uppermost; because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside-down; in
which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the
worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he
really did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at least so says the authentic old
legend, which closes his story in the following manner:
One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a terrible black thunder-gust was coming up,
Tom sat in his counting-house, in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on
the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky landspeculator for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land-jobber begged him
to grant a few months' indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated, and refused another delay.
"My family will be ruined, and brought upon the parish," said the land-jobber.
70
"Charity begins at home," replied Tom; "I must take care of myself in these hard times."
"You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator.
Tom lost his patience and his piety. "The devil take me," said he, "ifI have made a farthing!"
Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He stepped out to see who was there. A
black man was holding a black horse, which neighed and stamped with impatience.
"Tom, you're come for," said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left
his little Bible at the bottom of his coat-pocket and his big Bible on the desk buried under the
mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man
whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and away he galloped, with
Tom on his back, in the midst of the thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears,
and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the streets, his
white cap bobbing up and down, his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking
fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man, he
had disappeared.
Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman, who lived on the border of
the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs
and a howling along the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have
described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills, and down into the
black hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort, and that shortly after a thunder-bolt falling in
that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.
The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so
much accustomed to witches and goblins, and tricks of the devil, in all kinds of shapes, from the
first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been
expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. There was nothing, however,
to administer upon. On searching his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages were reduced to
cinders. In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two
skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house
took fire and was burned to the ground.
Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all gripping money-brokers lay
this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, whence
he dug Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort
are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in morning-gown and white cap,
which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a
proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so prevalent throughout New England, of "The
devil and Tom Walker."
James Fenimore Cooper (1789-1851)
71
Resources for The New Nation and Its Literature
[image] James Fenimore Cooper was born on September 15, 1789 in Burlington, New Jersey to
Judge William and Elizabeth Cooper, who came from respected Quaker stock. The family
moved to Ostego Lake in central New York, where William founded the frontier settlement,
Cooperstown. Cooper attended Yale College in1803 but was expelled for a prank on a fellow
student two years later. Next, Cooper became a sailor and then a midshipman in the U. S. Navy.
The death of his father caused him to return home, where his inheritance left him financially
stable for a time. He married Susan Augusta DeLancey in 1811. His older brother's death eight
years later burdened Cooper with a debt-ridden family estate. Anecdotally, Cooper's writing
career began with a bet with his wife that he could write a book better than the one they were
reading together. The result was Precaution in 1820, a domestic novel of manners that shows the
influence of Jane Austen. He next wrote The Spy: A Tale of Neutral Ground, in 1821, one of the
first historical romances set during the American Revolution. With this novel, Cooper saw
writing as a potential method of procuring money to address declining fortunes. The family
moved to New York City, where Cooper would begin penning a series of five books called the
"The Leatherstocking Tales," all featuring the frontiersman, Natty Bumppo and his loyal, native
companion, Chingachgook. These novels, including The Pioneers (1823), The Last of the
Mohicans (1826), The Prairie (1827),The Pathfinder (1840), and The Deerslayer (1841), would
be his greatest legacy. As his writing career flourished and his fame increased, Cooper sailed for
Europe and remained for several years. In 1833, he returned to the States, continuing to write and
often becoming embroiled in complaints with critics and engaged in lawsuits, mostly related to
his politics. In all, Cooper would write 32 novels and eight non-fiction books during his life.
Cooper died on September 14, 1851 in Cooperstown. He is often regarded as America's first
internationally renowned novelist who was able to live off the royalties from his many
works. Collections of critical responses and essays on Cooper include Dekker and
McWilliams' Fenimore Cooper: The Critical Heritage (1973), Clark's James Fenimore Cooper:
New Critical Essays (1985), Verhoeven's James Fenimore Cooper: New Historical and Literary
Contexts (1993), and Person's Historical Guide to James Fenimore Cooper (2006). Biographies
include Wayne Franklin's James Fenimore Cooper: The Early Years (2007), along with
biographies by James Grossman (1949) and Robert Emmet Long (1990).
The Pioneers, Chapter XXI
Cooper, James Fenimore. "Chapter XXI." The Pioneers. New York: Charles Wiley, 1823.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2275
Editor's note: In this part of the novel, on a crisp, late-winter day, our band of characters have
decided to journey on horseback into the wild countryside, sightseeing in the area surrounding
Lake Otsego, New York, on the edges of the newly settled American frontier. In the party are
Marmaduke, or Judge Temple, owner of all these lands and founder of Templeton, and his
daughter Elizabeth (Bess). They are accompanied by Oliver Edwards, a young handsome hunter
and friend to Natty Bumppo (Leather-Stocking), the pragmatic Richard (Dick) Jones, the Judge's
cousin and the county Sherriff, Monsieur Le Quoi, a French refuge and shopowner, and the
young Louisa Grant, daughter of Reverend Grant and Elizabeth's young friend and companion.
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"Speed! Malise, speed! such cause of haste
Thine active sinews never braced." -- Scott.
The roads of Otsego, if we except the principal high ways, were, at the early day of our tale, but
little better than wood-paths. The high trees that were growing on the very verge of the wheeltracks excluded the sun's rays, unless at meridian; and the slowness of the evaporation, united
with the rich mould of vegetable decomposition that covered the whole country to the depth of
several inches, occasioned but an indifferent foundation for the footing of travellers. Added to
these were the inequalities of a natural surface, and the constant recurrence of enormous and
slippery roots that were laid bare by the removal of the light soil, together with stumps of trees,
to make a passage not only difficult but dangerous. Yet the riders among these numerous
obstructions, which were such as would terrify an unpracticed eye, gave no demonstrations of
uneasiness as their horses toiled through the sloughs or trotted with uncertain paces along the
dark route. In many places the marks on the trees were the only indications of a road, with
perhaps an occasional remnant of a pine that, by being cut close to the earth, so as to leave
nothing visible but its base of roots, spreading for twenty feet in every direction, was apparently
placed there as a beacon to warn the traveller that it was the centre of a highway.
Into one of these roads the active sheriff led the way, first striking out of the foot-path, by which
they had descended from the sugar-bush, across a little bridge, formed of round logs laid loosely
on sleepers of pine, in which large openings of a formidable width were frequent. The nag of
Richard, when it reached one of these gaps, laid its nose along the logs and stepped across the
difficult passage with the sagacity of a man; but the blooded filly which Miss Temple rode
disdained so humble a movement. She made a step or two with an unusual caution, and then, on
reaching the broadest opening, obedient to the curt and whip of her fearless mistress, she
bounded across the dangerous pass with the activity of a squirrel.
"Gently, gently, my child," said Marmaduke, who was following in the manner of Richard; "this
is not a country for equestrian feats. Much prudence is requisite to journey through our rough
paths with safety. Thou mayst practise thy skill in horsemanship on the plains of New Jersey
with safety; but in the hills of Otsego they may be suspended for a time."
"I may as well then relinquish my saddle at once, dear sir," returned his daughter; "for if it is to
be laid aside until this wild country be improved, old age will overtake me, and put an end to
what you term my equestrian feats." "Say not so, my child," returned her father; "but if thou
venturest again as in crossing this bridge, old age will never overtake thee, but I shall be left to
mourn thee, cut off in thy pride, my Elizabeth. If thou hadst seen this district of country, as I did,
when it lay in the sleep of nature, and bad witnessed its rapid changes as it awoke to supply the
wants of man, thou wouldst curb thy impatience for a little time, though thou shouldst not check
thy steed."
"I recollect hearing you speak of your first visit to these woods, but the impression is faint, and
blended with the confused images of childhood. Wild and unsettled as it may yet seem, it must
have been a thousand times more dreary then. Will you repeat, dear sir, what you then thought of
your enterprise, and what you felt?"
73
During this speech of Elizabeth, which was uttered with the fervor of affection, young Edwards
rode more closely to the side of the Judge, and bent his dark eyes on his countenance with an
expression that seemed to read his thoughts.
"Thou wast then young, my child, but must remember when I left thee and thy mother, to take
my first survey of these uninhabited mountains," said Marmaduke. "But thou dost not feel all the
secret motives that can urge a man to endure privations in order to accumulate wealth. In my
case they have not been trifling, and God has been pleased to smile on my efforts. If I have
encountered pain, famine, and disease in accomplishing the settlement of this rough territory, I
have not the misery of failure to add to the grievances."
"Famine!" echoed Elizabeth; "I thought this was the land of abundance!
Had you famine to contend with?"
"Even so, my child," said her father. "Those who look around them now, and see the loads of
produce that issue out of every wild path in these mountains during the season of travelling, will
hardly credit that no more than five years have elapsed since the tenants of these woods were
compelled to eat the scanty fruits of the forest to sustain life, and, with their unpracticed skill, to
hunt the beasts as food for their starving families."
"Ay!" cried Richard, who happened to overhear the last of this speech between the notes of the
wood-chopper's song, which he was endeavoring to breathe aloud; "that was the starving-time,*
Cousin Bess. I grew as lank as a weasel that fall, and my face was as pale as one of your feverand-ague visages. Monsieur Le Quoi, there, fell away like a pumpkin in drying; nor do I think
you have got fairly over it yet, monsieur. Benjamin, I thought, bore it with a worse grace than
any of the family; for he swore it was harder to endure than a short allowance in the calm
latitudes. Benjamin is a sad fellow to swear if you starve him ever so little. I had half a mind to
quit you then, 'Duke, and to go into Pennsylvania to fatten; but, damn it, thinks I, we are sisters'
children, and I will live or die with him, after all."
* The author has no better apology for interrupting the interest of a work of fiction by these
desultory dialogues than that they have reference to facts. In reviewing his work, after so many
years, he is compelled to confess it is injured by too many allusions to incidents that are not at all
suited to satisfy the just expectations of the general reader. One of these events is slightly
touched on in the commencement of this chapter.
More than thirty years since a very near and dear relative of the writer, an elder sister and a
second mother, was killed by a fall from a horse in a ride among the very mountains mentioned
in this tale. Few of her sex and years were more extensively known or more universally beloved
than the admirable woman who thus fell a victim to the chances of the wilderness. "I do not
forget thy kindness," said Marmaduke, "nor that we are of one blood."
"But, my dear father," cried the wondering Elizabeth, "was there actual suffering? Where were
the beautiful and fertile vales of the Mohawk? Could they not furnish food for your wants?"
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"It was a season of scarcity; the necessities of life commanded a high price in Europe, and were
greedily sought after by the speculators. The emigrants from the East to the West invariably
passed along the valley of the Mohawk, and swept away the means of subsistence like a swarm
of locusts, Nor were the people on the Flats in a much better condition. They were in want
themselves, but they spared the little excess of provisions that nature did not absolutely require,
with the justice of the German character. There was no grinding of the poor. The word speculator
was then unknown to them. I have seen many a stout man, bending under the load of the bag of
meal which he was carrying from the mills of the Mohawk, through the rugged passes of these
mountains, to feed his half-famished children, with a heart so light, as he approached his hut, that
the thirty miles he had passed seemed nothing. Remember, my child, it was in our very infancy;
we had neither mills, nor grain, nor roads, nor often clearings; we had nothing of increase but the
mouths that were to be fed: for even at that inauspicious moment the restless spirit of emigration
was not idle; nay, the general scarcity which extended to the East tended to increase the number
of adventurers."
"And how, dearest father, didst thou encounter this dreadful evil?" said Elizabeth, unconsciously
adopting the dialect of her parent in the warmth of her sympathy. "Upon thee must have fallen
the responsibility, if not the suffering."
"It did, Elizabeth," returned the Judge, pausing for a single moment, as if musing on his former
feelings. "I had hundreds at that dreadful time daily looking up to me for bread. The sufferings of
their families and the gloomy prospect before them had paralyzed the enterprise and efforts of
my settlers; hunger drove them to the woods for food, but despair sent them at night, enfeebled
and wan, to a sleepless pillow. It was not a moment for in action. I purchased cargoes of wheat
from the granaries of Pennsylvania; they were landed at Albany and brought up the Mohawk in
boats; from thence it was transported on pack-horses into the wilderness and distributed among
my people. Seines were made, and the lakes and rivers were dragged for fish. Something like a
miracle was wrought in our favor, for enormous shoals of herrings were discovered to have
wandered five hundred miles through the windings of the impetuous Susquehanna, and the lake
was alive with their numbers. These were at length caught and dealt out to the people, with
proper portions of salt, and from that moment we again began to prosper." *
* All this was literally true.
"Yes," cried Richard, "and I was the man who served out the fish and salt. When the poor devils
came to receive their rations, Benjamin, who was my deputy, was obliged to keep them off by
stretching ropes around me, for they smelt so of garlic, from eating nothing but the wild onion,
that the fumes put me out often in my measurement. You were a child then, Bess, and knew
nothing of the matter, for great care was observed to keep both you and your mother from
suffering. That year put me back dreadfully, both in the breed of my hogs and of my turkeys."
"No, Bess," cried the Judge, in a more cheerful tone, disregarding the interruption of his cousin,
"he who hears of the settlement of a country knows but little of the toil and suffering by which it
is accomplished. Unimproved and wild as this district now seems to your eyes, what was it when
I first entered the hills? I left my party, the morning of my arrival, near the farms of the Cherry
Valley, and, following a deer-path, rode to the summit of the mountain that I have since called
75
Mount Vision; for the sight that there met my eyes seemed to me as the deceptions of a dream.
The fire had run over the pinnacle, and in a great measure laid open the view. The leaves were
fallen, and I mounted a tree and sat for an hour looking on the silent wilderness. Not an opening
was to be seen in the boundless forest except where the lake lay, like a mirror of glass. The water
was covered by myriads of the wild-fowl that migrate with the changes in the season; and while
in my situation on the branch of the beech, I saw a bear, with her cubs, descend to the shore to
drink. I had met many deer, gliding through the woods, in my journey ; but not the vestige of a
man could I trace during my progress, nor from my elevated observatory. No clearing, no hut,
none of the winding roads that are now to be seen, were there; nothing but mountains rising
behind mountains; and the valley, with its surface of branches enlivened here and there with the
faded foliage of some tree that parted from its leaves with more than ordinary reluctance. Even
the Susquehanna was then hid by the height and density of the forest."
"And were you alone?" asked Elizabeth: "passed you the night in that solitary state?"
"Not so, my child," returned the father. "After musing on the scene for an hour, with a mingled
feeling of pleasure and desolation, I left my perch and descended the mountain. My horse was
left to browse on the twigs that grew within his reach, while I explored the shores of the lake and
the spot where Templeton stands. A pine of more than ordinary growth stood where my dwelling
is now placed! A wind—row had been opened through the trees from thence to the lake, and my
view was but little impeded. Under the branches of that tree I made my solitary dinner. I had just
finished my repast as I saw smoke curling from under the mountain, near the eastern bank of the
lake. It was the only indication of the vicinity of man that I had then seen. After much toil I made
my way to the spot, and found a rough cabin of logs, built against the foot of a rock, and bearing
the marks of a tenant, though I found no one within it—"
"It was the hut of Leather-Stocking," said Edwards quickly.
"It was; though I at first supposed it to be a habitation of the Indians. But while I was lingering
around the spot Natty made his appearance, staggering under the carcass of a buck that he had
slain. Our acquaintance commenced at that time; before, I had never heard that such a being
tenanted the woods. He launched his bark canoe and set me across the foot of the lake to the
place where I had fastened my horse, and pointed out a spot where he might get a scanty
browsing until the morning; when I returned and passed the night in the cabin of the hunter."
Miss Temple was so much struck by the deep attention of young Edwards during this speech that
she forgot to resume her interrogations; but the youth himself continued the discourse by asking:
"And how did the Leather-Stocking discharge the duties of a host sir?"
"Why, simply but kindly, until late in the evening, when he discovered my name and object, and
the cordiality of his manner very sensibly diminished, or, I might better say, disappeared. He
considered the introduction of the settlers as an innovation on his rights, I believe for he
expressed much dissatisfaction at the measure, though it was in his confused and ambiguous
manner. I hardly understood his objections myself, but supposed they referred chiefly to an
interruption of the hunting."
76
"Had you then purchased the estate, or were you examining it with an intent to buy?" asked
Edwards, a little abruptly.
"It had been mine for several years. It was with a view to People the land that I visited the lake.
Natty treated me hospitably, but coldly, I thought, after he learned the nature of my journey. I
slept on his own bear—skin, however, and in the morning joined my surveyors again."
"Said he nothing of the Indian rights, sir? The Leather-Stocking is much given to impeach the
justice of the tenure by which the whites hold the country."
"I remember that he spoke of them, but I did not nearly comprehend him, and may have
forgotten what he said; for the Indian title was extinguished so far back as the close of the old
war, and if it had not been at all, I hold under the patents of the Royal Governors, confirmed by
an act of our own State Legislature, and no court in the country can affect my title." "Doubtless,
sir, your title is both legal and equitable," returned the youth coldly, reining his horse back and
remaining silent till the subject was changed.
It was seldom Mr. Jones suffered any conversation to continue for a great length of time without
his participation. It seems that he was of the party that Judge Temple had designated as his
surveyors; and he embraced the opportunity of the pause that succeeded the retreat of young
Edwards to take up the discourse, and with a narration of their further proceedings, after his own
manner. As it wanted, however, the interest that had accompanied the description of the Judge,
we must decline the task of committing his sentences to paper.
They soon reached the point where the promised view was to be seen. It was one of those
picturesque and peculiar scenes that belong to the Otsego, but which required the absence of the
ice and the softness of a summer's landscape to be enjoyed in all its beauty. Marmaduke had
early forewarned his daughter of the season, and of its effect on the prospect; and after casting a
cursory glance at its capabilities, the party returned homeward, perfectly satisfied that its
beauties would repay them for the toil of a second ride at a more propitious season.
"The spring is the gloomy time of the American year," said the Judge, "and it is more peculiarly
the case in these mountains. The winter seems to retreat to the fastnesses of the hills, as to the
citadel of its dominion, and is only expelled after a tedious siege, in which either party, at times,
would seem to be gaining the victory."
"A very just and apposite figure, Judge Temple," observed the sheriff; "and the garrison under
the command of Jack Frost make formidable sorties—you understand what I mean by sorties,
monsieur; sallies, in English— and sometimes drive General Spring and his troops back again
into the low countries."
"Yes sair," returned the Frenchman, whose prominent eyes were watching the precarious
footsteps of the beast he rode, as it picked its dangerous way among the roots of trees, holes, log
bridges, and sloughs that formed the aggregate of the highway. "Je vous entends; de low countrie
is freeze up for half de year."
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The error of Mr. Le Quoi was not noticed by the sheriff; and the rest of the party were yielding to
the influence of the changeful season, which was already teaching the equestrians that a
continuance of its mildness was not to be expected for any length of time. Silence and
thoughtfulness succeeded the gayety and conversation that had prevailed during the
commencement of the ride, as clouds began to gather about the heavens, apparently collecting
from every quarter, in quick motion, without the agency of a breath of air.
While riding over one of the cleared eminencies that occurred in their route, the watchful eye of
Judge Temple pointed out to his daughter the approach of a tempest. Flurries of snow already
obscured the mountain that formed the northern boundary of the lake, and the genial sensation
which had quickened the blood through their veins was already succeeded by the deadening
influence of an approaching northwester.
All of the party were now busily engaged in making the best of their way to the village, though
the badness of the roads frequently compelled them to check the impatience of their animals,
which often carried them over places that would not admit of any gait faster than a walk.
Richard continued in advance, followed by Mr. Le Quoi; next to whom rode Elizabeth, who
seemed to have imbibed the distance which pervaded the manner of young Edwards since the
termination of the discourse between the latter and her father. Marmaduke followed his daughter,
giving her frequent and tender warnings as to the management of her horse. It was, possibly, the
evident dependence that Louisa Grant placed on his assistance which induced the youth to
continue by her side, as they pursued their way through a dreary and dark wood, where the rays
of the sun could but rarely penetrate, and where even the daylight was obscured and rendered
gloomy by the deep forests that surrounded them. No wind had yet reached the spot where the
equestrians were in motion, but that dead silence that often precedes a storm contributed to
render their situation more irksome than if they were already subject to the fury of the tempest.
Suddenly the voice of young Edwards was heard shouting in those appalling tones that carry
alarm to the very soul, and which curdle the blood of those that hear them.
"A tree! a tree! Whip—spur for your lives! a tree! a tree. "
"A tree! a tree!" echoed Richard, giving his horse a blow that caused the alarmed beast to jump
nearly a rod, throwing the mud and water into the air like a hurricane.
"Von tree! von tree!" shouted the Frenchman, bending his body on the neck of his charger,
shutting his eyes, and playing on the ribs of his beast with his heels at a rate that caused him to
be conveyed on the crupper of the sheriff with a marvellous speed.
Elizabeth checked her filly and looked up, with an unconscious but alarmed air, at the very cause
of their danger, while she listened to the crackling sounds that awoke the stillness of the forest;
but the next instant her bridlet was seized by her father, who cried, "God protect my child!" and
she felt herself hurried onward, impelled by the vigor of his nervous arm.
Each one of the party bowed to his saddle-bows as the tearing of branches was succeeded by a
sound like the rushing of the winds, which was followed by a thundering report, and a shock that
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caused the very earth to tremble as one of the noblest ruins of the forest fell directly across their
path.
One glance was enough to assure Judge Temple that his daughter and those in front of him were
safe, and he turned his eyes, in dreadful anxiety, to learn the fate of the others. Young Edwards
was on the opposite side of the tree, his form thrown back in his saddle to its utmost distance, his
left hand drawing up his bridle with its greatest force, while the right grasped that of Miss Grant
so as to draw the head of her horse under its body. Both the animals stood shaking in every joint
with terror, and snorting fearfully. Louisa herself had relinquished her reins, and, with her hands
pressed on her face, sat bending forward in her saddle, in an attitude of despair, mingled
strangely with resignation.
"Are you safe?" cried the Judge, first breaking the awful silence of the moment.
"By God's blessing," returned the youth; "but if there had been branches to the tree we must have
been lost—"
He was interrupted by the figure of Louisa slowly yielding in her saddle, and but for his arm she
would have sunk to the earth. Terror, however, was the only injury that the clergyman's daughter
had sustained, and, with the aid of Elizabeth, she was soon restored to her senses. After some
little time was lost in recovering her strength, the young lady was replaced in her saddle, and
supported on either side by Judge Temple and Mr. Edwards she was enabled to follow the party
in their slow progress.
"The sudden fallings of the trees," said Marmaduke, "are the most dangerous accidents in the
forest, for they are not to be foreseen, being impelled by no winds, nor any extraneous or visible
cause against which we can guard."
"The reason of their falling, Judge Temple, is very obvious," said the sheriff. "The tree is old and
decayed, and it is gradually weakened by the frosts, until a line drawn from the centre of gravity
falls without its base, and then the tree comes of a certainty; and I should like to know what
greater compulsion there can be for any thing than a mathematical certainty. I studied math—"
"Very true, Richard," interrupted Marmaduke; "thy reasoning is true, and, if my memory be not
over-treacherous, was furnished by myself on a former occasion, But how is one to guard against
the danger? Canst thou go through the forests measuring the bases and calculating the centres of
the oaks? Answer me that, friend Jones, and I will say thou wilt do the country a service."
"Answer thee that, friend Temple!" returned Richard; "a well-educated man can answer thee
anything, sir. Do any trees fall in this manner but such as are decayed? Take care not to approach
the roots of a rotten tree, and you will be safe enough."
"That would be excluding us entirely from the forests," said Marmaduke. "But, happily, the
winds usually force down most of these dangerous ruins, as their currents are admitted into the
woods by the surrounding clearings, and such a fall as this has been is very rare."
79
Louisa by this time had recovered so much strength as to allow the party to proceed at a quicker
pace, but long before they were safely housed they were overtaken by the storm; and when they
dismounted at the door of the mansion-house, the black plumes of Miss Temple's hat were
drooping with the weight of a load of damp snow, and the coats of the gentlemen were powdered
with the same material.
While Edwards was assisting Louisa from her horse, the warm-hearted girl caught his hand with
fervor and whispered:
"Now, Mr. Edwards, both father and daughter owe their lives to you."
A driving northwesterly storm succeeded, and before the sun was set every vestige of spring had
vanished; the lake, the mountains, the village, and the fields being again hidden under one
dazzling coat of snow.
The Pioneers, Chapter XXII
"Men, boys, and girls
Desert the unpeopled village; and wild crowds
Spread o'er the plain, by the sweet phrensy driven."-Somerville.
From this time to the close of April the weather continued to be a succession of neat and rapid
changes. One day the soft airs of spring seemed to be stealing along the valley, and, in unison
with an invigorating sun, attempting covertly to rouse the dormant powers of the vegetable
world, while, on the next, the surly blasts from the north would sweep across the lake and erase
every impression left by their gentle adversaries. The snow, however, finally disappeared, and
the green wheat fields were seen in every direction, spotted with the dark and charred stumps
that had, the preceding season, supported some of the proudest trees of the forest. Ploughs were
in motion, wherever those useful implements could be used, and the smokes of the sugar- camps
were no longer seen issuing from the woods of maple. The lake had lost the beauty of a field of
ice, but still a dark and gloomy covering concealed its waters, for the absence of currents left
them yet hidden under a porous crust, which, saturated with the fluid, barely retained enough
strength to preserve the continuity of its parts. Large flocks of wild geese were seen passing over
the country, which hovered, for a time, around the hidden sheet of water, apparently searching
for a resting-place; and then, on finding them selves excluded by the chill covering, would soar
away to the north, filling the air with discordant screams, as if venting their complaints at the
tardy operations of Nature.
For a week, the dark covering of the Otsego was left to the undisturbed possession of two eagles,
who alighted on the centre of its field, and sat eyeing their undisputed territory. During the
presence of these monarchs of the air, the flocks of migrating birds avoided crossing the plain of
ice by turning into the hills, apparently seeking the protection of the forests, while the white and
bald heads of the tenants of the lake were turned upward, with a look of contempt. But the time
had come when even these kings of birds were to be dispossessed. An opening had been
gradually increasing at the lower extremity of the lake, and around the dark spot where the
current of the river prevented the formation of ice during even the coldest weather; and the fresh
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southerly winds, that now breathed freely upon the valley, made an impression on the waters.
Mimic waves began to curl over the margin of the frozen field, which exhibited an outline of
crystallizations that slowly receded toward the north. At each step the power of the winds and the
waves increased, until, after a struggle of a few hours, the turbulent little billows succeeded in
setting the whole field in motion, when it was driven beyond the reach of the eye, with a rapidity
that was as magical as the change produced in the scene by this expulsion of the lingering
remnant of winter. Just as the last sheet of agitated ice was disappearing in the distance, the
eagles rose, and soared with a wide sweep above the clouds, while the waves tossed their little
caps of snow in the air, as if rioting in their release from a thraldom of five minutes' duration.
The following morning Elizabeth was awakened by the exhilarating sounds of the martens, who
were quarrelling and chattering around the little boxes suspended above her windows, and the
cries of Richard, who was calling in tones animating as signs of the season itself:
"Awake! awake! my fair lady! the gulls are hovering over the lake already, and the heavens are
alive with pigeons. You may look an hour before you can find a hole through which to get a peep
at the sun. Awake! awake! lazy ones' Benjamin is overhauling the ammunition, and we only wait
for our breakfasts, and away for the mountains and pigeon-shooting."
There was no resisting this animated appeal, and in a few minutes Miss Temple and her friend
descended to the parlor. The doors of the hall were thrown open, and the mild, balmy air of a
clear spring morning was ventilating the apartment, where the vigilance of the ex-steward had
been so long maintaining an artificial heat with such unremitted diligence. The gentlemen were
impatiently waiting for their morning's repast, each equipped in the garb of a sportsman. Mr.
Jones made many visits to the southern door, and would cry:
"See, Cousin Bess! see, 'Duke, the pigeon-roosts of the south have broken up! They are growing
more thick every instant, Here is a flock that the eye cannot see the end of. There is food enough
in it to keep the army of Xerxes for a month, and feathers enough to make beds for the whole
country. Xerxes, Mr. Edwards, was a Grecian king, who— no, he was a Turk, or a Persian, who
wanted to conquer Greece, just the same as these rascals will overrun our wheat fields, when
they come back in the fall. Away! away! Bess; I long to pepper them."
In this wish both Marmaduke and young Edwards seemed equally to participate, for the sight
was exhilarating to a sportsman; and the ladies soon dismissed the party after a hasty breakfast.
If the heavens were alive with pigeons, the whole village seemed equally in motion with men,
women, and children. Every species of firearm, from the French ducking gun, with a barrel near
six feet in length, to the common horseman's pistol, was to be seen in the hands of the men and
boys; while bows and arrows, some made of the simple stick of walnut sapling and others in a
rude imitation of the ancient cross-bows, were carried by many of the latter.
The houses and the signs of life apparent in the village drove the alarmed birds from the direct
line of their flight, toward the mountains, along the sides and near the bases of which they were
glancing in dense masses, equally wonderful by the rapidity of their motion and their incredible
numbers.
81
We have already said that, across the inclined plane which fell from the steep ascent of the
mountain to the banks of the Susquehanna, ran the highway on either side of which a clearing of
many acres had been made at a very early day. Over those clearings, and up the eastern
mountain, and along the dangerous path that was cut into its side, the different individuals posted
themselves, and in a few moments the attack commenced.
Among the sportsmen was the tall, gaunt form of Leather-Stocking, walking over the field, with
his rifle hanging on his arm, his dogs at his heels; the latter now scenting the dead or wounded
birds that were beginning to tumble from the flocks, and then crouching under the legs of their
master, as if they participated in his feelings at this wasteful and unsportsmanlike execution.
The reports of the firearms became rapid, whole volleys rising from the plain, as flocks of more
than ordinary numbers darted over the opening, shadowing the field like a cloud; and then the
light smoke of a single piece would issue from among the leafless bushes on the mountain, as
death was hurled on the retreat of the affrighted birds, who were rising from a volley, in a vain
effort to escape. Arrows and missiles of every kind were in the midst of the flocks; and so
numerous were the birds, and so low did they take their flight, that even long poles in the hands
of those on the sides of the mountain were used to strike them to the earth.
During all this time Mr. Jones, who disdained the humble and ordinary means of destruction
used by his companions, was busily occupied, aided by Benjamin, in making arrangements for
an assault of more than ordinarily fatal character. Among the relics of the old military
excursions, that occasionally are discovered throughout the different districts of the western part
of New York, there had been found in Templeton, at its settlement, a small swivel, which would
carry a ball of a pound weight. It was thought to have been deserted by a war- party of the whites
in one of their inroads into the Indian settlements, when, perhaps, convenience or their necessity
induced them to leave such an incumberance behind them in the woods. This miniature cannon
had been released from the rust, and being mounted on little wheels was now in a state for actual
service. For several years it was the sole organ for extraordinary rejoicings used in those
mountains. On the mornings of the Fourth of July it would be heard ringing among the hills; and
even Captain Hollister, who was the highest authority in that part of the country on all such
occasions, affirmed that, considering its dimensions, it was no despicable gun for a salute. It was
somewhat the worse for the service it had performed, it is true, there being but a trifling
difference in size between the touch-hole and the muzzle Still, the grand conceptions of Richard
had suggested the importance of such an instrument in hurling death at his nimble enemies. The
swivel was dragged by a horse into a part of the open space that the sheriff thought most eligible
for planning a battery of the kind, and Mr. Pump proceeded to load it. Several handfuls of duckshot were placed on top of the powder, and the major-domo announced that his piece was ready
for service.
The sight of such an implement collected all the idle spectators to the spot, who, being mostly
boys, filled the air with cries of exultation and delight The gun was pointed high, and Richard,
holding a coal of fire in a pair of tongs, patiently took his seat on a stump, awaiting the
appearance of a flock worthy of his notice.
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So prodigious was the number of the birds that the scattering fire of the guns, with the hurling of
missiles and the cries of the boys, had no other effect than to break off small flocks from the
immense masses that continued to dart along the valley, as if the whole of the feathered tribe
were pouring through that one pass. None pretended to collect the game, which lay scattered
over the fields in such profusion as to cover the very ground with fluttering victims.
Leather-Stocking was a silent but uneasy spectator of all these proceedings, but was able to keep
his sentiments to himself until he saw the introduction of the swivel into the sports.
"This comes of settling a country!" he said. "Here have I known the pigeon to fly for forty long
years, and, till you made your clearings, there was nobody to skeart or to hurt them, I loved to
see them come into the woods, for they were company to a body, hurting nothing —being, as it
was, as harmless as a garter-snake. But now it gives me sore thoughts when I hear the frighty
things whizzing through the air, for I know it's only a motion to bring out all the brats of the
village. Well, the Lord won't see the waste of his creatures for nothing, and right will be done to
the pigeons, as well as others, by and by. There's Mr. Oliver as bad as the rest of them, firing into
the flocks as if he was shooting down nothing but Mingo warriors." Among the sportsmen was
Billy Kirby, who, armed with an old musket, was loading, and, without even looking into the air,
was firing and shouting as his victims fell even on his own person. He heard the speech of Natty,
and took upon himself to reply:
"What! old Leather-Stocking," he cried, "grumbling at the loss of a few pigeons! If you had to
sow your wheat twice, and three times, as I have done, you wouldn't be so massyfully feeling
toward the divils. Hurrah, boys! scatter the feathers! This is better than shooting at a turkey's
head and neck, old fellow."
"It's better for you, maybe, Billy Kirby," replied the indignant old hunter, "and all them that don't
know how to put a ball down a rifle- barrel, or how to bring it up again with a true aim; but it's
wicked to be shooting into flocks in this wasty manner, and none to do it who know how to
knock over a single bird. If a body has a craving for pigeon's flesh, why, it's made the same as all
other creatures, for man's eating; but not to kill twenty and eat one. When I want such a thing I
go into the woods till I find one to my liking, and then I shoot him off the branches, without
touching the feather of another, though there might be a hundred on the same tree. You couldn't
do such a thing, Billy Kirby—you couldn't do it if you tried."
"What's that, old corn-stalk! you sapless stub!" cried the wood- chopper. "You have grown
wordy, since the affair of the turkey; but if you are for a single shot, here goes at that bird which
comes on by himself."
The fire from the distant part of the field had driven a single pigeon below the flock to which it
belonged, and, frightened with the constant reports of the muskets, it was approaching the spot
where the disputants stood, darting first from one side and then to the other, cutting the air with
the swiftness of lightning, and making a noise with its wings not unlike the rushing of a bullet.
Unfortunately for the wood-chopper, notwithstanding his vaunt, he did not see this bird until it
was too late to fire as it approached, and he pulled the trigger at the unlucky moment when it was
darting immediately over his head. The bird continued its course with the usual velocity.
83
Natty lowered his rifle from his arm when the challenge was made, and waiting a moment, until
the terrified victim had got in a line with his eye, and had dropped near the bank of the lake, he
raised it again with uncommon rapidity, and fired. It might have been chance, or it might have
been skill, that produced the result; it was probably a union of both; but the pigeon whirled over
in the air, and fell into the lake with a broken wing At the sound of his rifle, both his dogs started
from his feet, and in a few minutes the "slut" brought out the bird, still alive.
The wonderful exploit of Leather-Stocking was noised through the field with great rapidity, and
the sportsmen gathered in, to learn the truth of the report.
"What" said young Edwards," have you really killed a pigeon on the wing, Natty, with a single
ball?"
"Haven't I killed loons before now, lad, that dive at the flash?" returned the hunter. "It's much
better to kill only such as you want, without wasting your powder and lead, than to be firing into
God's creatures in this wicked manner. But I came out for a bird, and you know the reason why I
like small game, Mr. Oliver, and now I have got one Twill go home, for I don't relish to see these
wasty ways that you are all practysing, as if the least thing wasn't made for use, and not to
destroy."
"Thou sayest well, Leather-Stocking," cried Marmaduke, "and I begin to think it time to put an
end to this work of destruction."
"Put an end, Judge, to your clearings. Ain't the woods His work as well as the pigeons? Use, but
don't waste. Wasn't the woods made for the beasts and birds to harbor in? and when man wanted
their flesh, their skins, or their feathers, there's the place to seek them. But I'll go to the hut with
my own game, for I wouldn't touch one of the harmless things that cover the ground here,
looking up with their eyes on me, as if they only wanted tongues to say their thoughts." With this
sentiment in his month, Leather-Stocking threw his rifle over his arm, and, followed by his dogs,
stepped across the clearing with great caution, taking care not to tread on one of the wounded
birds in his path. He soon entered the bushes on the margin of the lake and was hid from view.
Whatever impression the morality of Natty made on the Judge, it was utterly lost on Richard. He
availed himself of the gathering of the sportsmen, to lay a plan for one "fell swoop" of
destruction. The musket-men were drawn up in battle array, in a line extending on each side of
his artillery, with orders to await the signal of firing from himself.
"Stand by, my lads," said Benjamin, who acted as an aid de-camp on this occasion, "stand by, my
hearties, and when Squire Dickens heaves out the signal to begin firing, d'ye see, you may open
upon them in a broadside. Take care and fire low, boys, and you'll be sure to hull the flock."
"Fire low!" shouted Kirby; "hear the old fool! If we fire low, we may hit the stumps, but not
ruffle a pigeon."
"How should you know, you lubber?" cried Benjamin, with a very unbecoming heat for an
officer on the eve of battle—" how should you know, you grampus? Haven't I sailed aboard of
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the Boadishy for five years? and wasn't it a standing order to fire low, and to hull your enemy!
Keep silence at your guns, boys and mind the order that is passed."
The loud laughs of the musket-men were silenced by the more authoritative voice of Richard,
who called for attention and obedience to his signals.
Some millions of pigeons were supposed to have already passed, that morning, over the valley of
Templeton; but nothing like the flock that was now approaching had been seen before. It
extended from mountain to mountain in one solid blue mass, and the eye looked in vain, over the
southern hills, to find its termination. The front of this living column was distinctly marked by a
line but very slightly indented, so regular and even was the flight. Even Marmaduke forgot the
morality of Leather-Stocking as it approached, and, in common with the rest, brought his musket
to a poise.
"Fire!" cried the sheriff, clapping a coal to the priming of the cannon. As half of Benjamin's
charge escaped through the touch-hole, the whole volley of the musketry preceded the report of
the swivel. On receiving this united discharge of small-arms, the front of the flock darted
upward, while, at the same instant, myriads of those in the rear rushed with amazing rapidity into
their places, so that, when the column of white smoke gushed from the mouth of the little
cannon, an accumulated mass of objects was gliding over its point of direction. The roar of the
gun echoed along the mountains, and died away to the north, like distant thunder, while the
whole flock of alarmed birds seemed, for a moment, thrown into one disorderly and agitated
mass. The air was filled with their irregular flight, layer rising above layer, far above the tops of
the highest pines, none daring to advance beyond the dangerous pass; when, suddenly, some of
the headers of the feathered tribes shot across the valley, taking their flight directly over the
village, and hundreds of thousands in their rear followed the example, deserting the eastern side
of the plain to their persecutors and the slain.
"Victory!" shouted Richard, "victory! we have driven the enemy from the field."
"Not so, Dickon," said Marmaduke; "the field is covered with them; and, like the LeatherStocking, I see nothing but eyes, in every direction, as the innocent sufferers turn their heads in
terror. Full one-half of those that have fallen are yet alive; and I think it is time to end the sport,
if sport it be."
"Sport!" cried the sheriff; "it is princely sport! There are some thousands of the blue-coated boys
on the ground, so that every old woman in the village may have a pot-pie for the asking."
"Well, we have happily frightened the birds from this side of the valley," said Marmaduke, "and
the carnage must of necessity end for the present. Boys, I will give you sixpence a hundred for
the pigeons' heads only; so go to work, and bring them into the village."
This expedient produced the desired effect, for every urchin on the ground went industriously to
work to wring the necks of the wounded birds. Judge Temple retired toward his dwelling with
that kind of feeling that many a man has experienced before him, who discovers, after the
excitement of the moment has passed, that he has purchased pleasure at the price of misery to
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others. Horses were loaded with the dead; and, after this first burst of sporting, the shooting of
pigeons became a business, with a few idlers, for the remainder of the season, Richard, however,
boasted for many a year of his shot with the "cricket;" and Benjamin gravely asserted that he
thought they had killed nearly as many pigeons on that day as there were Frenchmen destroyed
on the memorable occasion of Rodney's victory.
The Last of the Mohicans, Chapter III
Cooper, James Fenimore. "Chapter III." The Last of the Mohicans. A Narrative of 1757.
Philadelphia: H.C. Carey & I. Lea, 1826.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/940
"Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade."
-- Bryant.
Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions to penetrate still deeper into a
forest that contained such treacherous inmates, we must use an author's privilege, and shift the
scene a few miles to the westward of the place where we have last seen them.
On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapid stream, within an hour's
journey of the encampment of Webb, like those who awaited the appearance of an absent person,
or the approach of some expected event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of
the river overhanging the water, and shadowing its dark current with a deeper hue. The rays of
the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, and the intense heat of the day was lessened, as the
cooler vapors of the springs and fountains rose above their leafy beds, and rested in the
atmosphere. Still that breathing silence, which marks the drowsy sultriness of an American
landscape in July, pervaded the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low voices of the men, the
occasional and lazy tap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a swelling on
the ear, from the dull roar of a distant waterfall.
These feeble and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters, to draw their
attention from the more interesting matter of their dialogue. While one of these loiterers showed
the red skin and wild accoutrements of a native of the woods, the other exhibited, through the
mask of his rude and nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though sunburnt and long-faded
complexion of one who might claim descent from a European parentage. The former was seated
on the end of a mossy log, in a posture that permitted him to heighten the effect of his earnest
language, by the calm but expressive gestures of an Indian engaged in debate. His body, which
was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of death, drawn in intermingled colors of white
86
and black. His closely shaved head, on which no other hair than the well known and chivalrous
scalping tuft [5] was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a
solitary eagle's plume, that crossed his crown, and depended over the left shoulder. A tomahawk
and scalping-knife, of English manufacture, were in his girdle; while a short military rifle, of that
sort with which the policy of the whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly across his bare
and sinewy knee. The expanded chest, full formed limbs, and grave countenance of this warrior,
would denote that he had reached the vigor of his days, though no symptoms of decay appeared
to have yet weakened his manhood.
The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealed by his clothes, was like
that of one who had known hardships and exertion from his earliest youth. His person, though
muscular, was rather attenuated than full; but every nerve and muscle appeared strung and
indurated by unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting-shirt of forest green, fringed with
faded yellow [6], and a summer cap of skins which had been shorn of their fur. He also bore a
knife in a girdle of wampum, like that which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, but no
tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after the gay fashion of the natives, while the only
part of his under-dress which appeared below the hunting-frock, was a pair of buckskin leggings,
that laced at the sides, and which were gartered above the knees with the sinews of a deer. A
pouch and horn completed his personal accoutrements, though a rifle of great length [7], which
the theory of the more ingenious whites had taught them was the most dangerous of all fire-arms,
leaned against a neighboring sapling. The eye of the hunter, or scout, whichever he might be,
was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving while he spoke, on every side of him, as if in quest
of game, or distrusting the sudden approach of some lurking enemy. Notwithstanding the
symptoms of habitual suspicion, his countenance was not only without guile, but at the moment
at which he is introduced, it was charged with an expression of sturdy honesty.
"Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chingachgook," he said, speaking in the tongue
which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the country between the Hudson and
the Potomac, and of which we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader;
endeavoring, at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities, both of the individual and of
the language. "Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the big river, [8] fought the
people of the country, and took the land; and mine came from the red sky of the morning, over
the salt lake, and did their work much after the fashion that had been set them by yours; then let
God judge the matter between us, and friends spare their words!"
"My fathers fought with the naked redmen!" returned the Indian sternly, in the same language.
"Is there no difference, Hawkeye, between the stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden
bullet with which you kill?"
"There is reason in an Indian, though nature has made him with a red skin!" said the white man,
shaking his head like one on whom such an appeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a
moment he appeared to be conscious of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again,
he answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner his limited information would
allow: "I am no scholar, and I care not who knows it; but judging from what I have seen, at deer
chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below, I should think a rifle in the hands of their
87
grandfathers was not so dangerous as a hickory bow and a good flint-head might be, if drawn
with Indian judgment, and sent by an Indian eye."
"You have the story told by your fathers," returned the other, coldly waving his hand. "What say
your old men? do they tell the young warriors, that the pale-faces met the redmen, painted for
war and armed with the stone hatchet and wooden gun?"
"I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural privileges, though the
worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois, daren't deny that I am genuine white," the
scout replied, surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony and sinewy hand;
"and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, of which, as an honest man, I can't
approve. It is one of their customs to write in books what they have done and seen, instead of
telling them in their villages, where the lie can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and the
brave soldier can call on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In consequence of
this bad fashion, a man who is too conscientious to misspend his days among the women, in
learning the names of black marks, may never hear of the deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in
striving to outdo them. For myself, I conclude the Bumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn
with a rifle, which must have been handed down from generation to generation, as, our holy
commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though I should be loth to answer
for other people in such a matter. But every story has its two sides; so I ask you, Chingachgook,
what passed, according to the traditions of the redmen, when our fathers first met?"
A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the Indian sat mute; then, full of the dignity of his
office, he commenced his brief tale, with a solemnity that served to heighten its appearance of
truth.
"Listen, Hawkeye, and your ear shall drink no lie. 'Tis what my fathers have said, and what the
Mohicans have done." He hesitated a single instant, and bending a cautious glance toward his
companion, he continued, in a manner that was divided between interrogation and assertion,
"Does not this stream at our feet run towards the summer, until its waters grow salt, and the
current flows upward?"
"It can't be denied that your traditions tell you true in both these matters," said the white man;
"for I have been there, and have seen them; though, why water, which is so sweet in the shade,
should become bitter in the sun, is an alteration for which I have never been able to account."
"And the current!" demanded the Indian, who expected his reply with that sort of interest that a
man feels in the confirmation of testimony, at which he marvels even while he respects it; "the
fathers of Chingachgook have not lied!"
"The Holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing in nature. They call this up-stream
current the tide, which is a thing soon explained, and clear enough. Six hours the waters run in,
and six hours they run out, and the reason is this: when there is higher water in the sea than in the
river, they run in, until the river gets to be highest, and then it runs out again."
88
"The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes, run downward until they lie like my hand,"
said the Indian, stretching the limb horizontally before him, "and then they run no more."
"No honest man will deny it," said the scout, a little nettled at the implied distrust of his
explanation of the mystery of the tides; "and I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where
the land is level. But everything depends on what scale you look at things. Now, on the small
scale, the 'arth is level; but on the large scale it is round. In this manner, pools and ponds, and
even the great fresh-water lake, may be stagnant, as you and I both know they are, having seen
them; but when you come to spread water over a great tract, like the sea, where the earth is
round, how in reason can the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still on the
brink of those black rocks a mile above us, though your own ears tell you that it is tumbling over
them at this very moment!"
If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too dignified to betray his
unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced, and resumed his narrative in his former
solemn manner.
"We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plains where the buffaloes
live, until we reached the big river. There we fought the Alligewi, till the ground was red with
their blood. From the banks of the big river to the shores of the salt lake, there was none to meet
us. The Maquas followed at a distance. We said the country should be ours from the place where
the water runs up no longer on this stream, to a river twenty suns' journey toward the summer.
The land we had taken like warriors, we kept like men. We drove the Maquas into the woods
with the bears. They only tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the great lake; we threw
them the bones."
"All this I have heard and believe," said the white man, observing that the Indian paused: "but it
was long before the English came into the country."
"A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale-faces who came among us
spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, when my fathers had buried the tomahawk with
the redmen around them. Then, Hawkeye," he continued, betraying his deep emotion only by
permitting his voice to fall to those low, guttural tones, which rendered his language, as spoken
at times, so very musical; "then, Hawkeye, we were one people, and we were happy. The salt
lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, and the air its birds. We took wives who bore us children;
we worshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of
triumph!"
"Know you anything of your own family at that time?" demanded the white. "But you are a just
man, for an Indian! and, as I suppose you hold their gifts, your fathers must have been brave
warriors, and wise men at the council fire."
"My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. The blood of chiefs is in my
veins, where it must stay forever. The Dutch landed, and gave my people the fire-water; they
drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found
the Great Spirit. Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot, they were driven back from the
89
shores, until I, that am a chief and a sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the
trees, and have never visited the graves of, my fathers!"
"Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind," returned the scout, a good deal touched at the
calm suffering of his companion; "and they often aid a man in his good intentions; though, for
myself, I expect to leave my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder
by the wolves. But where are to be found those of your race who came to their kin in the
Delaware country, so many summers since?"
"Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen, one by one: so all of my family departed,
each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the hill-top, and must go down into the valley; and
when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there will no longer be any of the blood of the sagamores,
for my boy is the last of the Mohicans."
"Uncas is here!" said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones, near his elbow; "who speaks
to Uncas?"
The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, and made an involuntary movement of
the hand towards his rifle, at this sudden interruption; but the Indian sat composed, and without
turning his head at the unexpected sounds.
At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a noiseless step, and seated
himself on the bank of the rapid stream. No exclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was
any question asked, or reply given, for several minutes; each appearing to await the moment
when he might speak, without betraying womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white
man seemed to take counsel from their customs, and, relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also
remained silent and reserved. At length Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly towards his son,
and demanded,—
"Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these woods?"
"I have been on their trail," replied the young Indian, "and know that they number as many as the
fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid, like cowards."
"The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder!" said the white man, whom we shall call
Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions. "That bushy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his
spies into our very camp, but he will know what road we travel!"
"Tis enough!" returned the father, glancing his eye towards the setting sun; "they shall be driven
like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let us eat to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men
to-morrow."
"I am as ready to do the one as the other; but to fight the Iroquois 'tis necessary to find the
skulkers; and to eat, 'tis necessary to get the game—talk of the devil and he will come; there is a
pair of the biggest antlers I have seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill! Now,
Uncas," he continued in a half whisper, and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like one who
90
had learnt to be watchful, "I will bet my charger three times full of powder, against a foot of
wampum, that I take him atwixt the eyes, and nearer to the right than to the left."
"It cannot be!" said the young Indian, springing to his feet with youthful eagerness; "all but the
tips of his horns are hid!"
"He's a boy!" said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, and addressing the father.
"Does he think when a hunter sees a part of the creatur', he can't tell where the rest of him should
be!"
Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill, on which he so much valued
himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with his hand, saying—
"Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?"
"These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be by instinct!" returned the scout,
dropping his rifle, and turning away like a man who was convinced of his error. "I must leave the
buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to eat."
The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture of the hand, Uncas threw
himself on the ground, and approached the animal with wary movements. When within a few
yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as
if their owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment the twang of the cord was
heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from the
cover, to the very feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas
darted to his side, and passed his knife across the throat, when bounding to the edge of the river
it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood.
"'Twas done with Indian skill," said the scout, laughing inwardly, but with vast satisfaction; "and
'twas a pretty sight to behold! Though an arrow is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the
work."
"Hugh!" ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound who scented game.
"By the Lord, there is a drove of them!" exclaimed the scout, whose eyes began to glisten with
the ardor of his usual occupation; "if they come within range of a bullet I will drop one, though
the whole Six Nations should be lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to
my ears the woods are dumb."
"There is but one deer, and he is dead," said the Indian, bending his body till his ear nearly
touched the earth. "I hear the sounds of feet!"
"Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on his trail."
91
"No. The horses of white men are coming!" returned the other, raising himself with dignity, and
resuming his seat on the log with his former composure. "Hawkeye, they are your brothers;
speak to them."
"That will I, and in English that the king needn't be ashamed to answer," returned the hunter,
speaking in the language of which he boasted; "but I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of
man or beast; 'tis strange that an Indian should understand white sounds better than a man who,
his very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood, although he may have lived with the
redskins long enough to be suspected! Ha! there goes something like the cracking of a dry stick,
too—now I hear the bushes move—yes, yes, there is a trampling that I mistook for the falls—
and—but here they come themselves; God keep them from the Iroquois!"
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Resources for Poe
[image] Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809, to teenage actors David Poe,
Jr. and Elizabeth Arnold Poe. His father deserted the family early and at three, he, his sister, and
his mother relocated to Richmond, Virginia. After his mother's death, Poe was taken in by John
Allan, a wealthy tobacco merchant. Allan and his wife, Frances, raised Poe, traveled and lived
with him abroad for five years, and financed his education, though they never formally adopted
him. In 1826, Poe attended the University of Virginia but stayed less than a year, after having
financial arguments with his stepfather. Poe joined the U.S. Army for a number of years, then
enrolled at West Point, with the help of his stepfather, only to be dismissed from that school in
1831. Poe wed his 13 year old first cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1835, not an uncommon practice
in that day and age. He lived with Virginia and her mother in the cities of Richmond,
Philadelphia and New York City, where he lectured and wrote for and edited magazines and
newspapers. He had difficulty holding on to any one job for long, due to his bouts of depression
and drinking. During his life, Poe was known less for his short stories than his criticism and
sketches, though his poem, "The Raven," published 1845 finally secured his fame with the
broader public. In 1847, Virginia died from tuberculosis and afterward Poe was increasing
intoxicated and suffered even more from ill health and depression. In 1849, Poe was found
drunk and unconscious in Baltimore near a polling booth on Election Day. He was traveling to
Philadelphia, to continue courting Sarah Elmira Royster, one of his childhood sweethearts. He
died a few days after he was found, on October 7, 1849. Immediately after his death, Poe's
reputation was viciously savaged by former friend and editor, Rufus Griswold, who describe the
poet and author as demonic and depraved. Critical reaction to Poe and his writings were split for
a century, some thinking him pedantic and others a genius. Today he is known for his lasting
impact on popular culture, including his contributions to the genres of horror writing, tales of the
fantastic, detective fiction, and science-fiction, along with romantic and gothic poetry. Critical
writing on Poe and his works is extensive. Biographies include John Carl Miller's Building Poe
Biography (1977), Kenneth Silverman's Edgar A. Poe (1991), and Thomas and Jackson's The
Poe Log: A Documentary Life of Edgar Allan Poe (1987). Students will find useful Frank and
Magistrale's The Poe Encyclopedia (1997) and Dawn Sova's Critical Companion to Edgar Allan
92
Poe (2007). Also valuable are Benjamin Fisher's The Cambridge Introduction to Edgar Allan
Poe and Kevin Hayes' Edgar Allan Poe (2009).
THE RAVEN
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Raven." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New York:
Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2151
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you "—here I opened wide the door;——
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
93
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never—nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
94
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent
thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
TO HELEN (later revision)
95
Poe, Edgar Allan. "To Helen." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New York: Collier
& Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2151
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
ANNABEL LEE
Poe, Edgar Allan. "Annabel Lee." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New York:
Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2151
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;—
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and She was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my ANNABEL LEE—
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
96
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up, in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling
And killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:—
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
SONNET—TO SCIENCE
Poe, Edgar Allan. "Sonnet - To Science." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New
York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2151
SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
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Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
The Fall of the House of Usher
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Fall of the House of Usher." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five
Volumes. New York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu'on le touche il rèsonne..
De Béranger.
DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds
hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a
singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew
on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first
glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for
the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which
the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked
upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the
domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—
and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can
compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon
opium—the bitter lapse into everyday life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no
goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to
think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a
mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt,
there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us,
still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I
reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the
picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful
impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and
lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even
more thrilling than before—upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the
ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows.
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Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its
proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years
had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of
the country—a letter from him—which, in its wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no
other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of
acute bodily illness—of a mental disorder which oppressed him—and of an earnest desire to see
me, as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by the
cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this,
and much more, was said—it was the apparent heart that went with his request—which allowed
me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very
singular summons.
Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really knew little of my friend.
His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient
family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, displaying
itself, through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in repeated deeds
of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies,
perhaps even more than to the orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of musical science. I
had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it
was, had put forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that the entire family lay in
the direct line of descent, and had always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so
lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the
character of the premises with the accredited character of the people, and while speculating upon
the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon
the other—it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating
transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so
identified the two as to merge the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal
appellation of the "House of Usher"—an appellation which seemed to include, in the minds of
the peasantry who used it, both the family and the family mansion.
I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment—that of looking down
within the tarn—had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the
consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition—for why should I not so term it?—served
mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all
sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, when I
again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a
strange fancy—a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the
sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that
about the whole mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their
immediate vicinity—an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had
reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn—a pestilent and mystic
vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real
aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The
discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a
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fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation.
No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its
still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this there
was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long
years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond
this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the
eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which,
extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag
direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A servant in waiting took my
horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted
me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his
master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague
sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me—while the carvings of
the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the
phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such
as which, I had been accustomed from my infancy—while I hesitated not to acknowledge how
familiar was all this—I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary
images were stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His
countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted
me with trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the
presence of his master.
The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows were long, narrow,
and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible
from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trellissed panes,
and served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye, however,
struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and
fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse,
comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but
failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of
stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at full length, and
greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone
cordiality—of the constrained effort of the ennuyé; man of the world. A glance, however, at his
countenance, convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while
he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never
before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that I
could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me with the companion of my
early boyhood. Yet the character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness
of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and
very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a
breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of
prominence, of a want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; these
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features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made up altogether a
countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing
character of these features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, lay so much of
change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. The silken hair, too,
had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than
fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect its Arabesque expression with any idea
of simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence—an inconsistency; and I
soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual
trepidancy—an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had indeed been
prepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions
deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament. His action was alternately
vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal
spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic concision—that abrupt, weighty,
unhurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation—that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated
guttural utterance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of
opium, during the periods of his most intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the
solace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to be
the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he
despaired to find a remedy—a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which would
undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as
he detailed them, interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and the general
manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the
senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain
texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and
there were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him
with horror.
To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. "I shall perish," said he, "I must
perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of
the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most
trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no
abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect—in terror. In this unnerved—in this pitiable
condition—I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and reason
together, in some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR."
I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another singular
feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard
to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had never ventured forth—in
regard to an influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be
re-stated—an influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family
mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit—an effect which the
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physique of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had,
at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence.
He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus
afflicted him could be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin—to the severe and
long-continued illness—indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution—of a tenderly beloved
sister—his sole companion for long years—his last and only relative on earth. "Her decease," he
said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, "would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail)
the last of the ancient race of the Ushers." While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she
called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my
presence, disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread—and
yet I found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my
eyes followed her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought
instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother—but he had buried his face in his hands,
and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated
fingers through which trickled many passionate tears.
The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a
gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially
cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the
pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the
evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at night with
inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I
had obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should obtain—that the lady, at least
while living, would be seen by me no more.
For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or myself: and during this
period I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted
and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking
guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the
recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind
from which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral
and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master
of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact character
of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and
highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised dirges will
ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular
perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings
over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at
which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why;—from these
paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more than
a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter
simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal
painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least—in the circumstances then
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surrounding me—there arose out of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to
throw upon his canvass, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the
contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of
abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the
interior of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and
without interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design served well to convey the
idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was
observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of light was
discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and
inappropriate splendor.
I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all music
intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was,
perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, which gave birth,
in great measure, to the fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid facility of his
impromptus could not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well
as in the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed
verbal improvisations), the result of that intense mental collectedness and concentration to which
I have previously alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial
excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the
more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic current of its
meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of
Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled "The
Haunted Palace," ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus:
I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
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III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tunéd law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led us into a train of thought wherein
there became manifest an opinion of Usher's which I mention not so much on account of its
novelty, (for other men * have thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity with which he
maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things.
But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under
certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full extent, or
the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously
hinted) with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience had
been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones—in the order of
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their arrangement, as well as in that of the many fungi which overspread them, and of the
decayed trees which stood around—above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this
arrangement, and in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the evidence of
the sentience—was to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain
condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result was
discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which for centuries
had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made him what I now saw him—what he
was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none.
* Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of Landaff.—See "Chemical
Essays," vol v.
Our books—the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental existence of
the invalid—were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We
pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of Gresset; the Belphegor of
Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm
by Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean D'Indaginé, and of De la Chambre; the
Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite
volume was a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium, by the Dominican Eymeric
de Gironne; and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old African Satyrs and
OEgipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was
found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic—the manual of a
forgotten church—the Vigiliae Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae.
I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence upon the
hypochondriac, when, one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no
more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, (previously to its final
interment,) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The worldly
reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to
dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of the
unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the
part of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the
family. I will not deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I
met upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I
regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution.
At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary
entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in
which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its
oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and
entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that
portion of the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in
remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a place of
deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the
whole interior of a long archway through which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with
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copper. The door, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges.
Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of horror, we partially
turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. A
striking similitude between the brother and sister now first arrested my attention; and Usher,
divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that the
deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had
always existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead—for we
could not regard her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of
youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint
blush upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so
terrible in death. We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron,
made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the
house.
And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the features
of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations
were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and
objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue—but
the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was
heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his
utterance. There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring
with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times,
again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld
him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if
listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified—that it infected
me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic
yet impressive superstitions.
It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the
placing of the lady Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of such
feelings. Sleep came not near my couch—while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to
reason off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if
not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence of the gloomy furniture of the room—
of the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest,
swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed.
But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at
length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with
a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the
intense darkness of the chamber, harkened—I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit
prompted me—to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm,
at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of horror,
unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no
more during the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which I
had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment.
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I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my
attention. I presently recognised it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a
gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance was, as usual,
cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes—an evidently
restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me—but anything was preferable to
the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief.
"And you have not seen it?" he said abruptly, after having stared about him for some moments in
silence—"you have not then seen it?—but, stay! you shall." Thus speaking, and having carefully
shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.
The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a
tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A
whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there were frequent and violent
alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so
low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity
with which they flew careering from all points against each other, without passing away into the
distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this—yet we had
no glimpse of the moon or stars—nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under
surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately
around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible
gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.
"You must not—you shall not behold this!" said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a
gentle violence, from the window to a seat. "These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely
electrical phenomena not uncommon—or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank
miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement;—the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame.
Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen;—and so we will pass
away this terrible night together."
The antique volume which I had taken up was the "Mad Trist" of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I
had called it a favorite of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its
uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual
ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a
vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the hypochondriac, might find relief (for the
history of mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which
I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he
harkened, or apparently harkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have congratulated
myself upon the success of my design.
I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having
sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an
entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus:
"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withal, on
account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley
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with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon
his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows,
made quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling
therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and
hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the forest."
At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment, paused; for it appeared to me
(although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me)—it appeared to me that,
from some very remote portion of the mansion, there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might
have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the
very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was,
beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid the rattling of
the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the
sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued
the story:
"But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to
perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and
prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a
floor of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend
enwritten—
Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;
And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon, which fell before him,
and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that
Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof
was never before heard."
Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement—for there could be no
doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it
proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and
most unusual screaming or grating sound—the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already
conjured up for the dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most extraordinary
coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were
predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation,
the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the
sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes,
taken place in his demeanor. From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round
his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; and thus I could but partially
perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly.
His head had dropped upon his breast—yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and
rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at
variance with this idea—for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform
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sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which
thus proceeded:
"And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself
of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the
carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of
the castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth t feet upon the silver floor, with
a mighty great and terrible ringing sound."
No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than—as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the
moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver—I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic,
and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet;
but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he
sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance there reigned
a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over
his whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low,
hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at
length drank in the hideous import of his words.
"Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long—long—long—many minutes, many hours,
many days, have I heard it—yet I dared not—oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!—I dared
not—I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were
acute? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them—
many, many days ago—yet I dared not—I dared not speak! And now—to-night—Ethelred—ha!
ha!—the breaking of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the
shield!—say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison,
and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not
be here anon? Is she not hurryin my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not<
distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? Madman!"—here he sprang furiously to
his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his soul—"Madman!
I tell you that she now stands without the door!"
As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell—the
huge antique pannels to which the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their
ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust—but then without those doors
there did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood
upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her
emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the
threshold—then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and
in her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the
terrors he had anticipated.
From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its
wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild
light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its
shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon,
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which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before
spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I
gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the entire orb
of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing
asunder—there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and
the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the "House of
Usher."
William Wilson
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "William Wilson." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New York:
Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path?
Chamberlayne's Pharronida.
LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need
not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn—
for the horror—for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the
indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned!—to
the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?—and a
cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery,
and unpardonable crime. This epoch—these later years—took unto themselves a sudden
elevation in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow
base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From
comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the
enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what one event brought this evil thing to pass,
bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a
softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy—I
had nearly said for the pity—of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have been,
in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek
out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of
error. I would have them allow—what they cannot refrain from allowing—that, although
temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before—
certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered? Have I not indeed
been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the
wildest of all sublunary visions?
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I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all
times rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully
inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming,
for many reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to myself. I
grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungovernable passions.
Weak-minded, and beset with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but
little to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts
resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine.
Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when few children have abandoned
their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the
master of my own actions.
My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan
house, in a misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled
trees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spiritsoothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness
of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew
with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with
sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic
steeple lay imbedded and asleep.
It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon
minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am—misery, alas!
only too real—I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the
weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in
themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a
locality when and where I recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which
afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember.
The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid
brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prisonlike rampart formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week—once every
Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a
body through some of the neighbouring fields—and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded
in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village.
Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and
perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and
slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with
robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,—
-could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in
hand, the Draconian laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for
solution!
At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded
with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it
inspire! It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already
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mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery—a world
of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.
The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these, three
or four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel.
I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of course it was in
the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs; but through
this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed—such as a first advent to school
or final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully
took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holy-days.
But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how veritably a palace of
enchantment! There was really no end to its windings—to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It
was difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened
to be. From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in
ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable—inconceivable—and so returning
in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far
different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my
residence here, I was never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the little
sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help thinking, in the world. It was
very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a
remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the
sanctum, "during hours," of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure,
with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the "Dominic," we would all have
willingly perished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the
"classical" usher, one of the "English and mathematical." Interspersed about the room, crossing
and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and
time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters,
names at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have
entirely lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A
huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous
dimensions at the other.
Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or
disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no
external world of incident to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school
was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my
full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first mental development had in it much of
the uncommon—even much of the outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early
existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow—a weak and
irregular remembrance—an indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains.
With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find
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stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the
Carthaginian medals.
Yet in fact—in the fact of the world's view—how little was there to remember! The morning's
awakening, the nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations; the periodical halfholidays, and perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues;—these,
by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of
rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring.
"Oh, le bon temps, que ce siecle de fer!"
In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a
marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an
ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself;—over all with a single exception. This
exception was found in the person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same
Christian and surname as myself;—a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable; for,
notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those everyday appellations which seem, by
prescriptive right, to have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this
narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,—a fictitious title not very
dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted "our
set," presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class—in the sports and broils of the
play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and submission to my will—indeed, to
interfere with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and
unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master mind in boyhood over the less energetic
spirits of its companions.
Wilson's rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment;—the more so as, in spite of
the bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I secretly
felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with
myself, a proof of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet
this superiority—even this equality—was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our
associates, by some unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his
competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my
purposes, were not more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition
which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he
might have been supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify
myself; although there were times when I could not help observing, with a feeling made up of
wonder, abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions,
a certain most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness of manner. I could
only conceive this singular behavior to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming the
vulgar airs of patronage and protection.
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson's conduct, conjoined with our identity of name, and the
mere accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion
that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire
with much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that
Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had
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been brothers we must have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby's, I casually learned that
my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January, 1813—and this is a somewhat remarkable
coincidence; for the day is precisely that of my own nativity.
It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson,
and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether. We
had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he,
in some manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of
pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon what are called
"speaking terms," while there were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating
to awake me in a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into
friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real feelings towards him.
They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture;—some petulant animosity, which was not
yet hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the
moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself were the most
inseparable of companions.
It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which turned all my attacks
upon him, (and they were many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical
joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and
determined hostility. But my endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful,
even when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my namesake had much about him, in
character, of that unassuming and quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own
jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find,
indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from
constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit's end than
myself;—my rival had a weakness in the faucal or guttural organs, which precluded him from
raising his voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did not fall to take what
poor advantage lay in my power.
Wilson's retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his practical wit that
disturbed me beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would
vex me, is a question I never could solve; but, having discovered, he habitually practised the
annoyance. I had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not
plebeian praenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a
second William Wilson came also to the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name,
and doubly disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its
twofold repetition, who would be constantly in my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary
routine of the school business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable coincidence, be
often confounded with my own.
The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to show
resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the
remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I
perceived that we were even singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of feature.
I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship, which had grown current in the upper
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forms. In a word, nothing could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously concealed
such disturbance,) than any allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition existing
between us. But, in truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of
relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had ever been made a subject of
comment, or even observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it in all its bearings,
and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a
field of annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetration.
His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in actions; and most
admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general
manner were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice
did not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was
identical; and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own.
How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a
caricature,) I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation—in the fact that the
imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing
and strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my
bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was
characteristically disregardful of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours
might have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its
accomplishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not
resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily perceptible; or, more
possibly, I owed my security to the master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter, (which in
a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit of his original for my individual
contemplation and chagrin.
I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed
toward me, and of his frequent officious interference with my will. This interference often took
the ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received
it with a repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do
him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my
rival were on the side of those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming
inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far
keener than my own; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I
less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too
cordially hated and too bitterly despised.
As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful supervision, and daily
resented more and more openly what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in
the first years of our connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been
easily ripened into friendship: but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although
the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments,
in nearly similar proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw
this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me.
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It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, in
which he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of
demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air,
and general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by
bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy—wild, confused and thronging memories of
a time when memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which
oppressed me than by saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been
acquainted with the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago—some point of the
past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came; and I mention it at
all but to define the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular namesake.
The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers communicating
with each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must
necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many little nooks or recesses, the odds
and ends of the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as
dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were capable of accommodating but a
single individual. One of these small apartments was occupied by Wilson.
One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately after the altercation
just mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole
through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long
been plotting one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had
hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in
operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole extent of the malice with which I was
imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it,
on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of
his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close curtains
were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the
bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon his
countenance. I looked;—and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My
breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an objectless yet
intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face.
Were these—these the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I
shook as if with a fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What was there about them to
confound me in this manner? I gazed;—while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent
thoughts. Not thus he appeared—assuredly not thus—in the vivacity of his waking hours. The
same name! the same contour of person! the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his
dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner! Was it, in
truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the
habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation? Awe-stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I
extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old
academy, never to enter them again.
After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton.
The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr.
Bransby's, or at least to effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I
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remembered them. The truth—the tragedy—of the drama was no more. I could now find room to
doubt the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at
extent of human credulity, and a smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily
possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by the character of the
life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so
recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, engulfed at once every solid
or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence.
I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy here—a profligacy which
set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly,
passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual
degree, to my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of
the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the
night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed
freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous seductions; so that the gray
dawn had already faintly appeared in the east, while our delirious extravagance was at its height.
Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than
wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the violent, although partial
unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said
that some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall.
Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather delighted than surprised me. I
staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this
low and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the
exceedingly feeble dawn which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my
foot over the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and
habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at
the moment. This the faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his face I could not
distinguish. Upon my entering he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by. the arm with a
gesture of petulant impatience, whispered the words "William Wilson!" in my ear.
I grew perfectly sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the
tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled
me with unqualified amazement; but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the
pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance; and, above all, it was the
character, the tone, the key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which
came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days, and struck upon my soul with the
shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses he was gone.
Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered imagination, yet was it
evanescent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped
in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of
the singular individual who thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me with
his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson?—and whence came he?—and what
were his purposes? Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely ascertaining, in
regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby's
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academy on the afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased
to think upon the subject; my attention being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for
Oxford. Thither I soon went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit
and annual establishment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear
to my heart,—to vie in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest
earldoms in Great Britain.
Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke forth with redoubled
ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels.
But it were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among
spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added
no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of
Europe.
It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly
estate, as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having
become an adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing my
already enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians. Such,
nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and
honourable sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with
which it was committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather
have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such courses, the gay,
the frank, the generous William Wilson—the noblest and most commoner at Oxford—him
whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy—whose errors
but inimitable whim—whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing extravagance?
I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a
young parvenu nobleman, Glendinning—rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus—his riches, too, as
easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting
subject for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler's usual
art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle him in my snares. At
length, my schemes being ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final
and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally intimate with both,
but who, to do him Justice, entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to this
a better colouring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was
solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in the
proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse
was omitted, so customary upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how any are
still found so besotted as to fall its victim.
We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected the manoeuvre of
getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite ecarte! The rest of
the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were
standing around us as spectators. The parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the early
part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of
manner for which his intoxication, I thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In
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a very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long
draught of port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating—he proposed to double our
already extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my
repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave a color of pique to my
compliance, did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was
in my toils; in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had
been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it
had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented
to my eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although
in themselves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect
him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most readily
presented itself; and, rather with a view to the preservation of my own character in the eyes of
my associates, than from any less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a
discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among the company, and
an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had
effected his total ruin under circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all,
should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.
What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe
had thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence
was maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning
glances of scorn or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own
that an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the sudden
and extraordinary interruption which ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment
were all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that
extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to
perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The
darkness, however, was now total; and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst.
Before any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had
thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the
very marrow of my bones, "Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour, because in thus
behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of
the person who has to-night won at ecarte a large sum of money from Lord Glendinning. I will
therefore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary
information. Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and
the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his
embroidered morning wrapper."
While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin drop upon the
floor. In ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I—shall I describe
my sensations?—must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned? Most assuredly I had little
time given for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were
immediately reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the court
cards essential in ecarte, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of
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those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of the species called,
technically, arrondees; the honours being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly
convex at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the
pack, will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at the
breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in the records of the game.
Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less than the silent
contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was received.
"Mr. Wilson," said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious
cloak of rare furs, "Mr. Wilson, this is your property." (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting
my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the
scene of play.) "I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with
a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see
the necessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford—at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers."
Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling
language by immediate personal violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment
arrested by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare
description of fur; how rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too,
was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in
matters of this frivolous nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had
picked up upon the floor, and near the folding doors of the apartment, it was with an
astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm,
(where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented me was but its exact
counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular. The singular being who had so
disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none had been worn
at all by any of the members of our party with the exception of myself. Retaining some presence
of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own; left the
apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day, commenced a
hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame.
I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the
exercise of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I
had fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew,
while I experienced no relief. Villain!—at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an
officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At Vienna, too—at Berlin—and at
Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his
inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a pestilence; and to the very ends
of the earth I fled in vain.
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions
"Who is he?—whence came he?—and what are his objects?" But no answer was there found.
And then I scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits
of his impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a
conjecture. It was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in which he had
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of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those
actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this,
in truth, for an authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of selfagency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!
I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while
scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with
myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw
not, at any moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the
veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher
at Eton—in the destroyer of my honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome,
my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in
Egypt,—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, could fall to recognise the William Wilson
of my school boy days,—the namesake, the companion, the rival,—the hated and dreaded rival at
Dr. Bransby's? Impossible!—But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama.
Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The sentiment of deep awe
with which I habitually regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent
omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain
other traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with
an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly
reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to
wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more
impatient of control. I began to murmur,—to hesitate,—to resist. And was it only fancy which
induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness, that of my tormentor
underwent a proportional diminution? Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a
burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I
would submit no longer to be enslaved.
It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the
Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the winetable; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance.
The difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little
to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy
motive) the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too
unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the costume in
which she would be habited, and now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to
make my way into her presence.—At this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder,
and that ever-remembered, low, damnable whisper within my ear.
In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and
seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether
similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson
belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his face.
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"Scoundrel!" I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel
to my fury, "scoundrel! impostor! accursed villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me unto
death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!"—and I broke my way from the ball-room into
a small ante-chamber adjoining—dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the wall, while I closed the
door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then, with a
slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence.
The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within
my single arm the energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer
strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute
ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom.
At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and
then immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately
portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to
view? The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a
material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror,—so
at first it seemed to me in my confusion—now stood where none had been perceptible before;
and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and
dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait.
Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was Wilson, who then stood before
me in the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon
the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment—not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of
his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own!
It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was
speaking while he said:
"You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead—dead to the World, to
Heaven and to Hope! In me didst thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine
own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself."
The Tell-Tale Heart
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Tell-Tale Heart." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New
York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I
am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was
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the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things
in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you
the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day
and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never
wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye!
yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell
upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the
life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me.
You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with
what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole
week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and
opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in
a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you
would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so
that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the
opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so
wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so
cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell
upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I
found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man
who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the
chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring
how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute
hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own
powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I
was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I
fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if
startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the
thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that
he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin
fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the
meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have
done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
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Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan
of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul
when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the
world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors
that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I
chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he
had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to
fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—"It is nothing but the wind
in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made
a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had
found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black
shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the
unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the
presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open
a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how
stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out
the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect
distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my
bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if
by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—
now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when
enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It
increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried
how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart
increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror
must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well I
have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the
dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.
Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I
thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a
neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped
into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled
the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes,
the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard
through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined
the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there
many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
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If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took
for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of
all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the
scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even
his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any
kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell
sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with
perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the
night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office,
and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own
in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the
house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his
treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the
room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of
my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of
the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat,
and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting
pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat
and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It continued and became more distinct: I
talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at
length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet
the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound
as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it
not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and
argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily
increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if
excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what
could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and
grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—
louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a
mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony!
Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer!
I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
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"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It
is the beating of his hideous heart!"
The Masque of the Red Death
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Masque of the Red Death." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five
Volumes. New York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
THE "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so
hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were
sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The
scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which
shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure,
progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.
But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half
depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among
the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his
castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's
own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron.
The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They
resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of
frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers
might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it
was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There
were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there
was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged
most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball
of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was
held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long
and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that
the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have
been expected from the duke's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed
that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every
twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each
wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the
windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance
with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the
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eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The
second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The
third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted
with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely
shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in
heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of
the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep
blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid
the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There
was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the
corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a
brazier of fire that protected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room.
And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or
black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the
blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the
countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot
within its precincts at all.
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony.
Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand
made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of
the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar
a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were
constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the
waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay
company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew
pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie
or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the
assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly,
and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce
in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three
thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the
clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were
peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His
plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who
would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see
and touch him to be sure that he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon
occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the
masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and
phantasm—much of what has been since seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with
unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions.
There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the
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terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven
chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and
about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the
echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the
velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The
dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured
but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now
again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking
hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the
chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who
venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored
panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable
carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than
any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life.
And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight
upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers
were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were
twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of
thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who
revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had
utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to
become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single
individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around,
there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation
and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary
appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was
nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds
of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which
cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are
equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed,
seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor
propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the
habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble
the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in
detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad
revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His
vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was
besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn
movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen
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to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the
next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—"who dares insult us
with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have
to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these
words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly—for the prince was a bold and
robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At
first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the
intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step,
made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad
assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth
hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while
the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he
made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had
distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to
the green—through the green to the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence to
the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the
Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed
hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that
had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to
within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of
the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and
the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell
prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of
the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose
tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in
unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with
so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the
night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died
each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of
the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red
Death held illimitable dominion over all.
The Black Cat
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Black Cat." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New York:
Collier & Son, 1903.
129
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor
solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own
evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I
would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly,
succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these
events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound
them. To me, they have presented little but Horror—to many they will seem less terrible than
barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to
the common-place—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own,
which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary
succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of
heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond
of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most
of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of
character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal
sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I
need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus
derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes
directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and
gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own.
Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most
agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an
astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little
tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded
all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point—and I
mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto—this was the cat's name—was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he
attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent
him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament
and character—through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance—had (I blush to confess
it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable,
more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my
wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the
change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still
retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of
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maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection,
they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol!—and at
length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish—even
Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that
the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight
wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself
no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than
fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoatpocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its
eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes of the night's
debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had
been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched.
I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a
frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as
usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old
heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once
so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and
irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no
account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the
primitive impulses of the human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments,
which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself
committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?
Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is
Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my
final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself—to offer violence to its
own nature—to do wrong for the wrong's sake only—that urged me to continue and finally to
consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I
slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with the tears streaming
from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart;—hung it because I knew that it had
loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it because I knew that
in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as
to place it—if such a thing wore possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the
Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry
of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great
difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself
thenceforward to despair.
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I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the
disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts—and wish not to leave even a
possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one
exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which
stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The
plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire—a fact which I attributed to
its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons
seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The
words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached
and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The
impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's
neck.
When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard it as less—my wonder and my
terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been
hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately
filled by the crowd—by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and
thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view
of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty
into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the
ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the
startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For
months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came
back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret
the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually
frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which
to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn
to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of
Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the
top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had
not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a
black cat—a very large one—fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect
but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large,
although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my
touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared
delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once
offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it—knew nothing of it—
had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to
accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When
132
it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with
my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what
I had anticipated; but—I know not how or why it was—its evident fondness for myself rather
disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the
bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my
former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks,
strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually—very gradually—I came to look upon it
with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a
pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I
brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance,
however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree,
that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of
my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed
my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend.
Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with
its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me
down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast.
At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing,
partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly—let me confess it at once—by absolute
dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil—and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise
to define it. I am almost ashamed to own—yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to
own—that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one
of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more
than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which
constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The
reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by
slow degrees—degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to
reject as fanciful—it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the
representation of an object that I shudder to name—and for this, above all, I loathed, and
dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared—it was now, I say, the image of
a hideous—of a ghastly thing—of the GALLOWS!—oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror
and of Crime—of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast
—whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed—a brute beast to work out for me—for me a
man, fashioned in the image of the High God—so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day
nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no
moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot
133
breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight—an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no
power to shake off—incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me
succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates—the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The
moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from
the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned
myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building
which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and,
nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in
my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal
which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow
was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than
demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead
upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the
task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by
night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At
one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At
another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about
casting it in the well in the yard—about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual
arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I
considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar—as
the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and
had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere
had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false
chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the cellar. I made
no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the
whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I
was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully
deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I
re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with
every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old,
and with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied
that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The
rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and
said to myself—"Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I
had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment,
there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been
134
alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood.
It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence
of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the
night—and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and
tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a
freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My
happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries
had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted—but of
course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the
house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in
the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers
bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for
the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat
calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded
my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and
prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but
one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your
suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this—this is a
very well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I
uttered at all.]—"I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls are you going,
gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of
bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the
brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the
reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the
tomb!—by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly
swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman—a howl—
a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell,
conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the
damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one
instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In
the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly
decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with
red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me
into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the
monster up within the tomb!
135
The Cask of Amontillado
Resources for Poe
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Cask of Amontillado." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes.
New York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon
insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose,
however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point
definitively settled—but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of
risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution
overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as
such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my
good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be respected
and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true
virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary,
Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In
this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.
The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted
by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done
wringing his hand.
I said to him—"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking
to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
136
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will
tell me—"
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement.
Luchesi—"
"I have no engagement;—come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are
afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed
upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and
drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had
told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir
from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through
several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding
staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the
descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
137
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern
walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of
intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected,
admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—
"
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True—true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily—but you
should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon
the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells
jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
138
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are
imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc.
We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the
inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by
an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said: "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's
bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late.
Your cough—"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a
fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
139
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range
of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the
foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined
with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris.
Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones
had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of
some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still
interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have
been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the
colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing
walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the
recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed
immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his
progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the
links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much
astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp.
Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first
render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken.
Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of
Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low
moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a
long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard
the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I
might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones.
140
When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the
fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I
again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the
figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form,
seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my
rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess: but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the
wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in
volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth,
and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single
stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined
position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head.
It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble
Fortunato. The voice said—
"Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich
laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be
awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montressor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud—
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again—
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came
forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of
the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I
plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a
century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
141
The Purloined Letter
Resources for Poe
Illustration: "The Purloined Letter." from Jules Verne's essay, "Edgar Poe and His Works,"
illustrated by Frederic Theodore Lix or Jean-Édouard Dargent, April 1864.
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Purloined Letter." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five Volumes. New
York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2148
Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.
Seneca.
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold
luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his
little back library, or book-closet, au troisiême, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For
one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer,
might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that
oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing
certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the
evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie
Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our
apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G—, the Prefect of the
Parisian police.
We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the
contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in
the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without
doing so, upon G.'s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my
friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.
"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we
shall examine it to better purpose in the dark."
"That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing
"odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities."
"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a
comfortable chair.
"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?"
142
"Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make no
doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to
hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd."
"Simple and odd," said Dupin.
"Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because
the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether."
"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault," said my friend.
"What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.
"Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin.
"Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?"
"A little too self-evident."
"Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!" roared our visiter, profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you
will be the death of me yet!"
"And what, after all, is the matter on hand?" I asked.
"Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady and contemplative puff, and
settled himself in his chair. "I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you
that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the
position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any one."
"Proceed," said I.
"Or not," said Dupin.
"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain
document of the last importance, has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual
who purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it
still remains in his possession."
"How is this known?" asked Dupin.
"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of the document, and from the nonappearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's
possession; that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it."
"Be a little more explicit," I said.
143
"Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain
quarter where such power is immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of
diplomacy.
"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin.
"No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring
in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the
document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so
jeopardized."
"But this ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's
knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—"
"The thief," said G., "is the Minister D—, who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as
those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document
in question—a letter, to be frank—had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the
royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other
exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain
endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The
address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At
this juncture enters the Minister D—. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognises
the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms
her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces
a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in
close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the public
affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no
claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of
the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter—one
of no importance—upon the table."
"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy
complete—the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber."
"Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded,
for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly
convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be
done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me."
"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could,
I suppose, be desired, or even imagined."
"You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some such opinion may have been
entertained."
144
"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in possession of the minister; since it is
this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the
employment the power departs."
"True," said G.; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough
search of the minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching
without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result
from giving him reason to suspect our design."
"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this
thing often before."
"O yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great
advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous.
They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are
readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in
Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not been
engaged, personally, in ransacking the D— Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great
secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied
that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and
corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed."
"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may be in possession of the
minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own
premises?"
"This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and
especially of those intrigues in which D— is known to be involved, would render the instant
availability of the document—its susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice—a point
of nearly equal importance with its possession."
"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I.
"That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin.
"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person
of the minister, we may consider that as out of the question."
"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person
rigorously searched under my own inspection."
"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. "D—, I presume, is not altogether a
fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course."
"Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a
fool."
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"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have
been guilty of certain doggrel myself."
"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search."
"Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched every where. I have had long experience in
these affairs. I took the entire building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to
each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer; and
I presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is
impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a 'secret' drawer to escape him in a search of this
kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for in
every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After
the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have
seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops."
"Why so?"
"Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the
person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the
cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way."
"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked.
"By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around
it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise."
"But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in
which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be
compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knittingneedle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not
take to pieces all the chairs?"
"Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed
the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had
there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A
single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder
in the glueing—any unusual gaping in the joints—would have sufficed to insure detection."
"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the
beds and the bed-clothes, as well as the curtains and carpets."
"That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this
way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which
we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch
throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope,
as before."
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"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have had a great deal of trouble."
"We had; but the reward offered is prodigious!"
"You include the grounds about the houses?"
"All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined
the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed."
"You looked among D—'s papers, of course, and into the books of the library?"
"Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned
over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the
fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with
the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the
microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly
impossible that the fact should have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from
the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles."
"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?"
"Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope."
"And the paper on the walls?"
"Yes."
"You looked into the cellars?"
"We did."
"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is not upon the premises,
as you suppose."
"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to
do?"
"To make a thorough re-search of the premises."
"That is absolutely needless," replied G—. "I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the
letter is not at the Hotel."
"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of course, an accurate description
of the letter?"
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"Oh yes!"—And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book proceeded to read aloud a
minute account of the internal, and especially of the external appearance of the missing
document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more
entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month
afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe
and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said,—
"Well, but G—, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have at last made up your mind that
there is no such thing as overreaching the Minister?"
"Confound him, say I—yes; I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested—but it
was all labor lost, as I knew it would be."
"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin.
"Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don't like to say how much, precisely; but one
thing I will say, that I wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any
one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance
every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no
more than I have done."
"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his meerschaum, "I really—think,
G—, you have not exerted yourself—to the utmost in this matter. You might—do a little more, I
think, eh?"
"How?—in what way?'
"Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, puff—employ counsel in the matter, eh?—puff, puff, puff.
Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy?"
"No; hang Abernethy!"
"To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the
design of spunging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an
ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an
imaginary individual.
"'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what
would you have directed him to take?'
"'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice, to be sure.'"
"But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "I am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for
it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter."
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"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-book, "you may as well
fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the
letter."
I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he
remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and
eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recovering himself in some
measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a
check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter examined it
carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter
and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a
trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling to the
door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having
uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.
When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.
"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering,
ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to
demand. Thus, when G— detailed to us his made of searching the premises at the Hotel D—, I
felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation—so far as his labors
extended."
"So far as his labors extended?" said I.
"Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to
absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows
would, beyond a question, have found it."
I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.
"The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, and well executed; their defect lay
in their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources
are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he
perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow, for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy
is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the
game of 'even and odd' attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with
marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether
that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one.
The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of
guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his
opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed hand,
asks, 'are they even or odd?' Our schoolboy replies, 'odd,' and loses; but upon the second trial he
wins, for he then says to himself, 'the simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his
amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore
guess odd;'—he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would
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have reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second,
he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the
first simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and
finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even;'—he guesses
even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed
'lucky,'—what, in its last analysis, is it?"
"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent."
"It is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring, of the boy by what means he effected the thorough
identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find
out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at
the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with
the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart,
as if to match or correspond with the expression.' This response of the schoolboy lies at the
bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive,
to Machiavelli, and to Campanella."
"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I
understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured."
"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; "and the Prefect and his cohort fail
so frequently, first, by default of this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or
rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider
only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the
modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much—that their own ingenuity
is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual felon is
diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it
is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation of principle in
their investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency—by some extraordinary
reward—they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their principles.
What, for example, in this case of D—, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all
this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope and dividing the
surface of the building into registered square inches—what is it all but an exaggeration of the
application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of
notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been
accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a
letter,—not exactly in a gimlet hole bored in a chair-leg—but, at least, in some out-of-the-way
hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter
in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also, that such recherchés nooks for
concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary
intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed—a disposal of it in
this recherché manner,—is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its
discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and
determination of the seekers; and where the case is of importance—or, what amounts to the same
thing in the policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,—the qualities in question have never
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been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined
letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect's examination—in other words, had
the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect—its
discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has
been thoroughly mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the
Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this the Prefect
feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are
fools."
"But is this really the poet?" I asked. "There are two brothers, I know; and both have attained
reputation in letters. The Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He
is a mathematician, and no poet."
"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician, he would reason
well; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the
mercy of the Prefect."
"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the
world. You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical
reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence."
"'Il y a à parièr,'" replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'que toute idée publique, toute
convention reçue est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.' The mathematicians,
I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which
is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for
example, they have insinuated the term 'analysis' into application to algebra. The French are the
originators of this particular deception; but if a term is of any importance—if words derive any
value from applicability—then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in Latin, 'ambitus'
implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 'religion,' or 'homines honesti,' a set of honorablemen."
"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the algebraists of Paris; but proceed."
"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is cultivated in any especial
form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical
study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely
logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even
the truths of what is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this error is so
egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical
axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation—of form and quantity—is often
grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untrue that
the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the
consideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a
value when united, equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other
mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician
argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general
applicability—as the world indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,'
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mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that 'although the Pagan fables are not
believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing
realities.' With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the 'Pagan fables' are
believed, and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an
unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician
who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his
faith that x2+px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by
way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x2+px is not
altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as
speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down.
"I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, "that if the
Minister had been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no
necessity of giving me this check. I know him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my
measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he was
surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered,
could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes of action. He could not have failed to
anticipate—and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings to which he
was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His
frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his
success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and
thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G—, in fact, did finally arrive—the
conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought,
which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of
policial action in searches for articles concealed—I felt that this whole train of thought would
necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all
the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the
most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the
eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he
would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter
of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested,
upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account
of its being so very self-evident."
"Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into
convulsions."
"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial;
and thus some color of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile,
may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of
the vis inertiæ, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true
in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that
its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that
intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their
movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed
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and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which
of the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of attention?"
"I have never given the matter a thought," I said.
"There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a map. One party playing
requires another to find a given word—the name of town, river, state or empire—any word, in
short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks
to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept
selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These,
like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being
excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral
inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are
too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or
beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the
Minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of
best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it.
"But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating ingenuity of D—; upon
the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good
purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within
the limits of that dignitary's ordinary search—the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this
letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting
to conceal it at all.
"Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine
morning, quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel. I found D— at home, yawning, lounging,
and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the
most really energetic human being now alive—but that is only when nobody sees him.
"To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the
spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment,
while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host.
"I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and upon which lay
confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments
and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite
particular suspicion.
"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery fillagree card-rack of
pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the
middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six
visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in
two, across the middle—as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had
been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the D— cipher very
conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D—, the minister, himself. It
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was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost
divisions of the rack.
"No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To
be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read
us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D— cipher; there it was
small and red, with the ducal arms of the S— family. Here, the address, to the Minister,
diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly
bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of
these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so
inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D—, and so suggestive of a design to delude the
beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document; these things, together with the hyperobtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in
accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were
strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.
"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I maintained a most animated discussion
with the Minister upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I
kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its
external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which
set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper,
I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken
appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a
folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the
original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as
a glove, inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and took my
departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.
"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation
of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard
immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams,
and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In
the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a
fac-simile, (so far as regards externals,) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings—
imitating the D— cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread.
"The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with a
musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been
without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had
gone, D— came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the
object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own
pay."
"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a fac-simile? Would it not have
been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly, and departed?"
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"D—," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without
attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have
left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more.
But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In
this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister has had
her in his power. She has now him in hers—since, being unaware that the letter is not in his
possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit
himself, at once, to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than
awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all kinds of
climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the
present instance I have no sympathy—at least no pity—for him who descends. He is that
monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very
well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect
terms 'a certain personage' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the cardrack."
"How? did you put any thing particular in it?"
"Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank—that would have been
insulting. D—, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that
I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the
person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted
with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words—
"'— — Un dessein si funeste, S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Thyeste. They are to be found
in Crebillon's 'Atrée.'"
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
Resources for Poe
Illustration: "Murders in the Rue Morgue." by Harry Clarke.
Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Five
Volumes. New York: Collier & Son, 1903.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2147
What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
all conjecture.
—Sir Thomas Browne.
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of
analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that
they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
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enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call
his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He
derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond
of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree
of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results, brought about
by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by
that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has
been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chessplayer, for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in
its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will,
therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by a the
elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions,
with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what
is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an
oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold
but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the
more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary,
where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are
diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are
obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract—Let us suppose a
game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight
is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal)
only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived
of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies
himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometime
indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men
of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so
greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more
than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those
more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean
that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate
advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently among
recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively
is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist;
while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are
sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by
"the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters
beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host
of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent
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of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of
the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself
not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to
the game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each
of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting
trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.
He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the
differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner
of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He
recognises what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A
casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying
anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of
their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his
apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three
rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the
party had turned outward the faces of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity; for while the analyst is
necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The
constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the
phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive
faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as
to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the
analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the
imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious
are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary
upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted
with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent—indeed of an
illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the
energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to
care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his
possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he
managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling
himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily
obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our
both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer
communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family
history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere
self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my
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soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking
in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure
beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should
live together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less
embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a
style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque
mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its
fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded
as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We
admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from
my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be
known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamored of the Night for
her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his
wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always;
but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the messy
shutters of our old building; lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only
the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams—
reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness.
Then we sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far
and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that
infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had
been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager
delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure
thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself,
wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very
startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid
and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a
treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of
the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old
philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the
creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing any mystery, or penning
any romance. What I have described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or
perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in question
an example will best convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being
both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at
least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:
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"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the Théâtre des Variétés."
"There can be no doubt of that," I replied unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I
been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with
my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.
"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am
amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking
of ——-?" Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I
thought.
—"of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking to yourself that his
diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. Chantilly was
a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of
Xerxes, in Crébillon's tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.
"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method—if method there is—by which you have
been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter." In fact I was even more startled than I would
have been willing to express.
"It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of
soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne."
"The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever."
"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may have been fifteen minutes
ago."
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had
nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C —— into the thoroughfare
where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of charlâtanerie about Dupin. "I will explain," he said, "and that you
may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the
moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The
larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
street stones, the fruiterer."
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in
retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The
occupation is often full of interest and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the
apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What,
then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just
spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:
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"We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C ——. This
was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving stones collected at a
spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to
look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did;
but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity.
"You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts
in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little
alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the overlapping and
riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not
doubt that you murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly applied to this species of
pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself 'stereotomy' without being brought to think
of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject not
very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses
of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you
could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected
that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your
steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's 'Musée,' the satirist,
making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler s change of name upon assuming the buskin,
quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line
Perdidit antiquum litera sonum.
"I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from certain
pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It
was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly.
That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You
thought of the poor cobbler's immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I
saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in
fact, he was a very little fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the Théâtre des Variétés."
Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the "Gazette des Tribunaux,"
when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.
"EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.—This morning, about three o'clock, the inhabitants of the
Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently,
from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one
Madame L'Espanaye, and her daughter Mademoiselle Camille L'Espanaye. After some delay,
occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was
broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered accompanied by
two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first flight of
stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention were distinguished and seemed to proceed
from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had
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ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves and hurried from
room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which,
being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a spectacle presented itself which
struck every one present not less with horror than with astonishment.
"The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken and thrown about in all
directions. There was only one bedstead; and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown
into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth were
two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to
have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of
topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of métal d'Alger, and two bags, containing nearly
four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner were open, and
had been, apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was
discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the door. It
had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.
"Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity of soot being
observed in the fire-place, a search was made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse
of the daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up the
narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many
excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust
up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the throat, dark
bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death.
"After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without farther discovery, the party
made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old
lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body,
as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any
semblance of humanity.
"To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew."
The next day's paper had these additional particulars.
"The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many individuals have been examined in relation to this most
extraordinary and frightful affair. [The word 'affaire' has not yet, in France, that levity of import
which it conveys with us,] "but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give
below all the material testimony elicited.
"Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years,
having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good
terms—very affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard
to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was
reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called for the
clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be
no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth story.
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"Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of selling small quantities of
tobacco and snuff to Madame L'Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which
the corpses were found, for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who
under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of Madame L. She
became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself,
refusing to let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter some five
or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have
money. Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not believe it.
Had never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or
twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.
"Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as
frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connexions of Madame
L. and her daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear
were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a
good house—not very old.
"Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about three o'clock in the
morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain
admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had but little
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at
bottom not top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased.
They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn
out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard
two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very
strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was
positive that it was not a woman's voice. Could distinguish the words 'sacré' and 'diable.' The
shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a
woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of
the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them yesterday.
"Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that he was one of the party who
first entered the house. Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they forced
an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an
Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it was a man's voice. It might have
been a woman's. Was not acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words,
but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her
daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
either of the deceased.
"—Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was
examined through an interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of
the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very
awful and distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous
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evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a
Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—
spoken apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill as harsh.
Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly 'sacré,' 'diable,' and once 'mon
Dieu.'
"Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud.
Madame L'Espanaye had some property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked
for nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000
francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the money.
"Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in question, about noon, he
accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags.
Upon the door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the
bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any
person in the street at the time. It is a bye-street—very lonely.
"William Bird, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an
Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words,
but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly 'sacré' and 'mon Dieu.' There was a sound at the
moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was
very loud—louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman's voice. Does not understand
German.
"Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber in
which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no
person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened
from within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from
the front room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front
of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open, the door being ajar. This
room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and
searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched.
Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with garrets
(mansardes.) A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not appear to have
been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the
breaking open of the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as
three minutes—some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty.
"Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain.
Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice
was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
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Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the
intonation.
"Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard
the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.
The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice.
Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony.
Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.
"Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story
were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By 'sweeps' were meant cylindrical
sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were
passed up and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any one could
have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was
so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party
united their strength.
"Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about day-break. They
were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was
found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been
thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly
chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid
spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the
eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered
upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
Dumas, Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons
unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and
arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left
side. Whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries
had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a chair—any large, heavy, and
obtuse weapon would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful
man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased,
when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The
throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with a razor.
"Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the
testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.
"Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several other persons were examined. A
murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault—an unusual
occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent."
The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier
St. Roch—that the premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations
of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le
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Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the
facts already detailed.
Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at least so I judged from his
manner, for he made no comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.
I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by
which it would be possible to trace the murderer.
"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an examination. The Parisian
police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not
unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
Jourdain's calling for his robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique. The results
attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by
simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for
example, was a good guesser and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the
object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing
he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too
profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not
upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well
typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in a
side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble
impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best
appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our
vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in
the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we
perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the
firmanent by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
"As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an
opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us amusement," [I thought this an odd term, so
applied, but said nothing] "and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not
ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission."
The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those
miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
late in the afternoon when we reached it; as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which
we resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary
Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding
panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the street,
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turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building—Dupin,
meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of
attention for which I could see no possible object.
Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our
credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where
the body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay.
The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had
been stated in the "Gazette des Tribunaux." Dupin scrutinized every thing—not excepting the
bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard;
a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we
took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of
one of the daily papers.
I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Je les ménagais:—for this
phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the
subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had
observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.
There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word "peculiar," which caused me to
shudder, without knowing why.
"No, nothing peculiar," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper."
"The 'Gazette,'" he replied, "has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But
dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble,
for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution—I mean for
the outré character of its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of
motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by
the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one
was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there were no
means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of
the old lady; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not
mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the
boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of
confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the
ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we
are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked 'what has occurred,' as 'what has occurred that
has never occurred before.' In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the
solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police."
I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.
"I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment—"I am now
awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been
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in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed,
it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my
expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It
is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be
necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion
demands their use."
I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on,
very much as if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His
discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that intonation
which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes, vacant in
expression, regarded only the wall.
"That the voices heard in contention," he said, "by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices
of the women themselves, was fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon
the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter and afterward have
committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of
Madame L'Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter's
corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person
entirely preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third
party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not
to the whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did
you observe any thing peculiar about it?"
I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a
Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it,
the harsh voice.
"That was the evidence itself," said Dupin, "but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. You
have observed nothing distinctive. Yet there was something to be observed. The witnesses, as
you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill
voice, the peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a
Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a
foreigner. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it—
not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and 'might have distinguished
some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish.' The Dutchman maintains it to have been
that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that 'not understanding French this witness was
examined through an interpreter.' The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and 'does not
understand German.' The Spaniard 'is sure' that it was that of an Englishman, but 'judges by the
intonation' altogether, 'as he has no knowledge of the English.' The Italian believes it the voice of
a Russian, but 'has never conversed with a native of Russia.' A second Frenchman differs,
moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, not being
cognizant of that tongue, is, like the Spaniard, 'convinced by the intonation.' Now, how strangely
unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been
elicited!—in whose tones, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognise
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nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic—of an African.
Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now
merely call your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one witness 'harsh rather than
shrill.' It is represented by two others to have been 'quick and unequal.' No words—no sounds
resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable.
"I know not," continued Dupin, "what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own
understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this portion of
the testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves sufficient to
engender a suspicion which should give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of
the mystery. I said 'legitimate deductions;' but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed
to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion
arises inevitably from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say
just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a
definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.
"Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we first seek here? The
means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe in
præternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The
doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one
mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision.—Let us
examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the
room where Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the
party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek issues.
The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every
direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I
examined with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms
into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These,
although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit,
throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already
stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no
one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers must have
passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal
a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent
impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent 'impossibilities' are, in reality,
not such.
"There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly
visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead
which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It
resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been
pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head.
Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous
attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not
been in these directions. And, therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw
the nails and open the windows.
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"My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just
given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not
such in reality.
"I proceeded to think thus—à posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows.
This being so, they could not have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found
fastened;—the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the
police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, have the power of fastening
themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement,
withdrew the nail with some difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts,
as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now know, exist; and this corroboration of my
idea convinced me that my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the
circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I
pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.
"I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing out through this window
might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been
replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The
assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each
sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at
least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over
the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I
readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character
with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in
the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head.
"You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of
the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once 'at fault.' The scent had never for an
instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate
result,—and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in
the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive us it might seem to be) when
compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. 'There must be
something wrong,' I said, 'about the nail.' I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an
inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole where it
had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had
apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the
top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in
the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete—the
fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went
up with it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail
was again perfect.
"The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through the window which
looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it
had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been
mistaken by the police for that of the nail,—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.
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"The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my
walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question
there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the
window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth
story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades—a kind rarely employed at
the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are
in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower half is latticed
or worked in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance
these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house,
they were both about half open—that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is
probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in
looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not
perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,
having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would
naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter
belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to
within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree
of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus
effected.—By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to
its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then,
his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he
might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time,
might even have swung himself into the room.
"I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as
requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that
the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress
upon your understanding the very extraordinary—the almost præternatural character of that
agility which could have accomplished it.
"You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that 'to make out my case,' I should rather
undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be
the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My
immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition, that very unusual activity of which I
have just spoken with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose
nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification
could be detected."
At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my
mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension without power to comprehend—men, at
times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in the end, to
remember. My friend went on with his discourse.
"You will see," he said, "that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of
ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the
same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here.
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The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still
remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and
no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers
had originally contained? Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired
life—saw no company—seldom went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment.
Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a
thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he
abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The
gold was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was
discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the
blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of the police by that portion of the evidence
which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable
as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party
receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary
notice. Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers
who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that theory to which the
most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the
present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have
formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of
motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this
outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his
gold and his motive together.
"Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar
voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly
atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by
manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such
modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of
thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was something excessively outré—
something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we
suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength
which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several
persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down!
"Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth
were thick tresses—very thick tresses—of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the
roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or
thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous
sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power
which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the
old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body: the instrument was a
mere razor. I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the
body of Madame L'Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor
Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so
far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in
the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This
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idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth
of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been
hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.
"If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the
chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength
superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely
alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid
of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have
I made upon your fancy?"
I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. "A madman," I said, "has done this
deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Santé."
"In some respects," he replied, "your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in
their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.
Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the
coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand.
I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L'Espanaye. Tell me
what you can make of it."
"Dupin!" I said, completely unnerved; "this hair is most unusual—this is no human hair."
"I have not asserted that it is," said he; "but, before we decide this point, I wish you to glance at
the little sketch I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been
described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,'
upon the throat of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,)
as a 'series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.'
"You will perceive," continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, "that
this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each finger
has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp by which it originally
imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective
impressions as you see them."
I made the attempt in vain.
"We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial," he said. "The paper is spread out upon a
plane surface; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of
which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again."
I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. "This," I said, "is the mark of no
human hand."
"Read now," replied Dupin, "this passage from Cuvier."
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It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous OurangOutang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the
wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to
all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.
"The description of the digits," said I, as I made an end of reading, "is in exact accordance with
this drawing. I see that no animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could
have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical
in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of
this frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was
unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman."
"True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to
this voice,—the expression, 'mon Dieu!' This, under the circumstances, has been justly
characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of
remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of
a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it
is far more than probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions
which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to the
chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured
it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more—since
the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be
appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the
understanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the
Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement which
I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of 'Le Monde,' (a paper devoted to the
shipping interest, and much sought by sailors,) will bring him to our residence."
He handed me a paper, and I read thus:
CAUGHT—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the—inst., (the morning of the
murder,) a very large, tawny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, (who is
ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon
identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call
at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisiême.
"How was it possible," I asked, "that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a
Maltese vessel?"
"I do not know it," said Dupin. "I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon,
which from its form, and from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in
one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few
besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the
lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong
in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel,
still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error, he will
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merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the
trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant although innocent of the
murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about
demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:—'I am innocent; I am poor; my OurangOutang is of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it
through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de
Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that
a brute beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to procure the
slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant
of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, I am
known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his
knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is known
that I possess, I will render the animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract
attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang,
and keep it close until this matter has blown over.'"
At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.
"Be ready," said Dupin, "with your pistols, but neither use them nor show them until at a signal
from myself."
The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor had entered, without ringing, and
advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we
heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming
up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of
our chamber.
"Come in," said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.
A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a
certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly
sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken
cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us "good
evening," in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently
indicative of a Parisian origin.
"Sit down, my friend," said Dupin. "I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon
my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very
valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?"
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then
replied, in an assured tone:
"I have no way of telling—but he can't be more than four or five years old. Have you got him
here?"
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"Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue
Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the
property?"
"To be sure I am, sir."
"I shall be sorry to part with him," said Dupin.
"I don't mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir," said the man. "Couldn't
expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing
in reason."
"Well," replied my friend, "that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think!—what should I have?
Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power
about these murders in the Rue Morgue."
Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked
toward the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom
and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.
The sailor's face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. He started to his feet and
grasped his cudgel, but the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with
the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.
"My friend," said Dupin, in a kind tone, "you are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are
indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a
Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the
atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure
implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know that I have had means of
information about this matter—means of which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing
stands thus. You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing, certainly, which
renders you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with
impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the other hand,
you are bound by every principle of honor to confess all you know. An innocent man is now
imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator."
The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these
words; but his original boldness of bearing was all gone.
"So help me God," said he, after a brief pause, "I will tell you all I know about this affair;—but I
do not expect you to believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am
innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it."
What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A
party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of
pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the
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animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable
ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his
own residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity of his
neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the
foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.
Returning home from some sailors' frolic the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he
found the beast occupying his own bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining,
where it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was
sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt
previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so
dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the
man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet
the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs,
and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.
The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look
back and gesticulate at its pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made
off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it
was nearly three o'clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue,
the fugitive's attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame
L'Espanaye's chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it perceived the
lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown
fully back against the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of the
bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the OurangOutang as it entered the room.
The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now
recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except
by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much
cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to
follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but,
when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the
most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the
room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that
those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates of the
Rue Morgue. Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had
apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which
had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the
floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the window; and, from the time
elapsing between the ingress of the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not
immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the
wind.
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As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame L'Espanaye by the hair, (which
was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation
of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The
screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the
effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With
one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of
blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew
upon the body of the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until
she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over
which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no
doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of having
deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the
chamber in an agony of nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it moved,
and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter,
and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it immediately
hurled through the window headlong.
As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the
rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the
consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of
the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman's
exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by
the rod, just before the break of the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it.
It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at
the Jardin des Plantes. Le Don was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances
(with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary,
however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which
affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every
person minding his own business.
"Let him talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. "Let him discourse; it will
ease his conscience, I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that
he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he
supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound. In his
wisdom is no stamen. It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna,—or, at
best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all. I like him
especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I
mean the way he has 'de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer ce qui n'est pas.'" (*)
(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise.
Illustration: Byam Shaw's illustration for "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," in Selected Tales of
Mystery. London : Sidgwick & Jackson, 1909, Page 284 with caption "The sailor's face flushed
up; he started to his feet and grasped his cudgel."
177
Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)
[image] Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts on July 4, 1804, into a family
with a long Puritan history. The original name of the family was Hathorne, but the writer added a
'w' to his name to separate himself from the family history linked to the Salem witch trials. One
of his ancestors was John Hathorne, who was a prominent judge in the trials. Though Hawthorne
was not interested in attending college, he went to Bowdoin College in 1821 and became
acquainted with classmates, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and future President, Franklin Pierce.
His first attempt at a novel, Fanshawe, in 1828, he considered a failure. Starting in 1836,
Hawthorne worked as a magazine editor in Boston. During this period, he wrote and published
his stories in magazines and annuals, collecting them into Twice-Told Tales in 1837. He secured
a Custom House appointment in 1839, a government position that supported him financially and
allowed him to continue his writing. Hawthorne joined the utopia community, Brook Farm,
briefly in 1841. He married Sophia Peabody in 1842 at her parents' home in Boston, after which
they moved to Concord, Massachusetts. Hawthorne and is wife had three children, Una, Julian,
and Rose. He held another governmental position during this period, as a "surveyor" and
"inspector" for Salem, and wrote little during these years. He finally put together another
collection of his stories, Mosses from an Old Manse, in 1846. Hawthorne's first major novel, The
Scarlet Letterappeared in 1850. He had moved to Lenox, Massachusetts, and befriended Herman
Melville there. Hawthorne went on to write The House of the Seven Gables (1851), The
Blithedale Romance (1852), A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys (1852), The Snow-Image and
Other Twice-Told Tales (1852),Tanglewood Tales (1853), and The Marble Faun (1860). Due to
the election of his friend, President Pierce appointed Hawthorne to a position in the consul in
Liverpool, England. While abroad, the family was able to tour extensively in France and Italy.
Towards the end of his life, Hawthorne's health diminished and he died on May 19, 1864. He is
buried on what is known as "Authors Ridge" in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord,
Massachusetts. Recent biographies include Brenda Wineapple's Hawthorne: A Life (2003),
James Mellow's Nathaniel Hawthorne in His Times (1980), along with Bosco and
Murphy's Hawthorne in His Own Time (2007). Critical examinations are extensive and wide
ranging. They include J. Donald Crowley's Hawthorne: The Critical Heritage (1970), Millicent
Bell's New Essays on Hawthorne's Major Tales (1993), Millington's The Cambridge Companion
to Nathaniel Hawthorne (2004) and Person's The Cambridge Introduction to Nathaniel
Hawthorne (2007).
The Maypole of Merry Mount
Resources for Hawthorne
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "The Maypole of Merry Mount." Twice-Told Tales. Boston: American
Stationer's Company, 1837.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13707
178
There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the curious history of the early
settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry Mount. In the slight sketch here attempted the facts
recorded on the grave pages of our New England annalists have wrought themselves almost
spontaneously into a sort of allegory. The masques, mummeries and festive customs described in
the text are in accordance with the manners of the age. Authority on these points may be found in
Strutt's Book of English Sports and Pastimes.
Bright were the days at Merry Mount when the Maypole was the banner-staff of that gay colony.
They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New
England's rugged hills and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were
contending for an empire. Midsummer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and
roses in her lap of a more vivid hue than the tender buds of spring. But May, or her mirthful
spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry Mount, sporting with the summer months and revelling
with autumn and basking in the glow of winter's fireside. Through a world of toil and care she
flitted with a dream-like smile, and came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts of
Merry Mount.
Never had the Maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on Midsummer eve. This venerated
emblem was a pine tree which had preserved the slender grace of youth, while it equalled the
loftiest height of the old wood-monarchs. From its top streamed a silken banner colored like the
rainbow. Down nearly to the ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and others of the
liveliest green, and some with silvery leaves fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots
of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Garden-flowers and blossoms of the wilderness
laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that they must have grown by magic on
that happy pine tree. Where this green and flowery splendor terminated the shaft of the Maypole
was stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the lowest green bough hung
an abundant wreath of roses—some that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and
others, of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared from English seed. O people of the
Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry was to raise flowers!
But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the Maypole? It could not be that the
fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought
refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West. These were Gothic monsters,
though perhaps of Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely youth uprose the head and
branching antlers of a stag; a second, human in all other points, had the grim visage of a wolf; a
third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and horns of a venerable
he-goat. There was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned
with pink silk stockings. And here, again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark
forest, lending each of his forepaws to the grasp of a human hand and as ready for the dance as
any in that circle. His inferior nature rose halfway to meet his companions as they stooped. Other
faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted or extravagant, with red noses
pendulous before their mouths, which seemed of awful depth and stretched from ear to ear in an
eternal fit of laughter. Here might be seen the salvage man—well known in heraldry—hairy as a
baboon and girdled with green leaves. By his side—a nobler figure, but still a counterfeit—
appeared an Indian hunter with feathery crest and wampum-belt. Many of this strange company
wore foolscaps and had little bells appended to their garments, tinkling with a silvery sound
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responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some youths and maidens were of
soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in the irregular throng by the expression of wild
revelry upon their features.
Such were the colonists of Merry Mount as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round their
venerated Maypole. Had a wanderer bewildered in the melancholy forest heard their mirth and
stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have fancied them the crew of Comus, some already
transformed to brutes, some midway between man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of
tipsy jollity that foreran the change; but a band of Puritans who watched the scene, invisible
themselves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls with whom their superstition
peopled the black wilderness.
Within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had ever trodden on any more
solid footing than a purple-and-golden cloud. One was a youth in glistening apparel with a scarf
of the rainbow pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand held a gilded staff—the ensign of
high dignity among the revellers—and his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden not
less gayly decorated than himself. Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls
of each, and were scattered round their feet or had sprung up spontaneously there. Behind this
lightsome couple, so close to the Maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure
of an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen fashion, and
wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his rolling eye and the pagan
decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very Comus of the
crew.
"Votaries of the Maypole," cried the flower-decked priest, "merrily all day long have the woods
echoed to your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my hearts! Lo! here stand the Lord and
Lady of the May, whom I, a clerk of Oxford and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently to
join in holy matrimony.—Up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, green men and gleemaidens, bears and wolves and horned gentlemen! Come! a chorus now rich with the old mirth
of Merry England and the wilder glee of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to show the youthful
pair what life is made of and how airily they should go through it!—All ye that love the
Maypole, lend your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!"
This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where jest and delusion, trick
and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must
be laid down at sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the
measure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses that hung from the lowest green bough of the
Maypole had been twined for them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of
their flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the rout
of monstrous figures.
"Begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all, "and never did the woods ring to such a merry
peal as we of the Maypole shall send up."
Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play
from a neighboring thicket in such a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to
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the sound. But the May-lord—he of the gilded staff—chancing to look into his lady's eyes, was
wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own.
"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon wreath of roses a garland
to hang above our graves that you look so sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not
by any pensive shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter than
the mere remembrance of what is now passing."
"That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind too?" said Edith, in a
still lower tone than he; for it was high treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh
amid this festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these
shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and
lady of the May. What is the mystery in my heart?"
Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower of withering rose-leaves
from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers! No sooner had their hearts glowed with real
passion than they were sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former pleasures,
and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From the moment that they truly loved they
had subjected themselves to earth's doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a
home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery. Now leave we the priest to marry them, and the
masquers to sport round the Maypole till the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the
shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay
people were.
Two hundred years ago, and more, the Old World and its inhabitants became mutually weary of
each other. Men voyaged by thousands to the West—some to barter glass and such like jewels
for the furs of the Indian hunter, some to conquer virgin empires, and one stern band to pray. But
none of these motives had much weight with the striving to communicate their mirth to the grave
Indian, or masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves which they had hunted for that especial
purpose. Often the whole colony were playing at Blindman's Buff, magistrates and all with their
eyes bandaged, except a single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of
the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, they were seen following a flower-decked corpse with
merriment and festive music to his grave. But did the dead man laugh? In their quietest times
they sang ballads and told tales for the edification of their pious visitors, or perplexed them with
juggling tricks, or grinned at them through horse-collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome,
they made game of their own stupidity and began a yawning-match. At the very least of these
enormities the men of iron shook their heads and frowned so darkly that the revellers looked up,
imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine which was to be perpetual there. On
the other hand, the Puritans affirmed that when a psalm was pealing from their place of worship
the echo which the forest sent them back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing
with a roar of laughter. Who but the fiend and his bond-slaves the crew of Merry Mount had thus
disturbed them? In due time a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other
as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future
complexion of New England was involved in this important quarrel. Should the grisly saints
establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime and
make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm for ever; but should the
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banner-staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers
would beautify the forest and late posterity do homage to the Maypole.
After these authentic passages from history we return to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the
May. Alas! we have delayed too long, and must darken our tale too suddenly. As we glance
again at the Maypole a solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint
golden tinge blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim light is now withdrawn,
relinquishing the whole domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom which has rushed so
instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. But some of these black shadows have
rushed forth in human shape.
Yes, with the setting sun the last day of mirth had passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay
masquers was disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew
weaker than a lamb; the bells of the morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. The
Puritans had played a characteristic part in the Maypole mummeries. Their darksome figures
were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment
when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the hostile
party stood in the centre of the circle, while the rout of monsters cowered around him like evil
spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So
stern was the energy of his aspect that the whole man, visage, frame and soul, seemed wrought of
iron gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. It
was the Puritan of Puritans: it was Endicott himself.
"Stand off, priest of Baal!" said he, with a grim frown and laying no reverent hand upon the
surplice. "I know thee, Blackstone! Thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine
own corrupted Church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity and to give example of it in thy
life. But now shall it be seen that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people.
Woe unto them that would defile it! And first for this flower-decked abomination, the altar of thy
worship!"
And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hallowed Maypole. Nor long did it resist his arm.
It groaned with a dismal sound, it showered leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast,
and finally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures,
down fell the banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew
darker and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow.
"There!" cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on his work; "there lies the only Maypole in New
England. The thought is strong within me that by its fall is shadowed forth the fate of light and
idle mirthmakers amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith John Endicott!"
"Amen!" echoed his followers.
But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for their idol. At the sound the Puritan leader
glanced at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet at this moment strangely
expressive of sorrow and dismay.
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"Valiant captain," quoth Peter Palfrey, the ancient of the band, "what order shall be taken with
the prisoners?"
"I thought not to repent me of cutting down a Maypole," replied Endicott, "yet now I could find
in my heart to plant it again and give each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their
idol. It would have served rarely for a whipping-post."
"But there are pine trees enow," suggested the lieutenant.
"True, good ancient," said the leader. "Wherefore bind the heathen crew and bestow on them a
small matter of stripes apiece as earnest of our future justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks
to rest themselves so soon as Providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered
settlements where such accommodations may be found. Further penalties, such as branding and
cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter."
"How many stripes for the priest?" inquired Ancient Palfrey.
"None as yet," answered Endicott, bending his iron frown upon the culprit. "It must be for the
Great and General Court to determine whether stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous
penalty, may atone for his transgressions. Let him look to himself. For such as violate our civil
order it may be permitted us to show mercy, but woe to the wretch that troubleth our religion!"
"And this dancing bear?" resumed the officer. "Must he share the stripes of his fellows?"
"Shoot him through the head!" said the energetic Puritan. "I suspect witchcraft in the beast."
"Here be a couple of shining ones," continued Peter Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and
Lady of the May. "They seem to be of high station among these misdoers. Methinks their dignity
will not be fitted with less than a double share of stripes."
Endicott rested on his sword and closely surveyed the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There
they stood, pale, downcast and apprehensive, yet there was an air of mutual support and of pure
affection seeking aid and giving it that showed them to be man and wife with the sanction of a
priest upon their love. The youth in the peril of the moment, had dropped his gilded staff and
thrown his arm about the Lady of the May, who leaned against his breast too lightly to burden
him, but with weight enough to express that their destinies were linked together for good or evil.
They looked first at each other and then into the grim captain's face. There they stood in the first
hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures of which their companions were the emblems had
given place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark Puritans. But never had their
youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was chastened by adversity.
"Youth," said Endicott, "ye stand in an evil case—thou and thy maiden-wife. Make ready
presently, for I am minded that ye shall both have a token to remember your wedding-day."
"Stern man," cried the May-lord, "how can I move thee? Were the means at hand, I would resist
to the death; being powerless, I entreat. Do with me as thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched."
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"Not so," replied the immitigable zealot. "We are not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex
which requireth the stricter discipline.—What sayest thou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom
suffer thy share of the penalty besides his own?"
"Be it death," said Edith, "and lay it all on me."
Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woeful case. Their foes were triumphant,
their friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the benighted wilderness around them, and
a rigorous destiny in the shape of the Puritan leader their only guide. Yet the deepening twilight
could not altogether conceal that the iron man was softened. He smiled at the fair spectacle of
early love; he almost sighed for the inevitable blight of early hopes.
"The troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple," observed Endicott. "We will see
how they comport themselves under their present trials ere we burden them with greater. If
among the spoil there be any garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this Maylord and his Lady instead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of you."
"And shall not the youth's hair be cut?" asked Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the
lovelock and long glossy curls of the young man.
"Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell fashion," answered the captain. "Then
bring them along with us, but more gently than their fellows. There be qualities in the youth
which may make him valiant to fight and sober to toil and pious to pray, and in the maiden that
may fit her to become a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than her own
hath been.—Nor think ye, young ones, that they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a
moment, who misspend it in dancing round a Maypole."
And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid the rock-foundation of New England, lifted the
wreath of roses from the ruin of the Maypole and threw it with his own gauntleted hand over the
heads of the Lord and Lady of the May. It was a deed of prophecy. As the moral gloom of the
world overpowers all systematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate
amid the sad forest. They returned to it no more. But as their flowery garland was wreathed of
the brightest roses that had grown there, so in the tie that united them were intertwined all the
purest and best of their early joys. They went heavenward supporting each other along the
difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the
vanities of Merry Mount.
The Minister's Black Veil
Resources for Hawthorne
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "The Minister's Black Veil. A Parable." Twice-Told Tales. Boston:
American Stationer's Company, 1837.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13707
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The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house pulling lustily at the bell-rope. The old
people of the village came stooping along the street. Children with bright faces tripped merrily
beside their parents or mimicked a graver gait in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes.
Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine
made them prettier than on week-days. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the
sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first
glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons.
"But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton, in astonishment.
All within hearing immediately turned about and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper pacing
slowly his meditative way toward the meeting-house. With one accord they started, expressing
more wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper's
pulpit.
"Are you sure it is our parson?" inquired Goodman Gray of the sexton.
"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. "He was to have exchanged pulpits
with Parson Shute of Westbury, but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to
preach a funeral sermon."
The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly
person of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a
careful wife had starched his band and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday's garb. There
was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his forehead and hanging down
over his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer
view it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his features except the
mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight further than to give a darkened aspect to
all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him good Mr. Hooper walked
onward at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground, as is customary
with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the
meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return.
"I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said the sexton.
"I don't like it," muttered an old woman as she hobbled into the meeting-house. "He has changed
himself into something awful only by hiding his face."
"Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following him across the threshold.
A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house
and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from twisting their heads toward the door;
many stood upright and turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats,
and came down again with a terrible racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's
gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should
attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his
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people. He entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side
and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an
arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man
became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to
partake of the prevailing wonder till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs and showed himself in
the pulpit, face to face with his congregation except for the black veil. That mysterious emblem
was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath as he gave out the psalm, it threw
its obscurity between him and the holy page as he read the Scriptures, and while he prayed the
veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom
he was addressing?
Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape that more than one woman of delicate nerves
was forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as
fearful a sight to the minister as his black veil to them.
Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to win his
people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences rather than to drive them thither by the
thunders of the word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same
characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory, but there was
something either in the sentiment of the discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors
which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. It
was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament.
The subject had reference to secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest
and dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the
Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each member of the
congregation, the most innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had
crept upon them behind his awful veil and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought.
Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr.
Hooper said—at least, no violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy voice the
hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible were the audience
of some unwonted attribute in their minister that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside
the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture
and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.
At the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to
communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost
sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths
all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapped in silent meditation; some
talked loudly and profaned the Sabbath-day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their
sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or two affirmed that
there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight
lamp as to require a shade.
After a brief interval forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his
veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the
middle-aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled
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authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was
always his custom on the Sabbath-day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy.
None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire
Saunders—doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory—neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his
table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food almost every Sunday since his
settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and at the moment of closing the door was
observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad
smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as
he disappeared.
"How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her
bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's face!"
"Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the
physician of the village. "But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary even on a
sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its
influence over his whole person and makes him ghost-like from head to foot. Do you not feel it
so?"
"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with him for the world. I wonder he is
not afraid to be alone with himself."
"Men sometimes are so," said her husband.
The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its conclusion the bell tolled
for the funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled in the house and the
more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased,
when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black
veil. It was now an appropriate emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse
was laid, and bent over the coffin to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he
stooped the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been
closed for ever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her
glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the interview
between the dead and living scrupled not to affirm that at the instant when the clergyman's
features were disclosed the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap,
though the countenance retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the
only witness of this prodigy.
From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of
the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of
sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes that the music of a heavenly harp swept by the fingers
of the dead seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. The people
trembled, though they but darkly understood him, when he prayed that they and himself, and all
of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour
that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went heavily forth and the mourners
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followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them and Mr. Hooper in his black veil
behind.
"Why do you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner.
"I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in
hand."
"And so had I at the same moment," said the other.
That night the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in wedlock. Though
reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions which
often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There
was no quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. The company at the
wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe which had gathered
over him throughout the day would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr.
Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil which had
added deeper gloom to the funeral and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was
its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the
black crape and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister, but
the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her death-like
paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come
from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one
where they tolled the wedding-knell.
After performing the ceremony Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness
to the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the
features of the guests like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of
his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it
overwhelmed all others. His frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine
upon the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the Earth too had on her black veil.
The next day the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's black veil.
That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances
meeting in the street and good women gossipping at their open windows. It was the first item of
news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it on their way to school.
One imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting
his playmates that the panic seized himself and he wellnigh lost his wits by his own waggery.
It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one
ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever
there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers nor shown
himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of
self-distrust that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a
crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his
parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling
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of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the
responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the
church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery before it should grow into a scandal.
Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister received them with friendly
courtesy, but became silent after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of
introducing their important business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough.
There was the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper's forehead and concealing every feature
above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy
smile. But that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the
symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak
freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused and
shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an
invisible glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the
matter too weighty to be handled except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not
require a General Synod.
But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had
impressed all besides herself. When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even
venturing to demand one, she with the calm energy of her character determined to chase away
the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper every moment more darkly than
before. As his plighted wife it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At
the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity which
made the task easier both for him and her. After he had seated himself she fixed her eyes
steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed
the multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his forehead to his mouth and
slightly stirring with his breath.
"No," said she, aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it
hides a face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind
the cloud. First lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on."
Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly.
"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss,
beloved friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then."
"Your words are a mystery too," returned the young lady. "Take away the veil from them, at
least."
"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and
a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the
gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No mortal eye will see it
withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never
come behind it."
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"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus
darken your eyes for ever?"
"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have
sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil."
"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged
Elizabeth. "Beloved and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face
under the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office do away this scandal."
The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad
in the village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again—that same
sad smile which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light proceeding from the obscurity
beneath the veil.
"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely replied; "and if I cover it for
secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?" And with this gentle but unconquerable
obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties.
At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering,
probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which,
if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer
character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But in an instant, as it were, a new
feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when like a
sudden twilight in the air its terrors fell around her. She arose and stood trembling before him.
"And do you feel it, then, at last?" said he, mournfully.
She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand and turned to leave the room. He rushed
forward and caught her arm.
"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "Do not desert me though this veil
must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no
darkness between our souls. It is but a mortal veil; it is not for eternity. Oh, you know not how
lonely I am, and how frightened to be alone behind my black veil! Do not leave me in this
miserable obscurity for ever."
"Lift the veil but once and look me in the face," said she.
"Never! It cannot be!" replied Mr. Hooper.
"Then farewell!" said Elizabeth.
She withdrew her arm from his grasp and slowly departed, pausing at the door to give one long,
shuddering gaze that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But even amid his
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grief Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness,
though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers.
From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's black veil or by a direct appeal to
discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to
popular prejudice it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the
sober actions of men otherwise rational and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity.
But with the multitude good Mr. Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street
with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid
him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The
impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the
burial-ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind
the gravestones peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead
people drove him thence. It grieved him to the very depth of his kind heart to observe how the
children fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports while his melancholy figure
was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else that a
preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his own
antipathy to the veil was known to be so great that he never willingly passed before a mirror nor
stooped to drink at a still fountain lest in its peaceful bosom he should be affrighted by himself.
This was what gave plausibility to the whispers that Mr. Hooper's conscience tortured him for
some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed or otherwise than so obscurely intimated.
Thus from beneath the black veil there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or
sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It
was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With self-shudderings and outward
terrors he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul or gazing
through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed,
respected his dreadful secret and never blew aside the veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly
smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by.
Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect of making its wearer a
very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem—for there was no other apparent
cause—he became a man of awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. His converts
always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that
before he brought them to celestial light they had been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom,
indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr.
Hooper and would not yield their breath till he appeared, though ever, as he stooped to whisper
consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the
black veil even when Death had bared his visage. Strangers came long distances to attend service
at his church with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure because it was forbidden them to
behold his face. But many were made to quake ere they departed. Once, during Governor
Belcher's administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered with
his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council and the representatives, and
wrought so deep an impression that the legislative measures of that year were characterized by
all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway.
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In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in
dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved and dimly feared; a man apart from men,
shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore
on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England
churches, and they called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners who were of mature age
when he was settled had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one congregation in the
church and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and, having wrought so late into the evening
and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's turn to rest.
Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight in the death-chamber of the old
clergyman. Natural connections he had none. But there was the decorously grave though
unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not
save. There were the deacons and other eminently pious members of his church. There, also, was
the Reverend Mr. Clark of Westbury, a young and zealous divine who had ridden in haste to pray
by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse—no hired handmaiden of Death, but
one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and
would not perish even at the dying-hour. Who but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head of
good Father Hooper upon the death-pillow with the black veil still swathed about his brow and
reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir.
All through life that piece of crape had hung between him and the world; it had separated him
from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love and kept him in that saddest of all prisons his own
heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber and shade
him from the sunshine of eternity.
For some time previous his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and
the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to
come. There had been feverish turns which tossed him from side to side and wore away what
little strength he had. But in his most convulsive struggles and in the wildest vagaries of his
intellect, when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude
lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a
faithful woman at his pillow who with averted eyes would have covered that aged face which she
had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood.
At length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion,
with an imperceptible pulse and breath that grew fainter and fainter except when a long, deep
and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit.
The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.
"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. Are you ready for
the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?"
Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then—apprehensive,
perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful—he exerted himself to speak.
"Yea," said he, in faint accents; "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be lifted."
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"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a
blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce,—is it
fitting that a father in the Church should leave a shadow on his memory that may seem to
blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be
gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity be
lifted let me cast aside this black veil from your face;" and, thus speaking, the Reverend Mr.
Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years.
But, exerting a sudden energy that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched
both his hands from beneath the bedclothes and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute
to struggle if the minister of Westbury would contend with a dying man.
"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!"
"Dark old man," exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are
you now passing to the judgment?"
Father Hooper's breath heaved: it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort grasping forward
with his hands, he caught hold of life and held it back till he should speak. He even raised
himself in bed, and there he sat shivering with the arms of Death around him, while the black
veil hung down, awful at that last moment in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint,
sad smile so often there now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity and linger on Father Hooper's
lips.
"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale
spectators. "Tremble also at each other. Have men avoided me and women shown no pity and
children screamed and fled only for my black veil? What but the mystery which it obscurely
typifies has made this piece of crape so awful? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his
friend, the lover to his best-beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his
Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin,—then deem me a monster for the symbol
beneath which I have lived and die. I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a black veil!"
While his auditors shrank from one another in mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his
pillow, a veiled corpse with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his
coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up
and withered on that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust;
but awful is still the thought that it mouldered beneath the black veil.
Illustration: by Elenore Plaisted Abbott, "The Minister's Black Veil" with caption, "the children
fled from his approach." Twice-Told Tales, Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin, and
Company, 1900.
My Kinsman, Major Molineux
Resources for Hawthorne
193
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "My Kinsman, Major Molineux." The Snow-Image and Other Twice-Told
Tales. Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, 1852.
source of electronic text, The Snow-Image and Other Stories. :
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/513
After the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the
measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and generous approbation which had been paid
to those of their predecessors, under the original charters. The people looked with most jealous
scrutiny to the exercise of power which did not emanate from themselves, and they usually
rewarded their rulers with slender gratitude for the compliances by which, in softening their
instructions from beyond the sea, they had incurred the reprehension of those who gave them.
The annals of Massachusetts Bay will inform us, that of six governors in the space of about forty
years from the surrender of the old charter, under James II, two were imprisoned by a popular
insurrection; a third, as Hutchinson inclines to believe, was driven from the province by the
whizzing of a musket-ball; a fourth, in the opinion of the same historian, was hastened to his
grave by continual bickerings with the House of Representatives; and the remaining two, as well
as their successors, till the Revolution, were favored with few and brief intervals of peaceful
sway. The inferior members of the court party, in times of high political excitement, led scarcely
a more desirable life. These remarks may serve as a preface to the following adventures, which
chanced upon a summer night, not far from a hundred years ago. The reader, in order to avoid a
long and dry detail of colonial affairs, is requested to dispense with an account of the train of
circumstances that had caused much temporary inflammation of the popular mind.
It was near nine o'clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed the ferry with a single
passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at that unusual hour by the promise of an extra fare.
While he stood on the landing-place, searching in either pocket for the means of fulfilling his
agreement, the ferryman lifted a lantern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen moon, he took
a very accurate survey of the stranger's figure. He was a youth of barely eighteen years, evidently
country-bred, and now, as it should seem, upon his first visit to town. He was clad in a coarse
gray coat, well worn, but in excellent repair; his under garments were durably constructed of
leather, and fitted tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs; his stockings of blue yarn
were the incontrovertible work of a mother or a sister; and on his head was a three-cornered hat,
which in its better days had perhaps sheltered the graver brow of the lad's father. Under his left
arm was a heavy cudgel formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part of the hardened root; and
his equipment was completed by a wallet, not so abundantly stocked as to incommode the
vigorous shoulders on which it hung. Brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright,
cheerful eyes were nature's gifts, and worth all that art could have done for his adornment.
The youth, one of whose names was Robin, finally drew from his pocket the half of a little
province bill of five shillings, which, in the depreciation in that sort of currency, did but satisfy
the ferryman's demand, with the surplus of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at three
pence. He then walked forward into the town, with as light a step as if his day's journey had not
already exceeded thirty miles, and with as eager an eye as if he were entering London city,
instead of the little metropolis of a New England colony. Before Robin had proceeded far,
however, it occurred to him that he knew not whither to direct his steps; so he paused, and
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looked up and down the narrow street, scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that
were scattered on either side.
"This low hovel cannot be my kinsman's dwelling," thought he, "nor yonder old house, where the
moonlight enters at the broken casement; and truly I see none hereabouts that might be worthy of
him. It would have been wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and doubtless he would have
gone with me, and earned a shilling from the Major for his pains. But the next man I meet will do
as well."
He resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now became wider, and the houses
more respectable in their appearance. He soon discerned a figure moving on moderately in
advance, and hastened his steps to overtake it. As Robin drew nigh, he saw that the passenger
was a man in years, with a full periwig of gray hair, a wide-skirted coat of dark cloth, and silk
stockings rolled above his knees. He carried a long and polished cane, which he struck down
perpendicularly before him at every step; and at regular intervals he uttered two successive hems,
of a peculiarly solemn and sepulchral intonation. Having made these observations, Robin laid
hold of the skirt of the old man's coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a
barber's shop fell upon both their figures.
"Good evening to you, honored sir," said he, making a low bow, and still retaining his hold of the
skirt. "I pray you tell me whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux."
The youth's question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers, whose razor was
descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was dressing a Ramillies wig, left their
occupations, and came to the door. The citizen, in the mean time, turned a long-favored
countenance upon Robin, and answered him in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His two
sepulchral hems, however, broke into the very centre of his rebuke, with most singular effect,
like a thought of the cold grave obtruding among wrathful passions.
"Let go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak of. What! I have authority,
I have--hem, hem--authority; and if this be the respect you show for your betters, your feet shall
be brought acquainted with the stocks by daylight, tomorrow morning!"
Robin released the old man's skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an ill-mannered roar of
laughter from the barber's shop. He was at first considerably surprised by the result of his
question, but, being a shrewd youth, soon thought himself able to account for the mystery.
"This is some country representative," was his conclusion, "who has never seen the inside of my
kinsman's door, and lacks the breeding to answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily--I
might be tempted to turn back and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even the barber's
boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser in time, friend Robin."
He now became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, which crossed each
other, and meandered at no great distance from the water-side. The smell of tar was obvious to
his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the moonlight above the tops of the buildings, and the
numerous signs, which Robin paused to read, informed him that he was near the centre of
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business. But the streets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in the
second stories of a few dwelling-houses. At length, on the corner of a narrow lane, through
which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of a British hero swinging before the
door of an inn, whence proceeded the voices of many guests. The casement of one of the lower
windows was thrown back, and a very thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a party at
supper, round a well-furnished table. The fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth into the
outer air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the last remnant of his travelling stock of
provision had yielded to his morning appetite, and that noon had found and left him dinnerless.
"Oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at yonder table!" said
Robin, with a sigh. "But the Major will make me welcome to the best of his victuals; so I will
even step boldly in, and inquire my way to his dwelling."
He entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes of tobacco to the
public-room. It was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls, grown dark in the continual
smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but of no immaculate purity. A number of persons-the larger part of whom appeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea-occupied the wooden benches, or leatherbottomed chairs, conversing on various matters, and
occasionally lending their attention to some topic of general interest. Three or four little groups
were draining as many bowls of punch, which the West India trade had long since made a
familiar drink in the colony. Others, who had the appearance of men who lived by regular and
laborious handicraft, preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more
taciturn under its influence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection for the Good Creature in
some of its various shapes, for this is a vice to which, as Fast Day sermons of a hundred years
ago will testify, we have a long hereditary claim. The only guests to whom Robin's sympathies
inclined him were two or three sheepish countrymen, who were using the inn somewhat after the
fashion of a Turkish caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of the room,
and heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread of their own ovens, and the
bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. But though Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these
strangers, his eyes were attracted from them to a person who stood near the door, holding
whispered conversation with a group of ill-dressed associates. His features were separately
striking almost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on the memory. The
forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between; the nose came boldly forth
in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of more than a finger's breadth; the eyebrows were deep
and shaggy, and the eyes glowed beneath them like fire in a cave.
While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman's dwelling, he was accosted
by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained white apron, who had come to pay his professional
welcome to the stranger. Being in the second generation from a French Protestant, he seemed to
have inherited the courtesy of his parent nation; but no variety of circumstances was ever known
to change his voice from the one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin.
"From the country, I presume, sir?" said he, with a profound bow. "Beg leave to congratulate you
on your arrival, and trust you intend a long stay with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings,
and much that may interest a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your commands in respect to
supper?"
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"The man sees a family likeness! The rogue has guessed that I am related to the Major!" thought
Robin, who had hitherto experienced little superfluous civility.
All eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his worn three-cornered hat,
gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings, leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a
wallet on his back.
Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption of confidence as befitted the
Major's relative. "My honest friend," he said, "I shall make it a point to patronize your house on
some occasion, when"--here he could not help lowering his voice--"when I may have more than
a parchment three-pence in my pocket. My present business," continued he, speaking with lofty
confidence, "is merely to inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux."
There was a sudden and general movement in the room, which Robin interpreted as expressing
the eagerness of each individual to become his guide. But the innkeeper turned his eyes to a
written paper on the wall, which he read, or seemed to read, with occasional recurrences to the
young man's figure.
"What have we here?" said he, breaking his speech into little dry fragments. "'Left the house of
the subscriber, bounden servant, Hezekiah Mudge,--had on, when he went away, gray coat,
leather breeches, master's third-best hat. One pound currency reward to whosoever shall lodge
him in any jail of the providence.' Better trudge, boy; better trudge!"
Robin had begun to draw his hand towards the lighter end of the oak cudgel, but a strange
hostility in every countenance induced him to relinquish his purpose of breaking the courteous
innkeeper's head. As he turned to leave the room, he encountered a sneering glance from the
bold-featured personage whom he had before noticed; and no sooner was he beyond the door,
than he heard a general laugh, in which the innkeeper's voice might be distinguished, like the
dropping of small stones into a kettle.
"Now, is it not strange," thought Robin, with his usual shrewdness, "is it not strange that the
confession of an empty pocket should outweigh the name of my kinsman, Major Molineux? Oh,
if I had one of those grinning rascals in the woods, where I and my oak sapling grew up together,
I would teach him that my arm is heavy though my purse be light!"
On turning the corner of the narrow lane, Robin found himself in a spacious street, with an
unbroken line of lofty houses on each side, and a steepled building at the upper end, whence the
ringing of a bell announced the hour of nine. The light of the moon, and the lamps from the
numerous shop-windows, discovered people promenading on the pavement, and amongst them
Robin had hoped to recognize his hitherto inscrutable relative. The result of his former inquiries
made him unwilling to hazard another, in a scene of such publicity, and he determined to walk
slowly and silently up the street, thrusting his face close to that of every elderly gentleman, in
search of the Major's lineaments. In his progress, Robin encountered many gay and gallant
figures. Embroidered garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs, gold-laced hats, and silverhilted swords glided past him and dazzled his optics. Travelled youths, imitators of the European
fine gentlemen of the period, trod jauntily along, half dancing to the fashionable tunes which
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they hummed, and making poor Robin ashamed of his quiet and natural gait. At length, after
many pauses to examine the gorgeous display of goods in the shop-windows, and after suffering
some rebukes for the impertinence of his scrutiny into people's faces, the Major's kinsman found
himself near the steepled building, still unsuccessful in his search. As yet, however, he had seen
only one side of the thronged street; so Robin crossed, and continued the same sort of inquisition
down the opposite pavement, with stronger hopes than the philosopher seeking an honest man,
but with no better fortune. He had arrived about midway towards the lower end, from which his
course began, when he overheard the approach of some one who struck down a cane on the flagstones at every step, uttering at regular intervals, two sepulchral hems.
"Mercy on us!" quoth Robin, recognizing the sound.
Turning a corner, which chanced to be close at his right hand, he hastened to pursue his
researches in some other part of the town. His patience now was wearing low, and he seemed to
feel more fatigue from his rambles since he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of several
days on the other side. Hunger also pleaded loudly within him, and Robin began to balance the
propriety of demanding, violently, and with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance from the first
solitary passenger whom he should meet. While a resolution to this effect was gaining strength,
he entered a street of mean appearance, on either side of which a row of ill-built houses was
straggling towards the harbor. The moonlight fell upon no passenger along the whole extent, but
in the third domicile which Robin passed there was a half-opened door, and his keen glance
detected a woman's garment within.
"My luck may be better here," said he to himself.
Accordingly, he approached the doors and beheld it shut closer as he did so; yet an open space
remained, sufficing for the fair occupant to observe the stranger, without a corresponding display
on her part. All that Robin could discern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and the occasional
sparkle of an eye, as if the moonbeams were trembling on some bright thing.
"Pretty mistress," for I may call her so with a good conscience thought the shrewd youth, since I
know nothing to the contrary,--"my sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me
whereabouts I must seek the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?"
Robin's voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothing to be shunned in the
handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and came forth into the moonlight. She was a
dainty little figure with a white neck, round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which
her scarlet petticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon. Moreover, her
face was oval and pretty, her hair dark beneath the little cap, and her bright eyes possessed a sly
freedom, which triumphed over those of Robin.
"Major Molineux dwells here," said this fair woman.
Now, her voice was the sweetest Robin had heard that night, yet he could not help doubting
whether that sweet voice spoke Gospel truth. He looked up and down the mean street, and then
surveyed the house before which they stood. It was a small, dark edifice of two stories, the
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second of which projected over the lower floor, and the front apartment had the aspect of a shop
for petty commodities.
"Now, truly, I am in luck," replied Robin, cunningly, "and so indeed is my kinsman, the Major,
in having so pretty a housekeeper. But I prithee trouble him to step to the door; I will deliver him
a message from his friends in the country, and then go back to my lodgings at the inn."
"Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or more," said the lady of the scarlet petticoat; "and it
would be to little purpose to disturb him to-night, seeing his evening draught was of the
strongest. But he is a kind-hearted man, and it would be as much as my life's worth to let a
kinsman of his turn away from the door. You are the good old gentleman's very picture, and I
could swear that was his rainy-weather hat. Also he has garments very much resembling those
leather small-clothes. But come in, I pray, for I bid you hearty welcome in his name."
So saying, the fair and hospitable dame took our hero by the hand; and the touch was light, and
the force was gentleness, and though Robin read in her eyes what he did not hear in her words,
yet the slender-waisted woman in the scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the athletic country
youth. She had drawn his half-willing footsteps nearly to the threshold, when the opening of a
door in the neighborhood startled the Major's housekeeper, and, leaving the Major's kinsman, she
vanished speedily into her own domicile. A heavy yawn preceded the appearance of a man, who,
like the Moonshine of Pyramus and Thisbe, carried a lantern, needlessly aiding his sister
luminary in the heavens. As he walked sleepily up the street, he turned his broad, dull face on
Robin, and displayed a long staff, spiked at the end.
"Home, vagabond, home!" said the watchman, in accents that seemed to fall asleep as soon as
they were uttered. "Home, or we'll set you in the stocks by peep of day!"
"This is the second hint of the kind," thought Robin. "I wish they would end my difficulties, by
setting me there to-night."
Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the guardian of midnight order,
which at first prevented him from asking his usual question. But just when the man was about to
vanish behind the corner, Robin resolved not to lose the opportunity, and shouted lustily after
him, "I say, friend! will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, Major Molineux?"
The watchman made no reply, but turned the corner and was gone; yet Robin seemed to hear the
sound of drowsy laughter stealing along the solitary street. At that moment, also, a pleasant titter
saluted him from the open window above his head; he looked up, and caught the sparkle of a
saucy eye; a round arm beckoned to him, and next he heard light footsteps descending the
staircase within. But Robin, being of the household of a New England clergyman, was a good
youth, as well as a shrewd one; so he resisted temptation, and fled away.
He now roamed desperately, and at random, through the town, almost ready to believe that a
spell was on him, like that by which a wizard of his country had once kept three pursuers
wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty paces of the cottage which they sought. The
streets lay before him, strange and desolate, and the lights were extinguished in almost every
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house. Twice, however, little parties of men, among whom Robin distinguished individuals in
outlandish attire, came hurrying along; but, though on both occasions, they paused to address
him such intercourse did not at all enlighten his perplexity. They did but utter a few words in
some language of which Robin knew nothing, and perceiving his inability to answer, bestowed a
curse upon him in plain English and hastened away. Finally, the lad determined to knock at the
door of every mansion that might appear worthy to be occupied by his kinsman, trusting that
perseverance would overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted him. Firm in this resolve, he
was passing beneath the walls of a church, which formed the corner of two streets, when, as he
turned into the shade of its steeple, he encountered a bulky stranger muffled in a cloak. The man
was proceeding with the speed of earnest business, but Robin planted himself full before him,
holding the oak cudgel with both hands across his body as a bar to further passage.
"Halt, honest man, and answer me a question," said he, very resolutely. "Tell me, this instant,
whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux!"
"Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!" said a deep, gruff voice, which
Robin partly remembered. "Let me pass, or I'll strike you to the earth!"
"No, no, neighbor!" cried Robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then thrusting its larger end close to
the man's muffled face. "No, no, I'm not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass till I have an
answer to my question. Whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?" The
stranger, instead of attempting to force his passage, stepped back into the moonlight, unmuffled
his face, and stared full into that of Robin.
"Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux will pass by," said he.
Robin gazed with dismay and astonishment on the unprecedented physiognomy of the speaker.
The forehead with its double prominence the broad hooked nose, the shaggy eyebrows, and fiery
eyes were those which he had noticed at the inn, but the man's complexion had undergone a
singular, or, more properly, a twofold change. One side of the face blazed an intense red, while
the other was black as midnight, the division line being in the broad bridge of the nose; and a
mouth which seemed to extend from ear to ear was black or red, in contrast to the color of the
cheek. The effect was as if two individual devils, a fiend of fire and a fiend of darkness, had
united themselves to form this infernal visage. The stranger grinned in Robin's face, muffled his
party-colored features, and was out of sight in a moment.
"Strange things we travellers see!" ejaculated Robin.
He seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door, resolving to wait the appointed
time for his kinsman. A few moments were consumed in philosophical speculations upon the
species of man who had just left him; but having settled this point shrewdly, rationally, and
satisfactorily, he was compelled to look elsewhere for his amusement. And first he threw his
eyes along the street. It was of more respectable appearance than most of those into which he had
wandered, and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, a beautiful strangeness in familiar
objects, gave something of romance to a scene that might not have possessed it in the light of
day. The irregular and often quaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were broken
200
into numerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, into a single point, and
others again were square; the pure snow-white of some of their complexions, the aged darkness
of others, and the thousand sparklings, reflected from bright substances in the walls of many;
these matters engaged Robin's attention for a while, and then began to grow wearisome. Next he
endeavored to define the forms of distant objects, starting away, with almost ghostly
indistinctness, just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally he took a minute survey of an
edifice which stood on the opposite side of the street, directly in front of the church-door, where
he was stationed. It was a large, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony,
which rested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window, communicating therewith.
"Perhaps this is the very house I have been seeking," thought Robin.
Then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which swept continually along
the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to an unaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull,
dreamy sound, compounded of many noises, each of which was at too great a distance to be
separately heard. Robin marvelled at this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled more
whenever its continuity was broken by now and then a distant shout, apparently loud where it
originated. But altogether it was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off its drowsy influence,
Robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he might view the interior of the church. There
the moonbeams came trembling in, and fell down upon the deserted pews, and extended along
the quiet aisles. A fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and one
solitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great Bible. Had nature, in that deep
hour, become a worshipper in the house which man had builded? Or was that heavenly light the
visible sanctity of the place,--visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls?
The scene made Robin's heart shiver with a sensation of loneliness stronger than he had ever felt
in the remotest depths of his native woods; so he turned away and sat down again before the
door. There were graves around the church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into Robin's
breast. What if the object of his search, which had been so often and so strangely thwarted, were
all the time mouldering in his shroud? What if his kinsman should glide through yonder gate, and
nod and smile to him in dimly passing by?
"Oh that any breathing thing were here with me!" said Robin.
Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent them over forest, hill, and stream,
and attempted to imagine how that evening of ambiguity and weariness had been spent by his
father's household. He pictured them assembled at the door, beneath the tree, the great old tree,
which had been spared for its huge twisted trunk and venerable shade, when a thousand leafy
brethren fell. There, at the going down of the summer sun, it was his father's custom to perform
domestic worship that the neighbors might come and join with him like brothers of the family,
and that the wayfaring man might pause to drink at that fountain, and keep his heart pure by
freshening the memory of home. Robin distinguished the seat of every individual of the little
audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding the Scriptures in the golden light that fell
from the western clouds; he beheld him close the book and all rise up to pray. He heard the old
thanksgivings for daily mercies, the old supplications for their continuance to which he had so
often listened in weariness, but which were now among his dear remembrances. He perceived the
slight inequality of his father's voice when he came to speak of the absent one; he noted how his
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mother turned her face to the broad and knotted trunk; how his elder brother scorned, because the
beard was rough upon his upper lip, to permit his features to be moved; how the younger sister
drew down a low hanging branch before her eyes; and how the little one of all, whose sports had
hitherto broken the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer for her playmate, and burst into
clamorous grief. Then he saw them go in at the door; and when Robin would have entered also,
the latch tinkled into its place, and he was excluded from his home.
"Am I here, or there?" cried Robin, starting; for all at once, when his thoughts had become
visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide, solitary street shone out before him.
He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the large edifice which he
had surveyed before. But still his mind kept vibrating between fancy and reality; by turns, the
pillars of the balcony lengthened into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human
figures, settled again into their true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of
changes. For a single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a
visage--one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as his kinsman's--was
looking towards him from the Gothic window. A deeper sleep wrestled with and nearly
overcame him, but fled at the sound of footsteps along the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his
eyes, discerned a man passing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish,
and lamentable cry.
"Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major Molineux?"
The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the passenger, barely able to discern a
figure sitting in the oblique shade of the steeple, traversed the street to obtain a nearer view. He
was himself a gentleman in his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether prepossessing
countenance. Perceiving a country youth, apparently homeless and without friends, he accosted
him in a tone of real kindness, which had become strange to Robin's ears.
"Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?" inquired he. "Can I be of service to you in any
way?"
"I am afraid not, sir," replied Robin, despondingly; "yet I shall take it kindly, if you'll answer me
a single question. I've been searching, half the night, for one Major Molineux, now, sir, is there
really such a person in these parts, or am I dreaming?"
"Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me," said the gentleman, smiling. "Have
you any objection to telling me the nature of your business with him?"
Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a small salary, at a long
distance back in the country, and that he and Major Molineux were brothers' children. The
Major, having inherited riches, and acquired civil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in
great pomp, a year or two before; had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother,
and, being childless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of one of
them in life. The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm which his father cultivated in
the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore determined that Robin should profit by his
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kinsman's generous intentions, especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought
to possess other necessary endowments.
"For I have the name of being a shrewd youth," observed Robin, in this part of his story.
"I doubt not you deserve it," replied his new friend, good-naturedly; "but pray proceed."
"Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you see," continued Robin,
drawing himself up to his full height, "I thought it high time to begin in the world. So my mother
and sister put me in handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last year's
salary, and five days ago I started for this place, to pay the Major a visit. But, would you believe
it, sir! I crossed the ferry a little after dark, and have yet found nobody that would show me the
way to his dwelling; only, an hour or two since, I was told to wait here, and Major Molineux
would pass by."
"Can you describe the man who told you this?" inquired the gentleman.
"Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir," replied Robin, "with two great bumps on his
forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what struck me as the strangest, his face was of two
different colors. Do you happen to know such a man, sir?"
"Not intimately," answered the stranger, "but I chanced to meet him a little time previous to your
stopping me. I believe you may trust his word, and that the Major will very shortly pass through
this street. In the mean time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting, I will sit
down here upon the steps and bear you company."
He seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animated discourse. It was
but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting, which had long been remotely
audible, drew so much nearer that Robin inquired its cause.
"What may be the meaning of this uproar?" asked he. "Truly, if your town be always as noisy, I
shall find little sleep while I am an inhabitant."
"Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous fellows abroad to-night,"
replied the gentleman. "You must not expect all the stillness of your native woods here in our
streets. But the watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and--"
"Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day," interrupted Robin recollecting his own
encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. "But, dear sir, if I may trust my ears, an army of
watchmen would never make head against such a multitude of rioters. There were at least a
thousand voices went up to make that one shout."
"May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two complexions?" said his friend.
"Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!" responded the shrewd youth,
thinking of the seductive tones of the Major's housekeeper.
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The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and continual, that
Robin's curiosity was strongly excited. In addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from
many instruments of discord, and a wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals. Robin rose
from the steps, and looked wistfully towards a point whither people seemed to be hastening.
"Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on," exclaimed he "I have laughed very little
since I left home, sir, and should be sorry to lose an opportunity. Shall we step round the corner
by that darkish house and take our share of the fun?"
"Sit down again, sit down, good Robin," replied the gentleman, laying his hand on the skirt of
the gray coat. "You forget that we must wait here for your kinsman; and there is reason to
believe that he will pass by, in the course of a very few moments."
The near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windows flew open on all
sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep suddenly broken, were
protruded to the gaze of whoever had leisure to observe them. Eager voices hailed each other
from house to house, all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. Half-dressed
men hurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stone steps that
thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. The shouts, the laughter, and the tuneless bray the
antipodes of music, came onwards with increasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser
bodies, began to appear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards.
"Will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?" inquired the gentleman.
"Indeed, I can't warrant it, sir; but I'll take my stand here, and keep a bright lookout," answered
Robin, descending to the outer edge of the pavement.
A mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rolling slowly towards the
church. A single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them, and close behind him came a
band of fearful wind instruments, sending forth a fresher discord now that no intervening
buildings kept it from the ear. Then a redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense
multitude of torches shone along the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they
illuminated. The single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rode
onward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appeared like war
personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; the blackness of the other
betokened the mourning that attends them. In his train were wild figures in the Indian dress, and
many fantastic shapes without a model, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had
broken forth from some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnight streets.
A mass of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed the procession in; and
several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing the confusion of heavier sounds with their shrill
voices of mirth or terror.
"The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me," muttered Robin, with an indefinite but an
uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part in the pageantry.
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The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon the country youth, as the
steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed his eyes from those fiery ones, the musicians were
passing before him, and the torches were close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter
formed a veil which he could not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes
found its way to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and then
melted into the vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered a command to halt: the
trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their peace; the shouts and laughter of the people
died away, and there remained only a universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin's eyes
was an uncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shone out like day,
and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, Major Molineux!
He was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square features, betokening a
steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies had found means to shake it. His face was pale as
death, and far more ghastly; the broad forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his eyebrows
formed one grizzled line; his eyes were red and wild, and the foam hung white upon his
quivering lip. His whole frame was agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which his pride
strove to quell, even in those circumstances of overwhelming humiliation. But perhaps the
bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of Robin; for he evidently knew him on the
instant, as the youth stood witnessing the foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. They
stared at each other in silence, and Robin's knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a mixture of
pity and terror. Soon, however, a bewildering excitement began to seize upon his mind; the
preceding adventures of the night, the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the torches, the
confused din and the hush that followed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by that great
multitude,--all this, and, more than all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the whole scene,
affected him with a sort of mental inebriety. At that moment a voice of sluggish merriment
saluted Robin's ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner of the church stood the
lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily enjoying the lad's amazement. Then he heard a
peal of laughter like the ringing of silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met his,
and he saw the lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry cachinnation appealed to his memory,
and, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white apron over his head, he beheld the courteous
little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over the heads of the multitude a great, broad laugh,
broken in the midst by two sepulchral hems; thus, "Haw, haw, haw,--hem, hem,--haw, haw, haw,
haw!"
The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither Robin turned his eyes.
In front of the Gothic window stood the old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his gray periwig
exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk stockings
hanging about his legs. He supported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive
merriment, which manifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on a
tombstone. Then Robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of the inn, and of
all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion was spreading among the multitude,
when all at once, it seized upon Robin, and he sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through
the street,--every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin's shout was the
loudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as the congregated mirth went
roaring up the sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow. "Oho," quoth he, "the old earth is
frolicsome to-night!"
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When there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the leader gave the sign,
the procession resumed its march. On they went, like fiends that throng in mockery around some
dead potentate, mighty no more, but majestic still in his agony. On they went, in counterfeited
pomp, in senseless uproar, in frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old man's heart. On swept
the tumult, and left a silent street behind.
"Well, Robin, are you dreaming?" inquired the gentleman, laying his hand on the youth's
shoulder.
Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he had instinctively clung, as
the living stream rolled by him. His cheek was somewhat pale, and his eye not quite as lively as
in the earlier part of the evening.
"Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?" said he, after a moment's pause.
"You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?" observed his companion, with a smile.
"Why, yes, sir," replied Robin, rather dryly. "Thanks to you, and to my other friends, I have at
last met my kinsman, and he will scarce desire to see my face again. I begin to grow weary of a
town life, sir. Will you show me the way to the ferry?"
"No, my good friend Robin,--not to-night, at least," said the gentleman. "Some few days hence,
if you wish it, I will speed you on your journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as
you are a shrewd youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman, Major
Molineux."
The Birth-Mark
Resources for Hawthorne
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "The Birth-mark." Mosses from the Old Manse and Other Stories. New
York: Wiley and Putman, 1846.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/512
In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every
branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a
spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of
an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from
his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the
comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to
open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love
of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and
even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent
votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the
philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for
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himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control
over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be
weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger
of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the
strength of the latter to his own.
Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and
a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his
wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.
"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be
removed?"
"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed
deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to
imagine it might be so."
"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest
Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect,
which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of
earthly imperfection."
"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary
anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You
cannot love what shocks you!"
To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana's left cheek
there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her
face. In the usual state of her complexion—a healthy though delicate bloom—the mark wore a
tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When
she blushed it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush
of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting motion caused
her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer
sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the
human hand, though of the smallest pygmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wont to say that some
fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon the infant's cheek, and left this impress there in
token of the magic endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a
desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious
hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign manual
varied exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious
persons—but they were exclusively of her own sex—affirmed that the bloody hand, as they
chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her countenance
even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small blue stains which
sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster.
Masculine observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves
with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness
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without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage,—for he thought little or nothing of the
matter before,—Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful,—if Envy's self could have found aught else to sneer at,—he might
have felt his affection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed,
now lost, now stealing forth again and glimmering to and fro with every pulse of emotion that
throbbed within her heart; but seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow
more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of
humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions,
either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil
and pain. The crimson hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortality clutches the
highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with
the very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the
symbol of his wife's liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination was
not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than
ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.
At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably and without intending it,
nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary, reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at
first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought and modes of feeling that
it became the central point of all. With the morning twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his
wife's face and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening
hearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the
wood fire, the spectral hand that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped.
Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance with the peculiar
expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness,
amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest
marble.
Late one night when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray the stain on the poor
wife's cheek, she herself, for the first time, voluntarily took up the subject.
"Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a smile, "have you any
recollection of a dream last night about this odious hand?"
"None! none whatever!" replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added, in a dry, cold tone, affected
for the sake of concealing the real depth of his emotion, "I might well dream of it; for before I
fell asleep it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy."
"And you did dream of it?" continued Georgiana, hastily; for she dreaded lest a gush of tears
should interrupt what she had to say. "A terrible dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it
possible to forget this one expression?—'It is in her heart now; we must have it out!' Reflect, my
husband; for by all means I would have you recall that dream."
The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the
dim region of her sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets
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that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had fancied
himself with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation for the removal of the birthmark; but
the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have
caught hold of Georgiana's heart; whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved to cut
or wrench it away.
When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory, Aylmer sat in his wife's presence
with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and
then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practise an
unconscious self-deception during our waking moments. Until now he had not been aware of the
tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find
in his heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace.
"Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, "I know not what may be the cost to both of us to rid
me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity; or it may be the
stain goes as deep as life itself. Again: do we know that there is a possibility, on any terms, of
unclasping the firm gripe of this little hand which was laid upon me before I came into the
world?"
"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject," hastily interrupted Aylmer. "I
am convinced of the perfect practicability of its removal."
"If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued Georgiana, "let the attempt be made at
whatever risk. Danger is nothing to me; for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of
your horror and disgust,—life is a burden which I would fling down with joy. Either remove this
dreadful hand, or take my wretched life! You have deep science. All the world bears witness of
it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover
with the tips of two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace,
and to save your poor wife from madness?"
"Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife," cried Aylmer, rapturously, "doubt not my power. I have
already given this matter the deepest thought—thought which might almost have enlightened me
to create a being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the
heart of science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow;
and then, most beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left
imperfect in her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured woman assumed life, felt not
greater ecstasy than mine will be."
"It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling. "And, Aylmer, spare me not, though you
should find the birthmark take refuge in my heart at last."
Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not that which bore the impress of the
crimson hand.
The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have
opportunity for the intense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation
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would require; while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success.
They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a
laboratory, and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental
powers of Nature that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated
calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud
region and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept
alive the fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they
gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark
bosom of the earth. Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human
frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious
influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her
masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of
the truth—against which all seekers sooner or later stumble—that our great creative Mother,
while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to
keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She
permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to
make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course, with
such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because they involved much physiological
truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana.
As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was cold and tremulous. Aylmer
looked cheerfully into her face, with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense
glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a strong
convulsive shudder. His wife fainted.
"Aminadab! Aminadab!" shouted Aylmer, stamping violently on the floor.
Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature, but bulky frame, with
shaggy hair hanging about his visage, which was grimed with the vapors of the furnace. This
personage had been Aylmer's underworker during his whole scientific career, and was admirably
fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness, and the skill with which, while incapable
of comprehending a single principle, he executed all the details of his master's experiments. With
his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that
incrusted him, he seemed to represent man's physical nature; while Aylmer's slender figure, and
pale, intellectual face, were no less apt a type of the spiritual element.
"Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, "and burn a pastil."
"Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless form of Georgiana; and then
he muttered to himself, "If she were my wife, I'd never part with that birthmark."
When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an atmosphere of
penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness.
The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy,
sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of
beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung
210
with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other
species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and
ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from
infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And Aylmer,
excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied
its place with perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled
radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly, but without alarm; for he was
confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her within which no
evil might intrude.
"Where am I? Ah, I remember," said Georgiana, faintly; and she placed her hand over her cheek
to hide the terrible mark from her husband's eyes.
"Fear not, dearest!" exclaimed he. "Do not shrink from me! Believe me, Georgiana, I even
rejoice in this single imperfection, since it will be such a rapture to remove it."
"Oh, spare me!" sadly replied his wife. "Pray do not look at it again. I never can forget that
convulsive shudder."
In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual
things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had
taught him among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of
unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on
beams of light. Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena,
still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway
over the spiritual world. Then again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion,
immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the procession of external existence flitted across
a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented, but with that
bewitching, yet indescribable difference which always makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so
much more attractive than the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes
upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first; but was soon
startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender
stalk; the leaves gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.
"It is magical!" cried Georgiana. "I dare not touch it."
"Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer,—"pluck it, and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The
flower will wither in a few moments and leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence
may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself."
But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves
turning coal-black as if by the agency of fire.
"There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer, thoughtfully.
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To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process
of his own invention. It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of
metal. Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the result, was affrighted to find the features of the
portrait blurred and indefinable; while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek
should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive acid.
Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical
experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and
spoke in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of
the alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by which the golden
principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe that, by the
plainest scientific logic, it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this longsought medium; "but," he added, "a philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the
power would attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the exercise of it." Not less singular were his
opinions in regard to the elixir vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his option to concoct a
liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps interminably; but that it would produce a
discord in Nature which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would
find cause to curse.
"Aylmer, are you in earnest?" asked Georgiana, looking at him with amazement and fear. "It is
terrible to possess such power, or even to dream of possessing it."
"Oh, do not tremble, my love," said her husband. "I would not wrong either you or myself by
working such inharmonious effects upon our lives; but I would have you consider how trifling, in
comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little hand."
At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a redhot iron had touched her
cheek.
Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace room
giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response,
more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer
reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of chemical products and
natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he
remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the
breezes that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little
vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air and filled the room with
piercing and invigorating delight.
"And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-colored
liquid. "It is so beautiful to the eye that I could imagine it the elixir of life."
"In one sense it is," replied Aylmer; "or, rather, the elixir of immortality. It is the most precious
poison that ever was concocted in this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any
mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would determine whether
he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne
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could keep his life if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions justified
me in depriving him of it."
"Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana in horror.
"Do not mistrust me, dearest," said her husband, smiling; "its virtuous potency is yet greater than
its harmful one. But see! here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water,
freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take
the blood out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost."
"Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?" asked Georgiana, anxiously.
"Oh, no," hastily replied her husband; "this is merely superficial. Your case demands a remedy
that shall go deeper."
In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations
and whether the confinement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with
her. These questions had such a particular drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she was
already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air or taken
with her food. She fancied likewise, but it might be altogether fancy, that there was a stirring up
of her system—a strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling, half
painfully, half pleasurably, at her heart. Still, whenever she dared to look into the mirror, there
she beheld herself pale as a white rose and with the crimson birthmark stamped upon her cheek.
Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she.
To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary to devote to the
processes of combination and analysis, Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific
library. In many dark old tomes she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They were the
works of philosophers of the middle ages, such as Albertus Magnus, Cornelius Agrippa,
Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique
naturalists stood in advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and
therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined themselves to have acquired from the
investigation of Nature a power above Nature, and from physics a sway over the spiritual world.
Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal
Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural possibility, were
continually recording wonders or proposing methods whereby wonders might be wrought.
But to Georgiana the most engrossing volume was a large folio from her husband's own hand, in
which he had recorded every experiment of his scientific career, its original aim, the methods
adopted for its development, and its final success or failure, with the circumstances to which
either event was attributable. The book, in truth, was both the history and emblem of his ardent,
ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there
were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from materialism by
his strong and eager aspiration towards the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed
a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer and loved him more profoundly than ever, but
with a less entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he had accomplished,
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she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if
compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and
felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his
reach. The volume, rich with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as
melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad confession and continual
exemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and
working in matter, and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so miserably
thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of genius in whatever sphere might recognize
the image of his own experience in Aylmer's journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her face upon the open volume and
burst into tears. In this situation she was found by her husband.
"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books," said he with a smile, though his countenance was
uneasy and displeased. "Georgiana, there are pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance
over and keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you."
"It has made me worship you more than ever," said she.
"Ah, wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then worship me if you will. I shall deem myself
hardly unworthy of it. But come, I have sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to me,
dearest."
So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his
leave with a boyish exuberance of gayety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a
little longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he departed when Georgiana
felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom which
for two or three hours past had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in the fatal
birthmark, not painful, but which induced a restlessness throughout her system. Hastening after
her husband, she intruded for the first time into the laboratory.
The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and feverish worker, with the intense
glow of its fire, which by the quantities of soot clustered above it seemed to have been burning
for ages. There was a distilling apparatus in full operation. Around the room were retorts, tubes,
cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of chemical research. An electrical machine stood ready
for immediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with gaseous odors
which had been tormented forth by the processes of science. The severe and homely simplicity of
the apartment, with its naked walls and brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as
Georgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly, indeed almost
solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself.
He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung over the furnace as if it depended upon his
utmost watchfulness whether the liquid which it was distilling should be the draught of immortal
happiness or misery. How different from the sanguine and joyous mien that he had assumed for
Georgiana's encouragement!
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"Carefully now, Aminadab; carefully, thou human machine; carefully, thou man of clay!"
muttered Aylmer, more to himself than his assistant. "Now, if there be a thought too much or too
little, it is all over."
"Ho! ho!" mumbled Aminadab. "Look, master! look!"
Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew paler than ever, on beholding
Georgiana. He rushed towards her and seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers
upon it.
"Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your husband?" cried he, impetuously. "Would
you throw the blight of that fatal birthmark over my labors? It is not well done. Go, prying
woman, go!"
"Nay, Aylmer," said Georgiana with the firmness of which she possessed no stinted endowment,
"it is not you that have a right to complain. You mistrust your wife; you have concealed the
anxiety with which you watch the development of this experiment. Think not so unworthily of
me, my husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear not that I shall shrink; for my share in it is
far less than your own."
"No, no, Georgiana!" said Aylmer, impatiently; "it must not be."
"I submit," replied she calmly. "And, Aylmer, I shall quaff whatever draught you bring me; but it
will be on the same principle that would induce me to take a dose of poison if offered by your
hand."
"My noble wife," said Aylmer, deeply moved, "I knew not the height and depth of your nature
until now. Nothing shall be concealed. Know, then, that this crimson hand, superficial as it
seems, has clutched its grasp into your being with a strength of which I had no previous
conception. I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except to change
your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried. If that fail us we are ruined."
"Why did you hesitate to tell me this?" asked she.
"Because, Georgiana," said Aylmer, in a low voice, "there is danger."
"Danger? There is but one danger—that this horrible stigma shall be left upon my cheek!" cried
Georgiana. "Remove it, remove it, whatever be the cost, or we shall both go mad!"
"Heaven knows your words are too true," said Aylmer, sadly. "And now, dearest, return to your
boudoir. In a little while all will be tested."
He conducted her back and took leave of her with a solemn tenderness which spoke far more
than his words how much was now at stake. After his departure Georgiana became rapt in
musings. She considered the character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice than at any
previous moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love—so pure and lofty
215
that it would accept nothing less than perfection nor miserably make itself contented with an
earthlier nature than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment
than that meaner kind which would have borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been
guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual; and with her
whole spirit she prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest
conception. Longer than one moment she well knew it could not be; for his spirit was ever on the
march, ever ascending, and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the
instant before.
The sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal goblet containing a liquor
colorless as water, but bright enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it
seemed rather the consequence of a highly-wrought state of mind and tension of spirit than of
fear or doubt.
"The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said he, in answer to Georgiana's look. "Unless
all my science have deceived me, it cannot fail."
"Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed his wife, "I might wish to put off this
birthmark of mortality by relinquishing mortality itself in preference to any other mode. Life is
but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at
which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder it might be happiness. Were I stronger, it might be
endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to
die."
"You are fit for heaven without tasting death!" replied her husband "But why do we speak of
dying? The draught cannot fail. Behold its effect upon this plant."
On the window seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow blotches, which had overspread
all its leaves. Aylmer poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a
little time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to
be extinguished in a living verdure.
"There needed no proof," said Georgiana, quietly. "Give me the goblet I joyfully stake all upon
your word."
"Drink, then, thou lofty creature!" exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid admiration. "There is no taint
of imperfection on thy spirit. Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect."
She quaffed the liquid and returned the goblet to his hand.
"It is grateful," said she with a placid smile. "Methinks it is like water from a heavenly fountain;
for it contains I know not what of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a feverish
thirst that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep. My earthly senses are
closing over my spirit like the leaves around the heart of a rose at sunset."
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She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required almost more energy than she
could command to pronounce the faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered
through her lips ere she was lost in slumber. Aylmer sat by her side, watching her aspect with the
emotions proper to a man the whole value of whose existence was involved in the process now to
be tested. Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic investigation characteristic of
the man of science. Not the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of the cheek, a
slight irregularity of breath, a quiver of the eyelid, a hardly perceptible tremor through the
frame,—such were the details which, as the moments passed, he wrote down in his folio volume.
Intense thought had set its stamp upon every previous page of that volume, but the thoughts of
years were all concentrated upon the last.
While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal hand, and not without a shudder. Yet
once, by a strange and unaccountable impulse he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled,
however, in the very act, and Georgiana, out of the midst of her deep sleep, moved uneasily and
murmured as if in remonstrance. Again Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor was it without avail. The
crimson hand, which at first had been strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana's
cheek, now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than ever; but the birthmark
with every breath that came and went, lost somewhat of its former distinctness. Its presence had
been awful; its departure was more awful still. Watch the stain of the rainbow fading out the sky,
and you will know how that mysterious symbol passed away.
"By Heaven! it is well-nigh gone!" said Aylmer to himself, in almost irrepressible ecstasy. "I can
scarcely trace it now. Success! success! And now it is like the faintest rose color. The lightest
flush of blood across her cheek would overcome it. But she is so pale!"
He drew aside the window curtain and suffered the light of natural day to fall into the room and
rest upon her cheek. At the same time he heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had long
known as his servant Aminadab's expression of delight.
"Ah, clod! ah, earthly mass!" cried Aylmer, laughing in a sort of frenzy, "you have served me
well! Matter and spirit—earth and heaven—have both done their part in this! Laugh, thing of the
senses! You have earned the right to laugh."
These exclamations broke Georgiana's sleep. She slowly unclosed her eyes and gazed into the
mirror which her husband had arranged for that purpose. A faint smile flitted over her lips when
she recognized how barely perceptible was now that crimson hand which had once blazed forth
with such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all their happiness. But then her eyes sought
Aylmer's face with a trouble and anxiety that he could by no means account for.
"My poor Aylmer!" murmured she.
"Poor? Nay, richest, happiest, most favored!" exclaimed he. "My peerless bride, it is successful!
You are perfect!"
217
"My poor Aylmer," she repeated, with a more than human tenderness, "you have aimed loftily;
you have done nobly. Do not repent that with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the
best the earth could offer. Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"
Alas! it was too true! The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of life, and was the bond by
which an angelic spirit kept itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the
birthmark—that sole token of human imperfection—faded from her cheek, the parting breath of
the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her soul, lingering a moment near her
husband, took its heavenward flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever
does the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the immortal essence which, in
this dim sphere of half development, demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had
Aylmer reached a profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness which
would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with the celestial. The momentary
circumstance was too strong for him; he failed to look beyond the shadowy scope of time, and,
living once for all in eternity, to find the perfect future in the present.
Young Goodman Brown
Resources for Hawthorne
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "Young Goodman Brown." Mosses from the Old Manse and Other
Stories. New York: Wiley and Putman, 1846.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/512
Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem village; but put his head
back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as
the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with
the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman Brown.
"Dearest heart," whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear,
"prithee put off your journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is
troubled with such dreams and such thoughts that she's afeard of herself sometimes. Pray tarry
with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year."
"My love and my Faith," replied young Goodman Brown, "of all nights in the year, this one night
must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be
done 'twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we
but three months married?"
"Then God bless you!" said Faith, with the pink ribbons; "and may you find all well when you
come back."
"Amen!" cried Goodman Brown. "Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no
harm will come to thee."
218
So they parted; and the young man pursued his way until, being about to turn the corner by the
meeting-house, he looked back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him with a
melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons.
"Poor little Faith!" thought he, for his heart smote him. "What a wretch am I to leave her on such
an errand! She talks of dreams, too. Methought as she spoke there was trouble in her face, as if a
dream had warned her what work is to be done tonight. But no, no; 't would kill her to think it.
Well, she's a blessed angel on earth; and after this one night I'll cling to her skirts and follow her
to heaven."
With this excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown felt himself justified in making more
haste on his present evil purpose. He had taken a dreary road, darkened by all the gloomiest trees
of the forest, which barely stood aside to let the narrow path creep through, and closed
immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a
solitude, that the traveller knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the
thick boughs overhead; so that with lonely footsteps he may yet be passing through an unseen
multitude.
"There may be a devilish Indian behind every tree," said Goodman Brown to himself; and he
glanced fearfully behind him as he added, "What if the devil himself should be at my very
elbow!"
His head being turned back, he passed a crook of the road, and, looking forward again, beheld
the figure of a man, in grave and decent attire, seated at the foot of an old tree. He arose at
Goodman Brown's approach and walked onward side by side with him.
"You are late, Goodman Brown," said he. "The clock of the Old South was striking as I came
through Boston, and that is full fifteen minutes agone."
"Faith kept me back a while," replied the young man, with a tremor in his voice, caused by the
sudden appearance of his companion, though not wholly unexpected.
It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part of it where these two were
journeying. As nearly as could be discerned, the second traveller was about fifty years old,
apparently in the same rank of life as Goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance
to him, though perhaps more in expression than features. Still they might have been taken for
father and son. And yet, though the elder person was as simply clad as the younger, and as
simple in manner too, he had an indescribable air of one who knew the world, and who would
not have felt abashed at the governor's dinner table or in King William's court, were it possible
that his affairs should call him thither. But the only thing about him that could be fixed upon as
remarkable was his staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought
that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself like a living serpent. This, of course, must
have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain light.
"Come, Goodman Brown," cried his fellow-traveller, "this is a dull pace for the beginning of a
journey. Take my staff, if you are so soon weary."
219
"Friend," said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a full stop, "having kept covenant by
meeting thee here, it is my purpose now to return whence I came. I have scruples touching the
matter thou wot'st of."
"Sayest thou so?" replied he of the serpent, smiling apart. "Let us walk on, nevertheless,
reasoning as we go; and if I convince thee not thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the
forest yet."
"Too far! too far!" exclaimed the goodman, unconsciously resuming his walk. "My father never
went into the woods on such an errand, nor his father before him. We have been a race of honest
men and good Christians since the days of the martyrs; and shall I be the first of the name of
Brown that ever took this path and kept—"
"Such company, thou wouldst say," observed the elder person, interpreting his pause. "Well said,
Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the
Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the
Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I that brought your father a
pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip's war.
They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and
returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake."
"If it be as thou sayest," replied Goodman Brown, "I marvel they never spoke of these matters;
or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven them from New
England. We are a people of prayer, and good works to boot, and abide no such wickedness."
"Wickedness or not," said the traveller with the twisted staff, "I have a very general acquaintance
here in New England. The deacons of many a church have drunk the communion wine with me;
the selectmen of divers towns make me their chairman; and a majority of the Great and General
Court are firm supporters of my interest. The governor and I, too—But these are state secrets."
"Can this be so?" cried Goodman Brown, with a stare of amazement at his undisturbed
companion. "Howbeit, I have nothing to do with the governor and council; they have their own
ways, and are no rule for a simple husbandman like me. But, were I to go on with thee, how
should I meet the eye of that good old man, our minister, at Salem village? Oh, his voice would
make me tremble both Sabbath day and lecture day."
Thus far the elder traveller had listened with due gravity; but now burst into a fit of irrepressible
mirth, shaking himself so violently that his snake-like staff actually seemed to wriggle in
sympathy.
"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted he again and again; then composing himself, "Well, go on, Goodman
Brown, go on; but, prithee, don't kill me with laughing."
"Well, then, to end the matter at once," said Goodman Brown, considerably nettled, "there is my
wife, Faith. It would break her dear little heart; and I'd rather break my own."
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"Nay, if that be the case," answered the other, "e'en go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not
for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us that Faith should come to any harm."
As he spoke he pointed his staff at a female figure on the path, in whom Goodman Brown
recognized a very pious and exemplary dame, who had taught him his catechism in youth, and
was still his moral and spiritual adviser, jointly with the minister and Deacon Gookin.
"A marvel, truly, that Goody Cloyse should be so far in the wilderness at nightfall," said he. "But
with your leave, friend, I shall take a cut through the woods until we have left this Christian
woman behind. Being a stranger to you, she might ask whom I was consorting with and whither I
was going."
"Be it so," said his fellow-traveller. "Betake you to the woods, and let me keep the path."
Accordingly the young man turned aside, but took care to watch his companion, who advanced
softly along the road until he had come within a staff's length of the old dame. She, meanwhile,
was making the best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some
indistinct words—a prayer, doubtless—as she went. The traveller put forth his staff and touched
her withered neck with what seemed the serpent's tail.
"The devil!" screamed the pious old lady.
"Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?" observed the traveller, confronting her and leaning
on his writhing stick.
"Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship indeed?" cried the good dame. "Yea, truly is it, and in the
very image of my old gossip, Goodman Brown, the grandfather of the silly fellow that now is.
But—would your worship believe it?—my broomstick hath strangely disappeared, stolen, as I
suspect, by that unhanged witch, Goody Cory, and that, too, when I was all anointed with the
juice of smallage, and cinquefoil, and wolf's bane."
"Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe," said the shape of old Goodman
Brown.
"Ah, your worship knows the recipe," cried the old lady, cackling aloud. "So, as I was saying,
being all ready for the meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it; for they
tell me there is a nice young man to be taken into communion to-night. But now your good
worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling."
"That can hardly be," answered her friend. "I may not spare you my arm, Goody Cloyse; but here
is my staff, if you will."
So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of the rods
which its owner had formerly lent to the Egyptian magi. Of this fact, however, Goodman Brown
could not take cognizance. He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and, looking down again,
221
beheld neither Goody Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his fellow-traveller alone, who waited
for him as calmly as if nothing had happened.
"That old woman taught me my catechism," said the young man; and there was a world of
meaning in this simple comment.
They continued to walk onward, while the elder traveller exhorted his companion to make good
speed and persevere in the path, discoursing so aptly that his arguments seemed rather to spring
up in the bosom of his auditor than to be suggested by himself. As they went, he plucked a
branch of maple to serve for a walking stick, and began to strip it of the twigs and little boughs,
which were wet with evening dew. The moment his fingers touched them they became strangely
withered and dried up as with a week's sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded, at a good free pace,
until suddenly, in a gloomy hollow of the road, Goodman Brown sat himself down on the stump
of a tree and refused to go any farther.
"Friend," said he, stubbornly, "my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand.
What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she was going to
heaven: is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?"
"You will think better of this by and by," said his acquaintance, composedly. "Sit here and rest
yourself a while; and when you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along."
Without more words, he threw his companion the maple stick, and was as speedily out of sight as
if he had vanished into the deepening gloom. The young man sat a few moments by the roadside,
applauding himself greatly, and thinking with how clear a conscience he should meet the
minister in his morning walk, nor shrink from the eye of good old Deacon Gookin. And what
calm sleep would be his that very night, which was to have been spent so wickedly, but so purely
and sweetly now, in the arms of Faith! Amidst these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations,
Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and deemed it advisable to conceal
himself within the verge of the forest, conscious of the guilty purpose that had brought him
thither, though now so happily turned from it.
On came the hoof tramps and the voices of the riders, two grave old voices, conversing soberly
as they drew near. These mingled sounds appeared to pass along the road, within a few yards of
the young man's hiding-place; but, owing doubtless to the depth of the gloom at that particular
spot, neither the travellers nor their steeds were visible. Though their figures brushed the small
boughs by the wayside, it could not be seen that they intercepted, even for a moment, the faint
gleam from the strip of bright sky athwart which they must have passed. Goodman Brown
alternately crouched and stood on tiptoe, pulling aside the branches and thrusting forth his head
as far as he durst without discerning so much as a shadow. It vexed him the more, because he
could have sworn, were such a thing possible, that he recognized the voices of the minister and
Deacon Gookin, jogging along quietly, as they were wont to do, when bound to some ordination
or ecclesiastical council. While yet within hearing, one of the riders stopped to pluck a switch.
"Of the two, reverend sir," said the voice like the deacon's, "I had rather miss an ordination
dinner than to-night's meeting. They tell me that some of our community are to be here from
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Falmouth and beyond, and others from Connecticut and Rhode Island, besides several of the
Indian powwows, who, after their fashion, know almost as much deviltry as the best of us.
Moreover, there is a goodly young woman to be taken into communion."
"Mighty well, Deacon Gookin!" replied the solemn old tones of the minister. "Spur up, or we
shall be late. Nothing can be done, you know, until I get on the ground."
The hoofs clattered again; and the voices, talking so strangely in the empty air, passed on
through the forest, where no church had ever been gathered or solitary Christian prayed.
Whither, then, could these holy men be journeying so deep into the heathen wilderness? Young
Goodman Brown caught hold of a tree for support, being ready to sink down on the ground, faint
and overburdened with the heavy sickness of his heart. He looked up to the sky, doubting
whether there really was a heaven above him. Yet there was the blue arch, and the stars
brightening in it.
"With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!" cried Goodman
Brown.
While he still gazed upward into the deep arch of the firmament and had lifted his hands to pray,
a cloud, though no wind was stirring, hurried across the zenith and hid the brightening stars. The
blue sky was still visible, except directly overhead, where this black mass of cloud was sweeping
swiftly northward. Aloft in the air, as if from the depths of the cloud, came a confused and
doubtful sound of voices. Once the listener fancied that he could distinguish the accents of
towns-people of his own, men and women, both pious and ungodly, many of whom he had met
at the communion table, and had seen others rioting at the tavern. The next moment, so indistinct
were the sounds, he doubted whether he had heard aught but the murmur of the old forest,
whispering without a wind. Then came a stronger swell of those familiar tones, heard daily in the
sunshine at Salem village, but never until now from a cloud of night There was one voice of a
young woman, uttering lamentations, yet with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some
favor, which, perhaps, it would grieve her to obtain; and all the unseen multitude, both saints and
sinners, seemed to encourage her onward.
"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the
forest mocked him, crying, "Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were seeking her all through
the wilderness.
The cry of grief, rage, and terror was yet piercing the night, when the unhappy husband held his
breath for a response. There was a scream, drowned immediately in a louder murmur of voices,
fading into far-off laughter, as the dark cloud swept away, leaving the clear and silent sky above
Goodman Brown. But something fluttered lightly down through the air and caught on the branch
of a tree. The young man seized it, and beheld a pink ribbon.
"My Faith is gone!" cried he, after one stupefied moment. "There is no good on earth; and sin is
but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given."
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And, maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did Goodman Brown grasp his
staff and set forth again, at such a rate that he seemed to fly along the forest path rather than to
walk or run. The road grew wilder and drearier and more faintly traced, and vanished at length,
leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward with the instinct that guides
mortal man to evil. The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds—the creaking of the
trees, the howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the wind tolled like a
distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveller, as if all Nature were
laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its
other horrors.
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Goodman Brown when the wind laughed at him.
"Let us hear which will laugh loudest. Think not to frighten me with your deviltry. Come witch,
come wizard, come Indian powwow, come devil himself, and here comes Goodman Brown. You
may as well fear him as he fear you."
In truth, all through the haunted forest there could be nothing more frightful than the figure of
Goodman Brown. On he flew among the black pines, brandishing his staff with frenzied
gestures, now giving vent to an inspiration of horrid blasphemy, and now shouting forth such
laughter as set all the echoes of the forest laughing like demons around him. The fiend in his own
shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his
course, until, quivering among the trees, he saw a red light before him, as when the felled trunks
and branches of a clearing have been set on fire, and throw up their lurid blaze against the sky, at
the hour of midnight. He paused, in a lull of the tempest that had driven him onward, and heard
the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling solemnly from a distance with the weight of many
voices. He knew the tune; it was a familiar one in the choir of the village meeting-house. The
verse died heavily away, and was lengthened by a chorus, not of human voices, but of all the
sounds of the benighted wilderness pealing in awful harmony together. Goodman Brown cried
out, and his cry was lost to his own ear by its unison with the cry of the desert.
In the interval of silence he stole forward until the light glared full upon his eyes. At one
extremity of an open space, hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest, arose a rock, bearing some
rude, natural resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit, and surrounded by four blazing pines,
their tops aflame, their stems untouched, like candles at an evening meeting. The mass of foliage
that had overgrown the summit of the rock was all on fire, blazing high into the night and fitfully
illuminating the whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in a blaze. As the red light
arose and fell, a numerous congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared in shadow, and
again grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling the heart of the solitary woods at once.
"A grave and dark-clad company," quoth Goodman Brown.
In truth they were such. Among them, quivering to and fro between gloom and splendor,
appeared faces that would be seen next day at the council board of the province, and others
which, Sabbath after Sabbath, looked devoutly heavenward, and benignantly over the crowded
pews, from the holiest pulpits in the land. Some affirm that the lady of the governor was there.
At least there were high dames well known to her, and wives of honored husbands, and widows,
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a great multitude, and ancient maidens, all of excellent repute, and fair young girls, who
trembled lest their mothers should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of light flashing over the
obscure field bedazzled Goodman Brown, or he recognized a score of the church members of
Salem village famous for their especial sanctity. Good old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and
waited at the skirts of that venerable saint, his revered pastor. But, irreverently consorting with
these grave, reputable, and pious people, these elders of the church, these chaste dames and dewy
virgins, there were men of dissolute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches given over to all
mean and filthy vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see that the good
shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners abashed by the saints. Scattered also among
their pale-faced enemies were the Indian priests, or powwows, who had often scared their native
forest with more hideous incantations than any known to English witchcraft.
"But where is Faith?" thought Goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his heart, he trembled.
Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow and mournful strain, such as the pious love, but joined
to words which expressed all that our nature can conceive of sin, and darkly hinted at far more.
Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends. Verse after verse was sung; and still the
chorus of the desert swelled between like the deepest tone of a mighty organ; and with the final
peal of that dreadful anthem there came a sound, as if the roaring wind, the rushing streams, the
howling beasts, and every other voice of the unconcerted wilderness were mingling and
according with the voice of guilty man in homage to the prince of all. The four blazing pines
threw up a loftier flame, and obscurely discovered shapes and visages of horror on the smoke
wreaths above the impious assembly. At the same moment the fire on the rock shot redly forth
and formed a glowing arch above its base, where now appeared a figure. With reverence be it
spoken, the figure bore no slight similitude, both in garb and manner, to some grave divine of the
New England churches.
"Bring forth the converts!" cried a voice that echoed through the field and rolled into the forest.
At the word, Goodman Brown stepped forth from the shadow of the trees and approached the
congregation, with whom he felt a loathful brotherhood by the sympathy of all that was wicked
in his heart. He could have well-nigh sworn that the shape of his own dead father beckoned him
to advance, looking downward from a smoke wreath, while a woman, with dim features of
despair, threw out her hand to warn him back. Was it his mother? But he had no power to retreat
one step, nor to resist, even in thought, when the minister and good old Deacon Gookin seized
his arms and led him to the blazing rock. Thither came also the slender form of a veiled female,
led between Goody Cloyse, that pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha Carrier, who had
received the devil's promise to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was she. And there stood the
proselytes beneath the canopy of fire.
"Welcome, my children," said the dark figure, "to the communion of your race. Ye have found
thus young your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you!"
They turned; and flashing forth, as it were, in a sheet of flame, the fiend worshippers were seen;
the smile of welcome gleamed darkly on every visage.
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"There," resumed the sable form, "are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye deemed
them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of
righteousness and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping
assembly. This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds: how hoary-bearded
elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households; how
many a woman, eager for widows' weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him
sleep his last sleep in her bosom; how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fathers'
wealth; and how fair damsels—blush not, sweet ones—have dug little graves in the garden, and
bidden me, the sole guest to an infant's funeral. By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin ye
shall scent out all the places—whether in church, bedchamber, street, field, or forest—where
crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one
mighty blood spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep
mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil
impulses than human power—than my power at its utmost—can make manifest in deeds. And
now, my children, look upon each other."
They did so; and, by the blaze of the hell-kindled torches, the wretched man beheld his Faith, and
the wife her husband, trembling before that unhallowed altar.
"Lo, there ye stand, my children," said the figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad with its
despairing awfulness, as if his once angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race.
"Depending upon one another's hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now
are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome
again, my children, to the communion of your race."
"Welcome," repeated the fiend worshippers, in one cry of despair and triumph.
And there they stood, the only pair, as it seemed, who were yet hesitating on the verge of
wickedness in this dark world. A basin was hollowed, naturally, in the rock. Did it contain water,
reddened by the lurid light? or was it blood? or, perchance, a liquid flame? Herein did the shape
of evil dip his hand and prepare to lay the mark of baptism upon their foreheads, that they might
be partakers of the mystery of sin, more conscious of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and
thought, than they could now be of their own. The husband cast one look at his pale wife, and
Faith at him. What polluted wretches would the next glance show them to each other, shuddering
alike at what they disclosed and what they saw!
"Faith! Faith!" cried the husband, "look up to heaven, and resist the wicked one."
Whether Faith obeyed he knew not. Hardly had he spoken when he found himself amid calm
night and solitude, listening to a roar of the wind which died heavily away through the forest. He
staggered against the rock, and felt it chill and damp; while a hanging twig, that had been all on
fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew.
The next morning young Goodman Brown came slowly into the street of Salem village, staring
around him like a bewildered man. The good old minister was taking a walk along the graveyard
to get an appetite for breakfast and meditate his sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he passed,
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on Goodman Brown. He shrank from the venerable saint as if to avoid an anathema. Old Deacon
Gookin was at domestic worship, and the holy words of his prayer were heard through the open
window. "What God doth the wizard pray to?" quoth Goodman Brown. Goody Cloyse, that
excellent old Christian, stood in the early sunshine at her own lattice, catechizing a little girl who
had brought her a pint of morning's milk. Goodman Brown snatched away the child as from the
grasp of the fiend himself. Turning the corner by the meeting-house, he spied the head of Faith,
with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth, and bursting into such joy at sight of him that she
skipped along the street and almost kissed her husband before the whole village. But Goodman
Brown looked sternly and sadly into her face, and passed on without a greeting.
Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest and only dreamed a wild dream of a witchmeeting?
Be it so if you will; but, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young Goodman Brown. A stern, a
sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate man did he become from the night of
that fearful dream. On the Sabbath day, when the congregation were singing a holy psalm, he
could not listen because an anthem of sin rushed loudly upon his ear and drowned all the blessed
strain. When the minister spoke from the pulpit with power and fervid eloquence, and, with his
hand on the open Bible, of the sacred truths of our religion, and of saint-like lives and triumphant
deaths, and of future bliss or misery unutterable, then did Goodman Brown turn pale, dreading
lest the roof should thunder down upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, waking
suddenly at midnight, he shrank from the bosom of Faith; and at morning or eventide, when the
family knelt down at prayer, he scowled and muttered to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife,
and turned away. And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary corpse,
followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides
neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was
gloom.
Rappaccini's Daughter
Resources for Hawthorne
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "Rappaccini's Daughter." Mosses from the Old Manse and Other Stories.
New York: Wiley and Putman, 1846.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/512
We do not remember to have seen any translated specimens of the productions of M. de
l'Aubepine—a fact the less to be wondered at, as his very name is unknown to many of his own
countrymen as well as to the student of foreign literature. As a writer, he seems to occupy an
unfortunate position between the Transcendentalists (who, under one name or another, have their
share in all the current literature of the world) and the great body of pen-and-ink men who
address the intellect and sympathies of the multitude. If not too refined, at all events too remote,
too shadowy, and unsubstantial in his modes of development to suit the taste of the latter class,
and yet too popular to satisfy the spiritual or metaphysical requisitions of the former, he must
necessarily find himself without an audience, except here and there an individual or possibly an
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isolated clique. His writings, to do them justice, are not altogether destitute of fancy and
originality; they might have won him greater reputation but for an inveterate love of allegory,
which is apt to invest his plots and characters with the aspect of scenery and people in the clouds,
and to steal away the human warmth out of his conceptions. His fictions are sometimes
historical, sometimes of the present day, and sometimes, so far as can be discovered, have little
or no reference either to time or space. In any case, he generally contents himself with a very
slight embroidery of outward manners,—the faintest possible counterfeit of real life,—and
endeavors to create an interest by some less obvious peculiarity of the subject. Occasionally a
breath of Nature, a raindrop of pathos and tenderness, or a gleam of humor, will find its way into
the midst of his fantastic imagery, and make us feel as if, after all, we were yet within the limits
of our native earth. We will only add to this very cursory notice that M. de l'Aubepine's
productions, if the reader chance to take them in precisely the proper point of view, may amuse a
leisure hour as well as those of a brighter man; if otherwise, they can hardly fail to look
excessively like nonsense.
Our author is voluminous; he continues to write and publish with as much praiseworthy and
indefatigable prolixity as if his efforts were crowned with the brilliant success that so justly
attends those of Eugene Sue. His first appearance was by a collection of stories in a long series
of volumes entitled "Contes deux fois racontees." The titles of some of his more recent works
(we quote from memory) are as follows: "Le Voyage Celeste a Chemin de Fer," 3 tom., 1838;
"Le nouveau Pere Adam et la nouvelle Mere Eve," 2 tom., 1839; "Roderic; ou le Serpent a
l'estomac," 2 tom., 1840; "Le Culte du Feu," a folio volume of ponderous research into the
religion and ritual of the old Persian Ghebers, published in 1841; "La Soiree du Chateau en
Espagne," 1 tom., 8vo, 1842; and "L'Artiste du Beau; ou le Papillon Mecanique," 5 tom., 4to,
1843. Our somewhat wearisome perusal of this startling catalogue of volumes has left behind it a
certain personal affection and sympathy, though by no means admiration, for M. de l'Aubepine;
and we would fain do the little in our power towards introducing him favorably to the American
public. The ensuing tale is a translation of his "Beatrice; ou la Belle Empoisonneuse," recently
published in "La Revue Anti-Aristocratique." This journal, edited by the Comte de Bearhaven,
has for some years past led the defence of liberal principles and popular rights with a faithfulness
and ability worthy of all praise.
A young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the more southern region
of Italy, to pursue his studies at the University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply
of gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice which
looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited
over its entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who
was not unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this
family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante as a partaker
of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. These reminiscences and associations, together with the
tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, caused
Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment.
"Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by the youth's remarkable beauty of
person, was kindly endeavoring to give the chamber a habitable air, "what a sigh was that to
come out of a young man's heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the love of Heaven,
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then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in
Naples."
Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not quite agree with her that the
Paduan sunshine was as cheerful as that of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a
garden beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on a variety of plants, which
seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.
"Does this garden belong to the house?" asked Giovanni.
"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs than any that grow there now,"
answered old Lisabetta. "No; that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo
Rappaccini, the famous doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said
that he distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see
the signor doctor at work, and perchance the signora, his daughter, too, gathering the strange
flowers that grow in the garden."
The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the chamber; and, commending
the young man to the protection of the saints, took her departure.
Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the garden beneath his window.
From its appearance, he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in
Padua than elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once have been the
pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre,
sculptured with rare art, but so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original
design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to gush and
sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young
man's window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit that sung its song
unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one century imbodied it in
marble and another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which
the water subsided grew various plants, that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for
the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and in some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent.
There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a
profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem; and the whole
together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had
there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if
less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had their individual virtues, known to
the scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and
others in common garden pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground or climbed on high,
using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a statue
of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so
happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.
While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became
aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed
itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man,
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dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin,
gray beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never,
even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart.
Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub
which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making
observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape
and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and
perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to
intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their
actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most
disagreeably; for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such
as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of
license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young
man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple
and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents
of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? And this man, with such a
perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow,—was he the Adam?
The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant
growth of the shrubs, defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only
armor. When, in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its
purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over his mouth and nostrils, as
if all this beauty did but conceal a deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous, he
drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with
inward disease, "Beatrice! Beatrice!"
"Here am I, my father. What would you?" cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the
opposite house—a voice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew
not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. "Are you in
the garden?"
"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help."
Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as
much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom
so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with
life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were and
girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy must have grown
morbid while he looked down into the garden; for the impression which the fair stranger made
upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as
beautiful as they, more beautiful than the richest of them, but still to be touched only with a
glove, nor to be approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, it was
observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her father had
most sedulously avoided.
230
"Here, Beatrice," said the latter, "see how many needful offices require to be done to our chief
treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as
circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge."
"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards
the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendour, it
shall be Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and
perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life."
Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she
busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty
window, rubbed his eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower,
or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Whether
Dr. Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the
stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and retired. Night was already closing in;
oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the plants and steal upward past the open
window; and Giovanni, closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower and
beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the same, and fraught with some
strange peril in either shape.
But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to rectify whatever errors of fancy, or
even of judgment, we may have incurred during the sun's decline, or among the shadows of the
night, or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first movement, on starting from
sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made
so fertile of mysteries. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact
an affair it proved to be, in the first rays of the sun which gilded the dew-drops that hung upon
leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought everything
within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man rejoiced that, in the heart of the barren
city, he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would
serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in communion with Nature.
Neither the sickly and thoughtworn Dr. Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter,
were now visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singularity which he
attributed to both was due to their own qualities and how much to his wonder-working fancy; but
he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter.
In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in
the university, a physician of eminent repute to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of
introduction. The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature, and habits that
might almost be called jovial. He kept the young man to dinner, and made himself very agreeable
by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of
Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must needs
be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Dr.
Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.
"Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine," said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in
answer to a question of Giovanni, "to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so
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eminently skilled as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to my
conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient
friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life
and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr. Rappaccini has as much science as any
member of the faculty—with perhaps one single exception—in Padua, or all Italy; but there are
certain grave objections to his professional character."
"And what are they?" asked the young man.
"Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about
physicians?" said the professor, with a smile. "But as for Rappaccini, it is said of him—and I,
who know the man well, can answer for its truth—that he cares infinitely more for science than
for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He
would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the
sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard seed to the great heap of his accumulated
knowledge."
"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti, mentally recalling the cold and
purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. "And yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit?
Are there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science?"
"God forbid," answered the professor, somewhat testily; "at least, unless they take sounder views
of the healing art than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are
comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with
his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horribly
deleterious than Nature, without the assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued
the world withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than might be expected with such
dangerous substances is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected, or seemed
to effect, a marvellous cure; but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive
little credit for such instances of success,—they being probably the work of chance,—but should
be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work."
The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains of allowance had he known
that there was a professional warfare of long continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in
which the latter was generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be inclined to
judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tracts on both sides, preserved in the
medical department of the University of Padua.
"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni, after musing on what had been said of
Rappaccini's exclusive zeal for science,—"I know not how dearly this physician may love his art;
but surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter."
"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend Giovanni's secret is out. You have
heard of this daughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen
have ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save that
Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in his science, and that, young and beautiful as
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fame reports her, she is already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance her father destines
her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking about or listening to. So now,
Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass of lachryma."
Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed, and which
caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies in reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful
Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a florist's, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers.
Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by
the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being
discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine,
and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and
kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems
clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the
pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was
steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however,—as Giovanni
had half hoped, half feared, would be the case,—a figure appeared beneath the antique
sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as
if she were one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On again
beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded
his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid, was its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight,
and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the
garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its
expression of simplicity and sweetness,—qualities that had not entered into his idea of her
character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail
again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that
hung its gemlike flowers over the fountain,—a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have
indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection
of its hues.
Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate ardor, and drew its
branches into an intimate embrace—so intimate that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom
and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.
"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice; "for I am faint with common air. And give
me this flower of thine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close
beside my heart."
With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of the richest blossoms of the
shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni's draughts of wine had
bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile, of the lizard
or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It
appeared to Giovanni,—but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen
anything so minute,—it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture from the
broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard's head. For an instant the reptile contorted
itself violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable
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phenomenon and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to
arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling
effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm which
nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window,
bent forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled.
"Am I awake? Have I my senses?" said he to himself. "What is this being? Beautiful shall I call
her, or inexpressibly terrible?"
Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer beneath Giovanni's
window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment in order to
gratify the intense and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came a beautiful
insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, wandered through the city, and found no flowers or
verdure among those antique haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini's shrubs
had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged brightness seemed to be
attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not
be but that Giovanni Guasconti's eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied that, while
Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright
wings shivered; it was dead—from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere
of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect.
An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the
beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular
features, and a glistening of gold among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that
hovered in mid air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he
had hitherto held in his hand.
"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them for the sake of Giovanni
Guasconti."
"Thanks, signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came forth as it were like a gush of
music, and with a mirthful expression half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift, and
would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into the air it will not
reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content himself with my thanks."
She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly ashamed at having stepped aside
from her maidenly reserve to respond to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through
the garden. But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on the point of
vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to
wither in her grasp. It was an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded
flower from a fresh one at so great a distance.
For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window that looked into Dr.
Rappaccini's garden, as if something ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he
been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within
the influence of an unintelligible power by the communication which he had opened with
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Beatrice. The wisest course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his
lodgings and Padua itself at once; the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as possible,
to the familiar and daylight view of Beatrice—thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within
the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, ought Giovanni to have
remained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse
should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot
continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep heart—or, at all events, its depths were not
sounded now; but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose every
instant to a higher fever pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes, that
fatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers which were indicated by what
Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system. It
was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied
her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame;
but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and
shivered like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know what to hope; yet
hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, alternately vanquishing one another and
starting up afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It
is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.
Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid walk through the streets of
Padua or beyond its gates: his footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the
walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested; his arm was seized
by a portly personage, who had turned back on recognizing the young man and expended much
breath in overtaking him.
"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have you forgotten me? That might well
be the case if I were as much altered as yourself."
It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first meeting, from a doubt that the
professor's sagacity would look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he
stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and spoke like a man in a dream.
"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now let me pass!"
"Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the professor, smiling, but at the same time
scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance. "What! did I grow up side by side with your
father? and shall his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, Signor
Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before we part."
"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily," said Giovanni, with feverish impatience.
"Does not your worship see that I am in haste?"
Now, while he was speaking there came a man in black along the street, stooping and moving
feebly like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow
hue, but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect that an observer
might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes and have seen only this wonderful
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energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but
fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within
him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking
merely a speculative, not a human interest, in the young man.
"It is Dr. Rappaccini!" whispered the professor when the stranger had passed. "Has he ever seen
your face before?"
"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name.
"He HAS seen you! he must have seen you!" said Baglioni, hastily. "For some purpose or other,
this man of science is making a study of you. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly
illuminates his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some
experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without
Nature's warmth of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one
of Rappaccini's experiments!"
"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately. "THAT, signor professor, were an
untoward experiment."
"Patience! patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. "I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that
Rappaccini has a scientific interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the Signora
Beatrice,—what part does she act in this mystery?"
But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here broke away, and was gone before
the professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man intently and shook his
head.
"This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the son of my old friend, and shall not
come to any harm from which the arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too
insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands, as I may
say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to.
Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!"
Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found himself at the door of
his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled,
and was evidently desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, as the ebullition of his
feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the
withered face that was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame,
therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.
"Signor! signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over the whole breadth of her visage, so that it
looked not unlike a grotesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen, signor! There is a
private entrance into the garden!"
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"What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an inanimate thing should
start into feverish life. "A private entrance into Dr. Rappaccini's garden?"
"Hush! hush! not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. "Yes; into the
worshipful doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in
Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers."
Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.
"Show me the way," said he.
A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, crossed his mind, that this
interposition of old Lisabetta might perchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its
nature, in which the professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But
such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The instant that
he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity of his
existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel or demon; he was irrevocably within
her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him onward, in ever-lessening circles, towards a
result which he did not attempt to foreshadow; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a
sudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part were not delusory; whether it were really
of so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable
position; whether it were not merely the fantasy of a young man's brain, only slightly or not at all
connected with his heart.
He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His withered guide led him along
several obscure passages, and finally undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came
the sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among them.
Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed
its tendrils over the hidden entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of Dr.
Rappaccini's garden.
How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to pass and dreams have condensed
their misty substance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly selfpossessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agony to
anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the
scene, and lingers sluggishly behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to
summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his pulses had throbbed
with feverish blood at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice, and of standing with
her, face to face, in this very garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty, and
snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But
now there was a singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around
the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and, perceiving that he was alone,
began a critical observation of the plants.
The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate,
and even unnatural. There was hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself
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through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face had
glared at him out of the thicket. Several also would have shocked a delicate instinct by an
appearance of artificialness indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were,
adultery, of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God's making, but
the monstrous offspring of man's depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty.
They were probably the result of experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in
mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous
character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but
two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous.
While busy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and, turning,
beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.
Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment; whether he should
apologize for his intrusion into the garden, or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if
not by the desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice's manner placed him at his
ease, though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he had gained admittance. She came
lightly along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but
brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.
"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the bouquet
which he had flung her from the window. "It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's
rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many
strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime
in such studies, and this garden is his world."
"And yourself, lady," observed Giovanni, "if fame says true,—you likewise are deeply skilled in
the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my
instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself."
"Are there such idle rumors?" asked Beatrice, with the music of a pleasant laugh. "Do people say
that I am skilled in my father's science of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown
up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and perfume; and sometimes
methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here,
and those not the least brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my eye. But pray,
signor, do not believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing of me save what you see
with your own eyes."
"And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?" asked Giovanni, pointedly, while
the recollection of former scenes made him shrink. "No, signora; you demand too little of me.
Bid me believe nothing save what comes from your own lips."
It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek; but she
looked full into Giovanni's eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike
haughtiness.
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"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If
true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice
Rappaccini's lips are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believe."
A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's consciousness like the light of
truth itself; but while she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and
delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely
dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath
which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A
faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the
beautiful girl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.
The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished; she became gay, and appeared
to derive a pure delight from her communion with the youth not unlike what the maiden of a
lonely island might have felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. Evidently her
experience of life had been confined within the limits of that garden. She talked now about
matters as simple as the daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in reference to the
city, or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters—questions indicating
such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as if
to an infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was just catching its first
glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into
its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike brilliancy,
as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon
there gleamed across the young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by
side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he had idealized in such
hues of terror, in whom he had positively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes,—
that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so human and so
maidenlike. But such reflections were only momentary; the effect of her character was too real
not to make itself familiar at once.
In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its
avenues, were come to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its
treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni recognized as
identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice's breath, but incomparably more powerful.
As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her heart were
throbbing suddenly and painfully.
"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressing the shrub, "I had forgotten thee."
"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you once promised to reward me with one of these
living gems for the bouquet which I had the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now
to pluck it as a memorial of this interview."
He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but Beatrice darted forward, uttering a
shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the
whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres.
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"Touch it not!" exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. "Not for thy life! It is fatal!"
Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As
Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr.
Rappaccini, who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the
entrance.
No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of Beatrice came back to his
passionate musings, invested with all the witchery that had been gathering around it ever since
his first glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood.
She was human; her nature was endowed with all gentle and feminine qualities; she was
worthiest to be worshipped; she was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of
love. Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful peculiarity in her
physical and moral system were now either forgotten, or, by the subtle sophistry of passion
transmitted into a golden crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so
much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable
of such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half ideas which throng the
dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness. Thus did he spend the night, nor
fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini's garden,
whither Giovanni's dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and, flinging his
beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused,
he became sensible of a burning and tingling agony in his hand—in his right hand—the very
hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the point of plucking one of the
gemlike flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print like that of four small
fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist.
Oh, how stubbornly does love,—or even that cunning semblance of love which flourishes in the
imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the heart,—how stubbornly does it hold its faith
until the moment comes when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapped a
handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil thing had stung him, and soon forgot his
pain in a reverie of Beatrice.
After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of what we call fate. A third; a
fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni's daily
life, but the whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of
that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini.
She watched for the youth's appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if
they had been playmates from early infancy—as if they were such playmates still. If, by any
unwonted chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and
sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and
reverberate throughout his heart: "Giovanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest thou? Come down!" And
down he hastened into that Eden of poisonous flowers.
But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in Beatrice's demeanor, so rigidly
and invariably sustained that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all
appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that conveyed the holy secret from
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the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the
way; they had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits darted forth in
articulated breath like tongues of long-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips, no
clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims and hallows. He had never touched
one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment—so marked was the physical barrier
between them—had never been waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when
Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal
wore such a look of desolate separation, shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was
requisite to repel him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monsterlike, out of the caverns of his heart and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint as the
morning mist, his doubts alone had substance. But, when Beatrice's face brightened again after
the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from the mysterious, questionable being
whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and
unsophisticated girl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other
knowledge.
A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting with Baglioni. One morning,
however, he was disagreeably surprised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely
thought of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up as he had
long been to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no companions except upon condition of
their perfect sympathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected
from Professor Baglioni.
The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of the city and the university,
and then took up another topic.
"I have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, "and met with a story that strangely
interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful
woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the
sunset; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath—richer
than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at
first sight with this magnificent stranger; but a certain sage physician, happening to be present,
discovered a terrible secret in regard to her."
"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the
professor.
"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "had been nourished with poisons
from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them that she herself had
become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume
of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison—her embrace death. Is
not this a marvellous tale?"
"A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his chair. "I marvel how your
worship finds time to read such nonsense among your graver studies."
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"By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily about him, "what singular fragrance is this in
your apartment? Is it the perfume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, by
no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me ill. It is like the breath
of a flower; but I see no flowers in the chamber."
"Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the professor spoke; "nor, I think,
is there any fragrance except in your worship's imagination. Odors, being a sort of element
combined of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner. The recollection
of a perfume, the bare idea of it, may easily be mistaken for a present reality."
"Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks," said Baglioni; "and, were I to
fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are
likely enough to be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures his
medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned
Signora Beatrice would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden's breath; but
woe to him that sips them!"
Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the professor alluded to
the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul; and yet the intimation of a
view of her character opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness to a thousand dim
suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to quell them and
to respond to Baglioni with a true lover's perfect faith.
"Signor professor," said he, "you were my father's friend; perchance, too, it is your purpose to act
a friendly part towards his son. I would fain feel nothing towards you save respect and deference;
but I pray you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we must not speak. You
know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong—the blasphemy, I
may even say—that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word."
"Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor, with a calm expression of pity, "I know
this wretched girl far better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner
Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen; for, even
should you do violence to my gray hairs, it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian
woman has become a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person of the
lovely Beatrice."
Giovanni groaned and hid his face
"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained by natural affection from offering up his
child in this horrible manner as the victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him
justice, he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. What, then,
will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment.
Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls
the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing."
"It is a dream," muttered Giovanni to himself; "surely it is a dream."
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"But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend. It is not yet too late for the
rescue. Possibly we may even succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of
ordinary nature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. Behold this little silver vase!
It was wrought by the hands of the renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love
gift to the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this antidote
would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will
be as efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid within it,
on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result."
Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table and withdrew, leaving what he
had said to produce its effect upon the young man's mind.
"We will thwart Rappaccini yet," thought he, chuckling to himself, as he descended the stairs;
"but, let us confess the truth of him, he is a wonderful man—a wonderful man indeed; a vile
empiric, however, in his practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the good
old rules of the medical profession."
Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he had occasionally, as we have said,
been haunted by dark surmises as to her character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by
him as a simple, natural, most affectionate, and guileless creature, that the image now held up by
Professor Baglioni looked as strange and incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own
original conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his first glimpses of the
beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that
perished amid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her breath. These
incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of
facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they
might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what we can see
with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his
confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attributes than by any
deep and generous faith on his part. But now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the
height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down, grovelling among
earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her
up; he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that should satisfy him, once
for all, whether there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be
supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar,
might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at
the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in Beatrice's
hand, there would be room for no further question. With this idea he hastened to the florist's and
purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning dew-drops.
It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descending into the
garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror,—a vanity to be expected in a
beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a
certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He did gaze, however, and said to
himself that his features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity,
nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life.
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"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuated itself into my system. I am no flower to
perish in her grasp."
With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never once laid aside from his
hand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers
were already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh and lovely
yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his
own reflection there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni's remark
about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have been the poison in his
breath! Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he began to
watch with curious eye a spider that was busily at work hanging its web from the antique cornice
of the apartment, crossing and recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines—as vigorous and
active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent towards the insect, and emitted
a deep, long breath. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor
originating in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer,
and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart: he knew not whether he were wicked, or
only desperate. The spider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs and hung dead across the
window.
"Accursed! accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. "Hast thou grown so poisonous
that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?"
At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden.
"Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest thou? Come down!"
"Yes," muttered Giovanni again. "She is the only being whom my breath may not slay! Would
that it might!"
He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A
moment ago his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much
as to wither her by a glance; but with her actual presence there came influences which had too
real an existence to be at once shaken off: recollections of the delicate and benign power of her
feminine nature, which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a
holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been unsealed from its
depths and made visible in its transparency to his mental eye; recollections which, had Giovanni
known how to estimate them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an
earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real
Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not
utterly lost its magic. Giovanni's rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Beatrice,
with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness between them
which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus to
the marble fountain and to its pool of water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub
that bore gem-like blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager enjoyment—the appetite, as it
were—with which he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.
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"Beatrice," asked he, abruptly, "whence came this shrub?"
"My father created it," answered she, with simplicity.
"Created it! created it!" repeated Giovanni. "What mean you, Beatrice?"
"He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature," replied Beatrice; "and, at the hour
when I first drew breath, this plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his
intellect, while I was but his earthly child. Approach it not!" continued she, observing with terror
that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. "It has qualities that you little dream of. But I,
dearest Giovanni,—I grew up and blossomed with the plant and was nourished with its breath. It
was my sister, and I loved it with a human affection; for, alas!—hast thou not suspected it?—
there was an awful doom."
Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in
his tenderness reassured her, and made her blush that she had doubted for an instant.
"There was an awful doom," she continued, "the effect of my father's fatal love of science, which
estranged me from all society of my kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, oh, how
lonely was thy poor Beatrice!"
"Was it a hard doom?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her.
"Only of late have I known how hard it was," answered she, tenderly. "Oh, yes; but my heart was
torpid, and therefore quiet."
Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning flash out of a dark cloud.
"Accursed one!" cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. "And, finding thy solitude
wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise from all the warmth of life and enticed me into thy
region of unspeakable horror!"
"Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his face. The force of his
words had not found its way into her mind; she was merely thunderstruck.
"Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion. "Thou hast done it!
Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as
ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself—a world's wonder of hideous monstrosity!
Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss
of unutterable hatred, and so die!"
"What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her heart. "Holy Virgin,
pity me, a poor heart-broken child!"
"Thou,—dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish scorn. "Thy very prayers,
as they come from thy lips, taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to
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church and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us will perish as
by a pestilence! Let us sign crosses in the air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of
holy symbols!"
"Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond passion, "why dost thou join thyself
with me thus in those terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But
thou,—what hast thou to do, save with one other shudder at my hideous misery to go forth out of
the garden and mingle with thy race, and forget there ever crawled on earth such a monster as
poor Beatrice?"
"Dost thou pretend ignorance?" asked Giovanni, scowling upon her. "Behold! this power have I
gained from the pure daughter of Rappaccini."
There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in search of the food promised by
the flower odors of the fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently
attracted towards him by the same influence which had drawn them for an instant within the
sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at
Beatrice as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground.
"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my father's fatal science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not
I! Never! never! I dreamed only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass
away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for, Giovanni, believe it, though my body be
nourished with poison, my spirit is God's creature, and craves love as its daily food. But my
father,—he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me, tread upon me, kill me! Oh,
what is death after such words as thine? But it was not I. Not for a world of bliss would I have
done it."
Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips. There now came across him
a sense, mournful, and not without tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between
Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would be made none the
less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around
them to press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was
there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his
returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice, the redeemed Beatrice, by
the hand? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could dream of an earthly union and
earthly happiness as possible, after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was
Beatrice's love by Giovanni's blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must
pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of Time—she must bathe her hurts in
some fount of paradise, and forget her grief in the light of immortality, and THERE be well.
But Giovanni did not know it.
"Dear Beatrice," said he, approaching her, while she shrank away as always at his approach, but
now with a different impulse, "dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! there is
a medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost divine in its efficacy. It is
composed of ingredients the most opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this
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calamity upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it together, and
thus be purified from evil?"
"Give it me!" said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little silver vial which Giovanni
took from his bosom. She added, with a peculiar emphasis, "I will drink; but do thou await the
result."
She put Baglioni's antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, the figure of Rappaccini
emerged from the portal and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale
man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and maiden,
as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture or a group of statuary and
finally be satisfied with his success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power;
he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his
children; but those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives.
Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered nervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart.
"My daughter," said Rappaccini, "thou art no longer lonely in the world. Pluck one of those
precious gems from thy sister shrub and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not
harm him now. My science and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought within his
system that he now stands apart from common men, as thou dost, daughter of my pride and
triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another and
dreadful to all besides!"
"My father," said Beatrice, feebly,—and still as she spoke she kept her hand upon her heart,—
"wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?"
"Miserable!" exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you, foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to
be endowed with marvellous gifts against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy—
misery, to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath—misery, to be as terrible as thou art
beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil
and capable of none?"
"I would fain have been loved, not feared," murmured Beatrice, sinking down upon the ground.
"But now it matters not. I am going, father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with
my being will pass away like a dream-like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will
no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred
are like lead within my heart; but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from
the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?"
To Beatrice,—so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by Rappaccini's skill,—as
poison had been life, so the powerful antidote was death; and thus the poor victim of man's
ingenuity and of thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of perverted
wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at that moment Professor
Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window, and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with
horror, to the thunderstricken man of science, "Rappaccini! Rappaccini! and is THIS the upshot
of your experiment!"
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Herman Melville (1819-1891)
[image] Herman Melville was born on August 1, 1819 in New York City. At the age of twelve,
Melville attended Albany Academy, a preparatory school for boys, after the loss of his father.
Melville was an exemplary student and worked as a bank clerk and later with his uncle at the
family fur and cap business. When Melville was in his twenties, he became a crew member on a
series of merchant vessels and whaling ships. At one point, he jumped ship and lived among
South Pacific Marquesas islanders. Later, he enlisted in the Navy, for a brief time. After a visit
with family, Melville was encouraged to record his experiences as a sailor. He began a series of
personal narratives about his time on the islands and his life on sailing ships. Melville
published Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life in 1846, which was a book of adventure in an exotic
setting with genuine narratives. In 1847, he continued with Omoo, A Narrative of Adventures in
the South Seas. These books were followed by Mardi (1849), Redburn (1849), and WhiteJacket (1850). After the publication of his first works, Melville married Elizabeth Shaw, the
daughter of the Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court. The couple moved to New
York and then to Massachusetts, close to the home of Nathaniel Hawthorne. During this time,
Melville was inspired to begin his eventual masterpiece, Moby Dick (1851).This novel is one of
the most well-known literary works in the world, although Melville did not receive much
financial gain or recognition from it during his lifetime. After another novel-length
failure, Pierre (1852), Melville turned to short story writing and magazine journalism. He
collected some of his best shorter work in Piazza Tales (1856). Melville published his final
longer work, The Confidence Man,in 1857, a fatalistic work on humans' gullibility. After a
European trip and a lecture tour, Melville worked at Customs House in New York City for 20
years. During this period, he wrote a collection of verses, some published in the
volume Clarel (1876). After battling an illness for several months, Melville died in his New
York City home on September 28, 1891, leaving behind much unpublished poetry and an
important unpublished short novel, Billy Budd (1924). Two of Melville's best biographers are
Hershel Parker and Andrew Delbanco. There are numerous and wide-ranging collections of
critical essays, many focusing on each of Melville's important individual works. Wyn
Kelley's Herman Melville: An Introduction (2008) provides a nice starting place for students to
wade into the vast sea of criticism available.
Bartleby, A Story of Wall-Street
Resources for Melville
Melville, Herman. "Bartleby, A Story of Wall-Street." Piazza Tales. New York: Dix and
Edwards, 1856.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15859
I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me
into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set
of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has ever been written:—I mean the law-copyists
or scriveners. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased,
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could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental
souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the
life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other lawcopyists I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe
that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to
literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the
original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of
Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the
sequel.
Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I make some mention of myself,
my employees, my business, my chambers, and general surroundings; because some such
description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be
presented.
Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction
that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially
energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered
to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or in any
way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business
among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me, consider me an
eminently safe man. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had
no hesitation in pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not
speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the
late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular
sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John
Jacob Astor's good opinion.
Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my avocations had been largely
increased. The good old office, now extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery,
had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly remunerative.
I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous indignation at wrongs and
outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash here and declare, that I consider the sudden and
violent abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution, as a—premature
act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of the profits, whereas I only received those of a
few short years. But this is by the way.
My chambers were up stairs at No.—Wall-street. At one end they looked upon the white wall of
the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft, penetrating the building from top to bottom. This view
might have been considered rather tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape painters call
"life." But if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if
nothing more. In that direction my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick
wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required no spy-glass to bring out its
lurking beauties, but for the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten
feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings, and my
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chambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and mine not a little
resembled a huge square cistern.
At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons as copyists in my
employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy. First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger
Nut. These may seem names, the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth
they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks, and were deemed
expressive of their respective persons or characters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman of
about my own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face
was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock, meridian—his dinner hour—it blazed like a
grate full of Christmas coals; and continued blazing—but, as it were, with a gradual wane—till 6
o'clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the proprietor of the face, which
gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the
following day, with the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular
coincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the fact, that
exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant countenance, just then,
too, at that critical moment, began the daily period when I considered his business capacities as
seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or
averse to business then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic.
There was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him. He would be
incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped
there after twelve o'clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and sadly given to
making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further, and was rather noisy. At such
times, too, his face flamed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on
anthracite. He made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his
pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor in a sudden passion; stood
up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to
behold in an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable person
to me, and all the time before twelve o'clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature too,
accomplishing a great deal of work in a style not easy to be matched—for these reasons, I was
willing to overlook his eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did
this very gently, however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of
men in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash
with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to
lose them; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o'clock;
and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him;
I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays), to hint to him, very
kindly, that perhaps now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short,
he need not come to my chambers after twelve o'clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his
lodgings and rest himself till teatime. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon devotions. His
countenance became intolerably fervid, as he oratorically assured me—gesticulating with a long
ruler at the other end of the room—that if his services in the morning were useful, how
indispensable, then, in the afternoon?
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"With submission, sir," said Turkey on this occasion, "I consider myself your right-hand man. In
the morning I but marshal and deploy my columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their
head, and gallantly charge the foe, thus!"—and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.
"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.
"True,—but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old. Surely, sir, a blot or two
of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urged against gray hairs. Old age—even if it blot the
page—is honorable. With submission, sir, we both are getting old."
This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all events, I saw that go he would
not. So I made up my mind to let him stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the
afternoon he had to do with my less important papers.
Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piraticallooking young man of about five and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil
powers—ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the
duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the
original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional
nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over
mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat
of business; and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he
worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this table to suit
him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to
attempt an exquisite adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no invention would
answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid at a sharp angle well up
towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his
desk:—then he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to
his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back. In short,
the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted any thing, it was
to be rid of a scrivener's table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was
a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats,
whom he called his clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a
ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the Justices' courts, and was not
unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual
who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his client, was
no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a bill. But with all his failings, and the
annoyances he caused me, Nippers, like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me;
wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of
deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally,
reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him
from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily and smell of eating-houses. He
wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be
handled. But while the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and
deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the moment he entered the
room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no
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effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man of so small an income, could not afford to sport such
a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey's
money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable
looking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned
straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his
rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that buttoning himself up in
so downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him; upon the same principle that
too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats,
so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.
Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private surmises, yet
touching Nippers I was well persuaded that whatever might by his faults in other respects, he
was, at least, a temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner,
and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all
subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers,
Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table, spread his
arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on
the floor, as if the table were a perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I
plainly perceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether superfluous.
It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar cause—indigestion—the irritability and
consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning, while in the
afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey's paroxysms only coming on about twelve
o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one time. Their fits relieved each other like
guards. When Nippers' was on, Turkey's was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural
arrangement under the circumstances.
Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His father was a carman,
ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my
office as student at law, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He
had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection, the drawer exhibited a
great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole
noble science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of
Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and
apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort
of business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often with Spitzenbergs to
be had at the numerous stalls nigh the Custom House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut
very frequently for that peculiar cake—small, flat, round, and very spicy—after which he had
been named by them. Of a cold morning when business was but dull, Turkey would gobble up
scores of these cakes, as if they were mere wafers—indeed they sell them at the rate of six or
eight for a penny—the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp particles in his
mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried rashnesses of Turkey, was his once
moistening a ginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage for a seal. I came
within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental bow, and
saying—"With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery on my own
account."
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Now my original business—that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and drawer-up of recondite
documents of all sorts—was considerably increased by receiving the master's office. There was
now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have
additional help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning, stood
upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now—
pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.
After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of
copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon
the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.
I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my premises into two parts,
one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. According to my humor I
threw open these doors, or closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the foldingdoors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any trifling
thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room,
a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks,
but which, owing to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it gave
some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above,
between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a
satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate
Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy
and society were conjoined.
At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long famishing for something to
copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a
day and night line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted
with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely,
mechanically.
It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to verify the accuracy of his copy,
word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this
examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull,
wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it
would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron
would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred
pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.
Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief
document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing
Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial
occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had
arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I
had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant
compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways,
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and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his
retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.
In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to
do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation,
when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, "I
would prefer not to."
I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that
my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my
request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, "I
would prefer not to."
"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. "What
do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,"
and I thrust it towards him.
"I would prefer not to," said he.
I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a
wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or
impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about
him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should
have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood
gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk.
This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded
to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the
other room, the paper was speedily examined.
A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a
week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to
examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things
arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four
copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey,
Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I
called to Bartleby to join this interesting group.
"Bartleby! quick, I am waiting."
I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at
the entrance of his hermitage.
"What is wanted?" said he mildly.
"The copies, the copies," said I hurriedly. "We are going to examine them. There"—and I held
towards him the fourth quadruplicate.
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"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.
For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of
clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such
extraordinary conduct.
"Why do you refuse?"
"I would prefer not to."
With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further
words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby
that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I
began to reason with him.
"These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one
examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to
help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!"
"I prefer not to," he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing
him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could
not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration
prevailed with him to reply as he did.
"You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common
usage and common sense?"
He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision
was irreversible.
It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently
unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely
to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side.
Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement
for his own faltering mind.
"Turkey," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"
"With submission, sir," said Turkey, with his blandest tone, "I think that you are."
"Nippers," said I, "what do you think of it?"
"I think I should kick him out of the office."
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(The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey's answer is
couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a
previous sentence, Nippers' ugly mood was on duty and Turkey's off.)
"Ginger Nut," said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, "what do you think of
it?"
"I think, sir, he's a little luny," replied Ginger Nut with a grin.
"You hear what they say," said I, turning towards the screen, "come forth and do your duty."
But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business
hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future
leisure. With a little trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at
every page or two, Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of
the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out
between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the screen.
And for his (Nippers') part, this was the first and the last time he would do another man's
business without pay.
Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but his own peculiar business
there.
Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work. His late remarkable
conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that
he never went any where. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside
of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about eleven o'clock though, in the
morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening in Bartleby's screen, as if
silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy would then leave the
office jingling a few pence, and reappear with a handful of ginger-nuts which he delivered in the
hermitage, receiving two of the cakes for his trouble.
He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly speaking; he must be a
vegetarian then; but no; he never eats even vegetables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind
then ran on in reveries concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution of living
entirely on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called because they contain ginger as one of their
peculiar constituents, and the final flavoring one. Now what was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was
Bartleby hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby. Probably he
preferred it should have none.
Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the individual so resisted be of
a not inhumane temper, and the resisting one perfectly harmless in his passivity; then, in the
better moods of the former, he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination what
proves impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I regarded Bartleby
and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief; it is plain he intends no insolence;
his aspect sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. He is useful to me. I can get
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along with him. If I turn him away, the chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent
employer, and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes.
Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend Bartleby; to humor him in his
strange willfulness, will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually
prove a sweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable with me. The
passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely goaded on to encounter him in
new opposition, to elicit some angry spark from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might
as well have essayed to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. But one
afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little scene ensued:
"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers are all copied, I will compare them with you."
"I would prefer not to."
"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?"
No answer.
I threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turkey and
Nippers, exclaimed in an excited manner—
"He says, a second time, he won't examine his papers. What do you think of it, Turkey?"
It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler, his bald head
steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted papers.
"Think of it?" roared Turkey; "I think I'll just step behind his screen, and black his eyes for him!"
So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic position. He was hurrying
away to make good his promise, when I detained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously
rousing Turkey's combativeness after dinner.
"Sit down, Turkey," said I, "and hear what Nippers has to say. What do you think of it, Nippers?
Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Bartleby?"
"Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite unusual, and indeed unjust, as
regards Turkey and myself. But it may only be a passing whim."
"Ah," exclaimed I, "you have strangely changed your mind then—you speak very gently of him
now."
"All beer," cried Turkey; "gentleness is effects of beer—Nippers and I dined together to-day.
You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black his eyes?"
"You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied; "pray, put up your fists."
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I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt additional incentives tempting me
to my fate. I burned to be rebelled against again. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.
"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post Office, won't you? (it was but
a three minute walk,) and see if there is any thing for me."
"I would prefer not to."
"You will not?"
"I prefer not."
I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy returned. Was there
any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean,
penniless wight?—my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will
be sure to refuse to do?
"Bartleby!"
No answer.
"Bartleby," in a louder tone.
No answer.
"Bartleby," I roared.
Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons, he
appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.
"Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me."
"I prefer not to," he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared.
"Very good, Bartleby," said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed tone, intimating
the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half
intended something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour,
I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and
distress of mind.
Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed
fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, and a desk there; that
he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was
permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to
Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said
Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and
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that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would
prefer not to—in other words, that he would refuse pointblank.
As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadiness, his freedom
from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a
standing revery behind his screen), his great, stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all
circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,—he was always
there;—first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular
confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes
to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with
him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities,
privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby's part under
which he remained in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing
business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on
the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course,
from behind the screen the usual answer, "I prefer not to," was sure to come; and then, how could
a human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming
upon such perverseness—such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sort
which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.
Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal gentlemen occupying chambers
in densely-populated law buildings, there were several keys to my door. One was kept by a
woman residing in the attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my
apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried in
my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.
Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a celebrated preacher, and
finding myself rather early on the ground, I thought I would walk around to my chambers for a
while. Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by
something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my consternation a key
was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the
apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered
dishabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and—preferred
not admitting me at present. In a brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better
walk round the block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have concluded his
affairs.
Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday
morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm and self-possessed,
had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and did as
desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery of this
unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed
me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a sort of unmanned
when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate to him, and order him away from his own
premises. Furthermore, I was full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in
my office in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a Sunday morning.
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Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the question. It was not to be thought of for
a moment that Bartleby was an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?—copying?
Nay again, whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous person. He
would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state approaching to nudity. Besides, it was
Sunday; and there was something about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he would by
any secular occupation violate the proprieties of the day.
Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the
door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I
looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon
more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period Bartleby must have
ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat
of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away
under his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a
tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a
morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home
here, keeping bachelor's hall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across
me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his
solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night
of every day it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry and
life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday is forlorn. And here Bartleby
makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous—a sort of innocent
and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage!
For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I
had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity
now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of
Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swanlike sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and
thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides
aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick
and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of
Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener's pale form
appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet.
Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock.
I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is
mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically
arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of
documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It
was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings'
bank.
I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never
spoke but to answer; that though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never
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seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at
his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited
any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like
Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I
could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had
declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world;
that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered
a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an
austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his
eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even
though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be
standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.
Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my
office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving
all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of
pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and
grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So
true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our
best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would
assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather
proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive
being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to
effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me
that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body;
but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach.
I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I
had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I
would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to
him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and
unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and
above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in
any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to
his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses.
Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him
would be sure of a reply.
The next morning came.
"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.
No reply.
"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing
you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you."
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Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.
"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?"
"I would prefer not to."
"Will you tell me any thing about yourself?"
"I would prefer not to."
"But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you."
He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I
then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head.
"What is your answer, Bartleby?" said I, after waiting a considerable time for a reply, during
which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of
the white attenuated mouth.
"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired into his hermitage.
It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did
there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful,
considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me.
Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had
been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something
superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing
me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last,
familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: "Bartleby, never mind then
about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with
the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in
short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby."
"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable," was his mildly cadaverous reply.
Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an
unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final
words of Bartleby.
"Prefer not, eh?" gritted Nippers—"I'd prefer him, if I were you, sir," addressing me—"I'd prefer
him; I'd give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do
now?"
Bartleby moved not a limb.
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"Mr. Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present."
Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word "prefer" upon all sorts
of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had
already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might
it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to
summary means.
As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially
approached.
"With submission, sir," said he, "yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if
he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending
him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers."
"So you have got the word too," said I, slightly excited.
"With submission, what word, sir," asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the
contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. "What
word, sir?"
"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his
privacy.
"That's the word, Turkey," said I—"that's it."
"Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as
I was saying, if he would but prefer—"
"Turkey," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw."
"Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should."
As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse of me, and asked
whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the
least roguishly accent the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled form his tongue. I
thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree
turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the
dismission at once.
The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery.
Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.
"Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"
"No more."
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"And what is the reason?"
"Do you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied.
I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and glazed. Instantly it
occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in copying by his dim window for the first few
weeks of his stay with me might have temporarily impaired his vision.
I was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hinted that of course he did wisely in
abstaining from writing for a while; and urged him to embrace that opportunity of taking
wholesome exercise in the open air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other
clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by the mail, I thought
that, having nothing else earthly to do, Bartleby would surely be less inflexible than usual, and
carry these letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So, much to my inconvenience, I
went myself.
Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby's eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all
appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At
all events, he would do no copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had
permanently given up copying.
"What!" exclaimed I; "suppose your eyes should get entirely well—better than ever before—
would you not copy then?"
"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid aside.
He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he became still more
of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he
stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace,
but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own
account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I
would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient
retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic.
At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations.
Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days' time he must unconditionally leave the
office. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered
to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal. "And
when you finally quit me, Bartleby," added I, "I shall see that you go not away entirely
unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember."
At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!
Bartleby was there.
I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and
said, "The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you
must go."
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"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.
"You must."
He remained silent.
Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man's common honesty. He had frequently restored
to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless
in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed
extraordinary.
"Bartleby," said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are
yours.—Will you take it?" and I handed the bills towards him.
But he made no motion.
"I will leave them here then," putting them under a weight on the table. Then taking my hat and
cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and added—"After you have removed your things
from these offices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door—since every one is now gone for
the day but you—and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the
morning. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you. If hereafter in your new place of abode I
can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by letter. Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you
well."
But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing
mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted room.
As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity. I could not but highly
plume myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such
it must appear to any dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its
perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring,
and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to
bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby
depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and
upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I
was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,—I had
somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just
after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory.
How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have
assumed Bartleby's departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of
Bartleby's. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether
he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.
After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I
thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as
usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering
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about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of people
standing in earnest conversation.
"I'll take odds he doesn't," said a voice as I passed.
"Doesn't go?—done!" said I, "put up your money."
I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I remembered that
this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the
success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had,
as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same
question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary
absent-mindedness.
As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All
was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had
worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was
almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which
Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel,
producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—"Not yet; I am
occupied."
It was Bartleby.
I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one
cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window
he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched
him, when he fell.
"Not gone!" I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the
inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not
completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the
block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an
actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling
in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over
me,—this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there
any thing further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed
that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the
legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and
pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a
proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly
possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions. But
upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the
matter over with him again.
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"Bartleby," said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, "I am seriously
displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a
gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have suffice—in
short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why," I added, unaffectedly starting, "you
have not even touched that money yet," pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening
previous.
He answered nothing.
"Will you, or will you not, quit me?" I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to
him.
"I would prefer not to quit you," he replied, gently emphasizing the not.
"What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this
property yours?"
He answered nothing.
"Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could you copy a small paper
for me this morning? or help examine a few lines? or step round to the post-office? In a word,
will you do any thing at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?"
He silently retired into his hermitage.
I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent to check myself at
present from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the
unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how
poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get
wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could
possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon
the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it
would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office,
up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted
office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly
helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.
But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I
grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: "A new
commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another." Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside
from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great
safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy's sake, and anger's sake, and
hatred's sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual pride's sake; but no man that ever I heard of,
ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better
motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity
and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated
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feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow!
thought I, he don't mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be
indulged.
I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my
despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove
agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take
up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o'clock
came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally
obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon
apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall
reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without
saying one further word to him.
Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into "Edwards on the
Will," and "Priestly on Necessity." Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary
feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener,
had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious
purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes,
Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are
harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know
you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am
content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to
furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see fit to remain.
I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued with me, had it not been
for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who
visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last
the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not
strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the
unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning
him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no
one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him
touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing
immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the
attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.
Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business
was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly
unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some
papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before.
Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was
made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was
running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very
much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep
occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and
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scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping
soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day),
and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual
occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends
continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was
wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this
intolerable incubus.
Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to
Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the
idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he
apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to
abide with me.
What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do?
what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid
myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive
mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor
yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die
here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he
will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite
plain that he prefers to cling to you.
Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him
collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what
ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a
wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to
count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong
again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any
man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I
must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I
find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser.
Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: "I find these chambers too far from the City
Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no
longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place."
He made no reply, and nothing more was said.
On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little
furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing
behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being
folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry
watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me.
I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth.
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"Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,"
slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore
myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of.
Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every
footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at
the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were
needless. Bartleby never came nigh me.
I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I
was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.—Wall-street.
Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.
"Then sir," said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, "you are responsible for the man you left
there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he
refuses to quit the premises."
"I am very sorry, sir," said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward tremor, "but, really, the
man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold
me responsible for him."
"In mercy's name, who is he?"
"I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed him as a
copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past."
"I shall settle him then,—good morning, sir."
Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt a charitable prompting to
call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld
me.
All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through another week no further
intelligence reached me. But coming to my room the day after, I found several persons waiting at
my door in a high state of nervous excitement.
"That's the man—here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom I recognized as the lawyer who
had previously called upon me alone.
"You must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person among them, advancing upon me,
and whom I knew to be the landlord of No.—Wall-street. "These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot
stand it any longer; Mr. B—" pointing to the lawyer, "has turned him out of his room, and he
now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting upon the banisters of the stairs by day,
and sleeping in the entry by night. Every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some
fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without delay."
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Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked myself in my new
quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing to me—no more than to any one else. In
vain:—I was the last person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the
terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely
threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer would give me a
confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer's) own room, I would that afternoon
strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.
Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon the banister at the
landing.
"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.
"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.
I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.
"Bartleby," said I, "are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation to me, by persisting
in occupying the entry after being dismissed from the office?"
No answer.
"Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something, or something must be
done to you. Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to reengage in copying for some one?"
"No; I would prefer not to make any change."
"Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?"
"There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not
particular."
"Too much confinement," I cried, "why you keep yourself confined all the time!"
"I would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once.
"How would a bar-tender's business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that."
"I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular."
His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.
"Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants? That
would improve your health."
271
"No, I would prefer to be doing something else."
"How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your
conversation,—how would that suit you?"
"Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about that. I like to be stationary.
But I am not particular."
"Stationary you shall be then," I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my
exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. "If you do not go away from these
premises before night, I shall feel bound—indeed I am bound—to—to—to quit the premises
myself!" I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try to frighten his
immobility into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him,
when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before.
"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting circumstances, "will
you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can
conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right
away."
"No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all."
I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my
flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first
omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived
that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and
his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield
him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my
conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have
wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated
tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of
the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken,
and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for
the time.
When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with
trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed
to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished
me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a
conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord's
energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would
have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed
the only plan.
As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be conducted to the Tombs,
offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.
272
Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the
constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and
heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon.
The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of
Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the
individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a
perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I
narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent
confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew
what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I
then begged to have an interview.
Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had
permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard
thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards
a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering
out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.
"Bartleby!"
"I know you," he said, without looking round,—"and I want nothing to say to you."
"It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby," said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion.
"And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being
here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the
grass."
"I know where I am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him.
As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his
thumb over his shoulder said—"Is that your friend?"
"Yes."
"Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that's all."
"Who are you?" asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in
such a place.
"I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with
something good to eat."
"Is this so?" said I, turning to the turnkey.
He said it was.
273
"Well then," said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man's hands (for so they called him). "I
want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get.
And you must be as polite to him as possible."
"Introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to
say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding.
Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and asking the grub-man his
name, went up with him to Bartleby.
"Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you."
"Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a low salutation behind his apron.
"Hope you find it pleasant here, sir;—spacious grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you'll stay
with us some time—try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the pleasure of your
company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets' private room?"
"I prefer not to dine to-day," said Bartleby, turning away. "It would disagree with me; I am
unused to dinners." So saying he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a
position fronting the dead-wall.
"How's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment. "He's odd, aint
he?"
"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.
"Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a
gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers. I can't pity'em—can't help
it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?" he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand
pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren't
acquainted with Monroe?"
"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop longer. Look to my
friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you again."
Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and went through the
corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him.
"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be he's gone to loiter in the
yards."
So I went in that direction.
"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey passing me. "Yonder he lies—
sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes since I saw him lie down."
274
The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners. The surrounding
walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the
masonry weighed upon me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart
of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grassseed, dropped by birds, had sprung.
Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head
touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went
close up to him; stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed
profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling
shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.
The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is ready. Won't he dine to-day,
either? Or does he live without dining?"
"Lives without dining," said I, and closed his eyes.
"Eh!—He's asleep, aint he?"
"With kings and counselors," murmured I.
********
There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination will readily
supply the meager recital of poor Bartleby's interment. But ere parting with the reader, let me
say, that if this little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who
Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator's making his
acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to
gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which came
to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could never
ascertain; and hence, how true it is I cannot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague report has not
been without certain strange suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove the same with
some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a
subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly
removed by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot adequately
express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a
man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted
to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting them for the
flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the
pale clerk takes a ring:—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note
sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for
those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died
stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.
Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!
275
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
[image] Emily Dickinson, one of the United States' great poets, was born December 10, 1830, in
Amherst, Massachusetts. As a member of a prominent family, she received an extensive formal
education. At fifteen, Dickinson attended Mount Holyoke Female Seminary for one year, where
she was placed in the "without hope" category for religious potential, when she declined to
profess herself as a believing Christian. She returned home and became a virtual recluse for the
rest of her life, accepting few visitors outside the immediate family. She read deeply and widely
from her home. She traveled only briefly in 1864 and 1865, to nearby Boston, and almost never
afterward. Since Dickinson was so reclusive, she communicated to the outside world through
letters and correspondence, many of which have now been published. She developed a series of
friendships through her letters, with Benjamin Newton, a law student, with Charles Wadsworth,
a Philadelphia minister, and with Thomas Higginson, a literary critic. She also had many
exchanges with Samuel Bowles, a newspaper editor. Within the household, Susan Gilbert
Dickinson, her brother's wife, became one of Dickinson's close friends. There is speculation that
Gilbert was among Dickinson's unrequited loves, but evidence is inconclusive on the
matter. During her lifetime, only a dozen of Dickinson's poems were published. She died on
May 15, 1886. After her death, to the surprise of her family, roughly 1800 poems were found in
her room within forty hand-bound volumes, called fascicles, which the poet had constructed.
These poems contained unconventional punctuation marks and capitalizations, which were
highly edited when first published. Eventually, more recent editors restored the integrity of
Dickinson's original work, accomplished by restoring her dashes and her fragmented syntax and
by restoring her unique capitalization. Since her poems are untitled, Dickinson's two most recent
editors, Thomas H. Johnson and R. W. Franklin, have both assigned each poem a number, based
upon their research of the order in which the poems were written. Since their numbering system
does not coincide, care must be taken when referring to the poems by number. Some sources use
the more authoritative Franklin numbers and some the Johnson numbers. Three key biographies
include Richard B. Sewell's The Life of Emily Dickinson (1974), Cynthia Griffin Wolff'sEmily
Dickinson (1986), and Alfred Habegger's My Wars Are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily
Dickinson (2001). There are numerous book-length studies and critical collections on this
poet. Students will find valuable Wendy Martin's The Cambridge Companion to Emily
Dickinson (2002) and Jane D. Eberwein's An Emily Dickinson Encyclopedia (1998).
Dickinson Resources
Dickinson, Emily. Poems by Emily Dickinson. Edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T.W.
Higginson. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1890.
source of electronic texts: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12242
Editor's note: Scholars and students of Dickinson's works should note that what are considered
definitive versions of these poems, with a much greater attention to the original intentions (and
punctuation) of the author, are available in published formats currently under copyright
276
protection. Those versions could not be included in an open source textbook such as this one.
The poems included here have been edited and punctuated by Todd and Higginson and are
mostly considered flawed by scholars today. See the Dickinson Resources page for alternative
authoritative versions of many of these poems.
I never lost as much but twice
I never lost as much but twice,
And that was in the sod;
Twice have I stood a beggar
Before the door of God!
Angels, twice descending,
Reimbursed my store.
Burglar, banker, father,
I am poor once more!
Success is counted sweetest
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear!
These are the days when birds come back
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, —
A blue and gold mistake.
277
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
Faith is a Fine Invention
FAITH is a Fine Invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency!
I taste a liquor never brewed
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
I'm nobody! Who are you?
278
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there 's a pair of us — don't tell!
They 'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port, —
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
I like a look of agony
I like a look of agony,
Because I know it's true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death.
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung.
I felt a funeral in my brain
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
279
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
Because I could not stop for Death
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me, —
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
280
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
I heard a fly buzz when I died
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable, — and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
The brain is wider than the sky
The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.
The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.
The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.
Much madness is divinest sense
281
Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur, — you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
My Life had Stood - a Loaded Gun Wikisource version
A narrow fellow in the grass
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, — did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, —
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
Tell All the Truth but tell it slant 282
Wikisource version
A route of evanescence
A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head, —
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning's ride.
Apparently with no surprise
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.
My life closed twice before its close
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
[image] Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819 to working-class parents in West Hills, New
York, as one of seven siblings. The family moved to Brooklyn in 1823, where Whitman would
receive only six years of formal schooling. In 1830, he worked as an office boy and soon after
entered the printing trade as an apprentice. He also worked as a teacher for a short time. He
became a journalist, employed by various newspapers in New York City and Brooklyn through
the 1840s, and served a brief stint as a newspaper editor in New Orleans. Starting in 1850,
Whitman chose to concentrate most of his efforts on reading literature and writing poetry. He
283
was intent on creating a great American epic in his verse and he succeeded. His revolutionary
Leaves of Grass was written, rewritten, and revised over two decades, going through six different
editions from 1855 to 1881. It marked a groundbreaking shift in American poetry, written in free
version, emphasizing repetition, and incorporating subject matter that many thought shocking
and profane. Later editions of Leaves of Grass included poems that were sexually explicit in their
depictions of heterosexual and homosexual situations and content. During and after the Civil
War, Whitman's many visits to the sick, wounded, and dying in Washington DC hospitals had a
profound and lasting effect upon him and his writing. A stroke, and the death of his mother, both
in 1873, along with failing health thereafter, provided challenges to Whitman, though he was
able to finish a final definitive version of Leaves of Grass in 1881. He died on March 26, 1892,
in Camden, New Jersey where he had lived for the last twenty years of his life. Whitman was
prolific as a poet and writer, often revising his previous work while penning new material. Other
key collections include the Civil War inspired Drum-Taps (1865), Passage to India (1870),
Good-Bye, My Fancy (1891), along with prose pieces, Democratic Vistas (1871) and Specimen
Days (1881). Whitman's importance to American literature cannot be overstated. Many critics
would argue that his works would have more of an influence on the shape, content, and purposes
of the literature that followed, than that of any other writer. Always attempting to be the
"democratic poet" of the country, Whitman was inspired to include nearly everything in his
materials, high and low subjects, examinations of the body and the soul, and the full diversity of
American life as he saw it. He, perhaps better than any other writer, fulfilled Emerson's call for a
truly original American voice. Three important Whitman biographies are Gay Wilson Allen's
The Solitary Singer (1967), Justin Kaplan's Walt Whitman: A Life (1980), and David S.
Reynold's Walt Whitman's America: A Cultural Biography (1995). Critical examinations of
Whitman's works are plentiful. Two key overviews are M. Jimmie Killingsworth's The
Cambridge Introduction to Walt Whitman (1995) and the online site, The Walt Whitman Archive
(2012), compiled and edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M. Price.
I Hear America Singing
Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Philadelphia: David McKay, 1891-2.
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat
deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at
sundown,
284
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or
washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day - at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Song of Myself
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
1
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
285
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the
earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
286
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
287
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?
4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
288
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my
feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and
poke-weed.
6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
289
vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
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All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and
am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.
8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
291
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.
9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.
I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
292
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.
The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.
The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.
I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her
feet.
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd
feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.
293
11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
294
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.
13
The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish'd and perfect limbs.
I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.
In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.
Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.
I believe in those wing'd purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
295
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something
else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well
to me,
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.
14
The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,
Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,
Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.
The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the
chickadee, the prairie-dog,
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,
The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,
I see in them and myself the same old law.
The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,
They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,
Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and
mauls, and the drivers of horses,
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.
What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,
Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,
Scattering it freely forever.
15
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane
whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving
dinner,
296
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are
ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and
looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's
bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the
manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by
the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat,
the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do
not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their
rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels
his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them
from his saddle,
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their
partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the
musical rain,
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and
bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut
eyes bent sideways,
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for
the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it
off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,
The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne
her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the
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factory or mill,
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead
flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering
with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his
desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow
him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, (how the white
sails sparkle!)
The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling
about the odd cent;)
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock
moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips,
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and
pimpled neck,
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to
each other,
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great
Secretaries,
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined
arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the
hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the
jingling of loose change,
The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the
roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it
is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and
small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows,
and the winter-grain falls in the ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in
the frozen surface,
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep
with his axe,
Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or
pecan-trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through
298
those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or
Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons
around them,
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after
their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by
his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
16
I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff
that is fine,
One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the
largest the same,
A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and
hospitable down by the Oconee I live,
A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest
joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,
A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger,
Buckeye;
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen
off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and
tacking,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the
Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (loving
their big proportions,)
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands
and welcome to drink and meat,
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
299
Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.
I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.
(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their
place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)
17
These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to
nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are
nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.
This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe.
18
With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,
I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for
conquer'd and slain persons.
Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit
in which they are won.
I beat and pound for the dead,
I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.
Vivas to those who have fail'd!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
300
And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes
known!
19
This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just same as the righteous, I make appointments
with all,
I will not have a single person slighted or left away,
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,
The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.
This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of
hair,
This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,
This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,
This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.
Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the
side of a rock has.
Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering
through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?
This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
20
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?
All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,
301
Else it were time lost listening to me.
I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.
Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity
goes to the fourth-remov'd,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with
doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn
less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt
stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by,
after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
302
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten
million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
21
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with
me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate
into new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and
still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom'd night - press close magnetic nourishing
night!
Night of south winds - night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night - mad naked summer night.
303
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset - earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my
sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth - rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love - therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable passionate love.
22
You sea! I resign myself to you also - I guess what you mean,
I behold from the beach your crooked fingers,
I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,
We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of
the land,
Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,
Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.
Sea of stretch'd ground-swells,
Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,
Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves,
Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,
I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases.
Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,
Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.
I am he attesting sympathy,
(Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that
supports them?)
I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet
of wickedness also.
What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?
304
Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,
My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,
I moisten the roots of all that has grown.
Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and
rectified?
I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance,
Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,
Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.
This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,
There is no better than it and now.
What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such
wonder,
The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an
infidel.
23
Endless unfolding of words of ages!
And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.
A word of the faith that never balks,
Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time
absolutely.
It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,
That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.
I accept Reality and dare not question it,
Materialism first and last imbuing.
Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!
Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,
This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of
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the old cartouches,
These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas.
This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a
mathematician.
Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!
Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,
I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.
Less the reminders of properties told my words,
And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and
extrication,
And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and
women fully equipt,
And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that
plot and conspire.
24
Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
them,
No more modest than immodest.
Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current
and index.
I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their
counterpart of on the same terms.
Through me many long dumb voices,
306
Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,
Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the
father-stuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down upon,
Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.
Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.
I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and
heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me
is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am
touch'd from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of
my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded
duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!
Sun so generous it shall be you!
307
Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my
winding paths, it shall be you!
Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd,
it shall be you.
I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my
faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the
friendship I take again.
That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics
of books.
To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.
Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising
freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.
Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.
The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,
The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!
25
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
308
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of
worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all
things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)
My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really
am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.
Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
26
Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
309
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and
night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the
sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing
a death-sentence,
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of
swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles
and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two
and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black
muslin.)
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music - this suits me.
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent
waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of
death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.
310
27
To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were
enough.
Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.
I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.
28
Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly
different from myself,
On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,
Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,
Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,
Depriving me of my best as for a purpose,
Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,
Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and
pasture-fields,
Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,
They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges of
me,
No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,
Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,
Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me.
The sentries desert every other part of me,
They have left me helpless to a red marauder,
They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.
I am given up by traitors,
I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the
greatest traitor,
311
I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there.
You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its
throat,
Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.
29
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,
Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.
Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,
Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.
30
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,
The insignificant is as big to me as any,
(What is less or more than a touch?)
Logic and sermons never convince,
The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,
Only what nobody denies is so.)
A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,
I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,
And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,
And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each
other,
And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it
becomes omnific,
And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.
312
31
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the
stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg
of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits,
grains, esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call any thing back again when I desire it.
In vain the speeding or shyness,
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying
low,
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.
32
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
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Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their
possession.
I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
Myself moving forward then and now and forever,
Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,
Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,
Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,
Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly
terms.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my
caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and
return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.
33
Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess'd at,
What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass,
What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed,
And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the
morning.
My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
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I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,
I am afoot with my vision.
By the city's quadrangular houses - in log huts, camping with
lumber-men,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,
Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips,
crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the
shallow river,
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the
buck turns furiously at the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the
otter is feeding on fish,
Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the
beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tall;
Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over
the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and
slender shoots from the gutters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the
delicate blue-flower flax,
Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with
the rest,
Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the
breeze;
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low
scragged limbs,
Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of
the brush,
Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great
goldbug drops through the dark,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to
the meadow,
Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous
shuddering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle
the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,
Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it
myself and looking composedly down,)
315
Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat
hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,
Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting
below;
Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,
Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of
base-ball,
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license,
bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the
juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles,
screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are
scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud to
the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,
Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short
jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome
prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles
far and near,
Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived
swan is curving and winding,
Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her
near-human laugh,
Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by the
high weeds,
Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with
their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh at
night and feeds upon small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,
Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over
316
the well,
Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,
Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through the
office or public hall;
Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with
the new and old,
Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,
Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks
melodiously,
Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,
Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher,
impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon,
flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the clouds,
or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the
middle;
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind me
he rides at the drape of the day,)
Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or the
moccasin print,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,
Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,
Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,
Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a
long while,
Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by my
side,
Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,
Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the
diameter of eighty thousand miles,
Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,
Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its
belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.
I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,
And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.
317
I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.
I help myself to material and immaterial,
No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.
I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.
I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a
pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.
I ascend to the foretruck,
I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest,
We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,
Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful
beauty,
The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is
plain in all directions,
The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my
fancies toward them,
We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to
be engaged,
We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still
feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city,
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities
of the globe.
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.
I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
318
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the
steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of
days and faithful of nights,
And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will
not desert you;
How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and
would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the
sharp-lipp'd unshaved men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.
The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her
children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence,
blowing, cover'd with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous
buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the
ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with
whip-stocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the
wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my
319
comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my
sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared
of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock
myself.
I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,
I am there again.
Again the long roll of the drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars,
Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped
explosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.
Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves
with his hand,
He gasps through the clot Mind not me - mind - the entrenchments.
34
Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth,
(I tell not the fall of Alamo,
Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,
The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)
320
'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve
young men.
Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for
breastworks,
Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their
number, was the price they took in advance,
Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,
They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and
seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.
They were the glory of the race of rangers,
Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,
Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,
Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,
Not a single one over thirty years of age.
The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and
massacred, it was beautiful early summer,
The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.
None obey'd the command to kneel,
Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight,
A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead
lay together,
The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them
there,
Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,
These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of
muskets,
A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more
came to release him,
The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.
At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;
That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young
men.
35
Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?
321
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to
me.
Our foe was no sulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer,
and never was, and never will be;
Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,
My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.
We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire,
killing all around and blowing up overhead.
Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain,
and five feet of water reported,
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold
to give them a chance for themselves.
The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,
They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.
Our frigate takes fire,
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fighting done?
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part
of the fighting.
Only three guns are in use,
One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's
main-mast,
Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and
clear his decks.
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The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially
the main-top,
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
Not a moment's cease,
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the
powder-magazine.
One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are
sinking.
Serene stands the little captain,
He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,
His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.
36
Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the
one we have conquer'd,
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a
countenance white as a sheet,
Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully
curl'd whiskers,
The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh
upon the masts and spars,
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of
waves,
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by
the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long,
323
dull, tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.
37
You laggards there on guard! look to your arms!
In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! I am possess'd!
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering,
See myself in prison shaped like another man,
And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep
watch,
It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.
Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him
and walk by his side,
(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat
on my twitching lips.)
Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried
and sentenced.
Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the
last gasp,
My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people
retreat.
Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them,
I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg.
38
Enough! enough! enough!
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams,
gaping,
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
That I could forget the mockers and insults!
324
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the
bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and
bloody crowning.
I remember now,
I resume the overstaid fraction,
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any
graves,
Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.
I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average
unending procession,
Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,
Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth,
The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years.
Eleves, I salute you! come forward!
Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.
39
The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?
Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?
Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? is he Kanadian?
Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California?
The mountains? prairie-life, bush-life? or sailor from the sea?
Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him,
They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay
with them.
Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd
head, laughter, and naivete,
Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations,
They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers,
They are waited with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of
the glance of his eyes.
325
40
Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask - lie over!
You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.
Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
Say, old top-knot, what do you want?
Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,
And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and
days.
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give I give myself.
You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,
And any thing I have I bestow.
I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.
To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.
On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes.
(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.)
To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door.
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed,
Let the physician and the priest go home.
I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,
326
O despairer, here is my neck,
By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.
I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up,
Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force,
Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
Sleep - I and they keep guard all night,
Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you,
I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself,
And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is
so.
41
I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,
And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.
I heard what was said of the universe,
Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling well as far as it goes - but is that all?
Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
engraved,
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly
and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves
driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or
a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me
327
than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white
foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for
every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels
with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to
come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his
brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and
not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of
the supremes,
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the
best, and be as prodigious;
By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator,
Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.
42
A call in the midst of the crowd,
My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.
Come my children,
Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates,
Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on
the reeds within.
Easily written loose-finger'd chords - I feel the thrum of your
climax and close.
My head slues round on my neck,
Music rolls, but not from the organ,
Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.
328
Ever the hard unsunk ground,
Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever
the air and the ceaseless tides,
Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real,
Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that
breath of itches and thirsts,
Ever the vexer's hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides
and bring him forth,
Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life,
Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.
Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,
To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment
receiving,
A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.
This is the city and I am one of the citizens,
Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets,
newspapers, schools,
The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories,
stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.
The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd
coats
I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest
is deathless with me,
What I do and say the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.
I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
Not words of routine this song of mine,
But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring;
This printed and bound book - but the printer and the
printing-office boy?
The well-taken photographs - but your wife or friend close and solid
329
in your arms?
The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets - but
the pluck of the captain and engineers?
In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture - but the host and
hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
The sky up there - yet here or next door, or across the way?
The saints and sages in history - but you yourself?
Sermons, creeds, theology - but the fathomless human brain,
And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?
43
I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and
modern,
Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand
years,
Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun,
Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in
the circle of obis,
Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,
Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and
austere in the woods a gymnosophist,
Drinking mead from the skull-cap, to Shastas and Vedas admirant,
minding the Koran,
Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife,
beating the serpent-skin drum,
Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing
assuredly that he is divine,
To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting
patiently in a pew,
Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till
my spirit arouses me,
Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land,
Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.
One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like
man leaving charges before a journey.
Down-hearted doubters dull and excluded,
Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd,
atheistical,
I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair
330
and unbelief.
How the flukes splash!
How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of
blood!
Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,
I take my place among you as much as among any,
The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same,
And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely
the same.
I do not know what is untried and afterward,
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.
Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not
single one can it fall.
It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried,
Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back
and was never seen again,
Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
bitterness worse than gall,
Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
call'd the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the
earth,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads
that inhabit them,
Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.
44
It is time to explain myself - let us stand up.
What is known I strip away,
I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.
331
The clock indicates the moment - but what does eternity indicate?
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.
I do not call one greater and one smaller,
That which fills its period and place is equal to any.
Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me,
All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation,
(What have I to do with lamentation?)
I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to
be.
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,
All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.
Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there,
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,
And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.
Long I was hugg'd close - long and long.
Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me.
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen,
332
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.
Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me,
My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.
For it the nebula cohered to an orb,
The long slow strata piled to rest it on,
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it
with care.
All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me,
Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.
45
O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity!
O manhood, balanced, florid and full.
My lovers suffocate me,
Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at
night,
Crying by day, Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and
chirping over my head,
Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,
Lighting on every moment of my life,
Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,
Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to
be mine.
Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days!
Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows
after and out of itself,
And the dark hush promulges as much as any.
333
I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems,
And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of
the farther systems.
Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,
Outward and outward and forever outward.
My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels,
He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit,
And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.
There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would
not avail the long run,
We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.
A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do
not hazard the span or make it impatient,
They are but parts, any thing is but a part.
See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that,
Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.
My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,
The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,
The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.
46
I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and
never will be measured.
I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the
woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
334
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public
road.
Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.
It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.
Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten
forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.
If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand
on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.
This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded
heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs,
and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we
be fill'd and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue
beyond.
You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.
Sit a while dear son,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss
you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress
hence.
335
Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every
moment of your life.
Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,
and laughingly dash with your hair.
47
I am the teacher of athletes,
He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width
of my own,
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power,
but in his own right,
Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear,
Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak,
Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts,
First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a
skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo,
Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over
all latherers,
And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun.
I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.
I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while
I wait for a boat,
(It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of
you,
Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.)
I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,
336
And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her
who privately stays with me in the open air.
If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,
The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves
key,
The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words.
No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,
But roughs and little children better than they.
The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,
The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with
him all day,
The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my
voice,
In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen
and love them.
The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,
On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail
them,
On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek
me.
My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his
blanket,
The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon,
The young mother and old mother comprehend me,
The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they
are,
They and all would resume what I have told them.
48
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the
earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
337
learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it
may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd
universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.
And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and
about death.)
I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the
least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment
then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the
glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd
by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
49
And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to
try to alarm me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.
And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not
offend me,
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of
338
melons.
And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns - O grass of graves - O perpetual transfers and promotions,
If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk - toss on the black stems that decay
in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or
small.
50
There is that in me - I do not know what it is - but I know it is in
me.
Wrench'd and sweaty - calm and cool then my body becomes,
I sleep - I sleep long.
I do not know it - it is without name - it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and
sisters.
339
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death - it is form, union, plan - it is eternal
life - it is Happiness.
51
The past and present wilt - I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute
longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his
supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?
52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
340
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing
Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Philadelphia: David McKay, 1891-2.
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
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I SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there
without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it and
twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly
love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not.
341
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Resources for Whitman
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Price.
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1
FLOOD-TIDE below me! I see you face to face!
Clouds of the west-sun there half an hour high - I see you also face to face.
Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning
home, are more curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more
to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.
2
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part
of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future,
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on
the walk in the street and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.
Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the
south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.
3
It avails not, time nor place - distance avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
342
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm'd pipes of steamboats, I
look'd.
I too many and many a time cross'd the river of old,
Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings,
oscillating their bodies,
Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow,
Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south,
Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water,
Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilothouses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolic-some crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the
docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank'd on each side by the barges, the
hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into
the night,
Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses,
and down into the clefts of streets.
4
These and all else were to me the same as they are to you,
I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river,
The men and women I saw were all near to me,
Others the same-others who look back on me because I look'd forward to them,
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)
5
What is it then between us?
343
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
Whatever it is, it avails not - distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had receiv'd identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.
6
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seem'd to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,
I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb'd, blush'd, resented, lied, stole, grudg'd,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me.
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Was call'd by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching
or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play'd the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.
7
Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you - I laid in my stores in advance,
I consider'd long and seriously of you before you were born.
344
Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see
me?
8
Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm'd Manhattan?
River and sunset and scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide?
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter?
What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly
and loudly by my nighest name as approach?
What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?
We understand then do we not?
What I promis'd without mentioning it, have you not accepted?
What the study could not teach-what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish'd, is it
not?
9
Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg'd waves!
Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women
generations after me!
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!
Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it!
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you;
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current;
Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air;
Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take
it from you!
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one's head, in the sunlit water!
Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail'd schooners, sloops, lighters!
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower'd at sunset!
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow
light over the tops of the houses!
345
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,
You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,
About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas,
Thrive, cities-bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers,
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,
Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.
You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers,
We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us,
We use you, and do not cast you aside-we plant you permanently within us,
We fathom you not - we love you - there is perfection in you also,
You furnish your parts toward eternity,
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
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COME my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!
For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you youths, Western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas?
346
We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind,
We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines within,
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood intervein'd,
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O resistless restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
347
See my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
On and on the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill'd,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd.
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the pulses of the world,
Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat,
Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Life's involv'd and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Lo, the darting bowling orb!
Lo, the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
348
These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind,
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you daughters of the West!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have done your work,)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Not for delectations sweet,
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious,
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged nodding on our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the daybreak call-hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind,
Swift! to the head of the army!-swift! spring to your places,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
Resources for Whitman
349
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
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OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower'd halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they
were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings
I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with
tears,
From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous'd words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
Once Paumanok,
When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was
growing,
Up this seashore in some briers,
Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,
And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright
eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
350
Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great sun.'
While we bask, we two together.
Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.
Till of a sudden,
May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest,
Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appear'd again.
And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,
And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama.
Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore,I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.
Yes, when the stars glisten'd,
All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake,
Down almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.
He call'd on his mate,
He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know.
Yes my brother I know,
The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note,
351
For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind waiting my hair,
Listen'd long and long.
Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
Following you my brother.
Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.
Low hangs the moon, it rose late,
It is lagging-O I think it is heavy with love, with love.
O madly the sea pushes upon the land,
With love, with love.
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here, is here,
You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate.'
O moon do not keep her from me any longer.
Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again
352
if you only would,
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.
O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of
you.
O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth,
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.
Shake out carols!
Solitary here, the night's carols!
Carols of lonesome love! death's carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless despairing carols.
But soft! sink low!
Soft! let me just murmur,
And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea,
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to
me.
Hither my love!
Here I am! here!
With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you,
This gentle call is for you my love, for you.
Do not be decoy'd elsewhere,
That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,
Those are the shadows of leaves.
O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful
353
O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.
O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my mate no more, no more with me!
We two together no more.
The aria sinking,
All else continuing, the stars shining,
The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of
the sea almost touching,
The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously
bursting,
The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,
The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,
To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret
hissing,
To the outsetting bard.
Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard
you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder
and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to
die.
354
O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,
O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there in the night,
By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.
O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,)
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up-what is it?-I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death,
And again death, death, death, death
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's
heart,
But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all
over,
Death, death, death, death, death.
Which I do not forget.
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs at random,
My own songs awaked from that hour,
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet
garments, bending aside,)
The sea whisper'd me.
Cavalry Crossing a Ford
355
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
A LINE in long array where they wind betwixt green islands,
They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun-hark to the musical clank,
Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink,
Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the negligent rest on the
saddles,
Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford- while,
Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.
Bivouac on a Mountain Side
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Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
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I SEE before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,
And over all the sky-the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,
breaking out, the eternal stars.
The Wound-Dresser
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
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1
AN old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge
relentless war,
356
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd
myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these
chances,
Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally
brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest
remains?
2
O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking
recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and
dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the
rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur'd works-yet lo, like a swift-running river they
fade,
Pass and are gone they fade-I dwell not on soldiers' perils or
soldiers' joys,
(Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was
content.)
But in silence, in dreams' projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the
sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up
there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,
To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss,
357
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd
again.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes - poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that
would save you.
3
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage
away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through
examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life
struggles hard,
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and
blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and side
falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the
bloody stump,
And has not yet look'd on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so
offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and
pail.
358
I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast
a fire, a burning flame.)
4
Thus in silence in dreams' projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and
rested,
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
When Lilacs Last in Dooryard Bloom'd
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
1
WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night - O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear'd - O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless - O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
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3
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd
palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich
green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong
I love,
With every leaf a miracle - and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.
4
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldist surely die.)
5
Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd
from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the
endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the
dark-brown fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.
6
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women
360
standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the
unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising
strong and solemn,
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs-where amid these
you journey,
With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.
7
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane
and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,
O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you O death.)
8
O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd,
As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after
night,
As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the
other stars all look'd on,)
As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not
what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you
were of woe,
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool
transparent night,
As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black
of the night,
361
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
9
Sing on there in the swamp,
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me,
The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.
10
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till
there on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of my chant,
I'll perfume the grave of him I love.
11
O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?
Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and
bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking
sun, burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves
of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a
wind-dapple here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky,
and shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of
chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen
homeward returning.
362
12
Lo, body and soul - this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides,
and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light,
Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn.
Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light,
The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
13
Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul - O wondrous singer!
You only I hear - yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
14
Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth,
In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and
the farmers preparing their crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and
forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the
storms,)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the
voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy
with labor,
363
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with
its meals and minutia of daily usages,
And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pentlo, then and there,
Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the
rest,
Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.
Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of
companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the
dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.
And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.
Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love - but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.
364
Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come
unfalteringly.
Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.
From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings
for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread shy are
fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the
prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.
15
To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.
Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,
And I with my comrades there in the night.
365
While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.
And I saw askant the armies,
I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I
saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in
silence,)
And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not,
The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd,
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,
And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.
16
Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my
soul,
Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering
song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling,
flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again
bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with
spring.
I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with
thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.
366
Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of
woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for
the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands-and this for
his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.
O Captain! My Captain!
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
367
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
There Was a Child Went Forth
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
THERE was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of
the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the
mare's foal and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the
pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the
beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part
of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of
him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the
esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms and the fruit afterward,
and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road,
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the
tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd, and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls, and the barefoot negro boy and
368
girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents, he that had father'd him and she that had conceiv'd
him in her womb and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table,
The mother with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a wholesome
odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by,
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the
yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd, the sense of what is real, the
thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time, the curious
whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and
specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not flashes
and specks what are they?
The streets themselves and the facades of houses, and goods in the
windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves, the huge crossing at the
ferries,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river
between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of
white or brown two miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little
boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away
solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh
and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who
now goes, and will always go forth every day.
A Noiseless Patient Spider
Resources for Whitman
369
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
A NOISELESS patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Good-Bye My Fancy!
Resources for Whitman
Source of electronic texts: The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M.
Price.
http://whitmanarchive.org
GOOD-BYE my Fancy!
Farewell dear mate, dear love!
I'm going away, I know not where,
Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again,
So Good-bye my Fancy.
Now for my last - let me look back a moment;
The slower fainter ticking of the clock is in me,
Exit, nightfall, and soon the heart-thud stopping.
Long have we lived, joy'd, caress'd together;
Delightful! - now separation - Good-bye my Fancy.
Yet let me not be too hasty,
Long indeed have we lived, slept, filter'd, become really blended into one;
Then if we die we die together, (yes, we'll remain one,)
If we go anywhere we'll go together to meet what happens,
May-be we'll be better off and blither, and learn something,
May-be it is yourself now really ushering me to the true songs, (who knows?)
May-be it is you the mortal knob really undoing, turning-so now finally,
Good-bye-and hail! my Fancy.
370
Harriett Jacobs (1813-1897)
Resources for Jacobs
[image] Harriet Ann Jacobs was born in Edenton, North Carolina as a slave although, as she tells
readers in her autobiography, she did not know she was one until later in her life. Using the
psuedonym Linda Brent in her book, she relates the harrowing tale of her attempts to avoid the
sexual pursuits of her owner's step-father, "Dr. Flint," or Dr. James Norcom. Jacobs' escape from
slavery, including her seven long years of hiding in a tiny attic crawlspace to remain close to her
family, before eventually fleeing to New York, makes her narrative unique. In 1853, Jacobs
obtained her freedom when her New York employer's wife, Cornelia willis, purchased her from
the Norcom family and freed her afterwards. Focusing on the unique experiences of female
slaves, on sexual exploitation by owners, and on appeals to maternal and family values, Incidents
in the Life of a Slave Girl was published in 1861. It was edited and introduced by abolitionist and
writer, Lydia Maria Childs. Jacobs was active in promoting anti-slavery causes through the end
of the Civil War. After the war, she provided relief to African-American refugees coming up
from the South. She died in 1897, in Washington, D.C. For a recent biography, see Jean Fagan
Yellin's Harriett Jacobs: A Life (2004). One of the best critical collections remains Rafia Zafar
and Deborah M. Garfield's Harriett Jacobs and Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl: New
Critical Essays (1996).
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Written by Herself
Jacobs, Harriett. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl Written by Herself. Boston, 1861.
source of electronic text: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11030
Preface By The Author
Reader be assured this narrative is no fiction. I am aware that some of my adventures may seem
incredible; but they are, nevertheless, strictly true. I have not exaggerated the wrongs inflicted by
Slavery; on the contrary, my descriptions fall far short of the facts. I have concealed the names of
places, and given persons fictitious names. I had no motive for secrecy on my own account, but I
deemed it kind and considerate towards others to pursue this course.
I wish I were more competent to the task I have undertaken. But I trust my readers will excuse
deficiencies in consideration of circumstances. I was born and reared in Slavery; and I remained
in a Slave State twenty-seven years. Since I have been at the North, it has been necessary for me
to work diligently for my own support, and the education of my children. This has not left me
much leisure to make up for the loss of early opportunities to improve myself; and it has
compelled me to write these pages at irregular intervals, whenever I could snatch an hour from
household duties.
When I first arrived in Philadelphia, Bishop Paine advised me to publish a sketch of my life, but
I told him I was altogether incompetent to such an undertaking. Though I have improved my
371
mind somewhat since that time, I still remain of the same opinion; but I trust my motives will
excuse what might otherwise seem presumptuous. I have not written my experiences in order to
attract attention to myself; on the contrary, it would have been more pleasant to me to have been
silent about my own history. Neither do I care to excite sympathy for my own sufferings. But I
do earnestly desire to arouse the women of the North to a realizing sense of the condition of two
millions of women at the South, still in bondage, suffering what I suffered, and most of them far
worse. I want to add my testimony to that of abler pens to convince the people of the Free States
what Slavery really is. Only by experience can any one realize how deep, and dark, and foul is
that pit of abominations. May the blessing of God rest on this imperfect effort in behalf of my
persecuted people!
—Linda Brent
Introduction By The Editor
The author of the following autobiography is personally known to me, and her conversation and
manners inspire me with confidence. During the last seventeen years, she has lived the greater
part of the time with a distinguished family in New York, and has so deported herself as to be
highly esteemed by them. This fact is sufficient, without further credentials of her character. I
believe those who know her will not be disposed to doubt her veracity, though some incidents in
her story are more romantic than fiction.
At her request, I have revised her manuscript; but such changes as I have made have been mainly
for purposes of condensation and orderly arrangement. I have not added any thing to the
incidents, or changed the import of her very pertinent remarks. With trifling exceptions, both the
ideas and the language are her own. I pruned excrescences a little, but otherwise I had no reason
for changing her lively and dramatic way of telling her own story. The names of both persons
and places are known to me; but for good reasons I suppress them.
It will naturally excite surprise that a woman reared in Slavery should be able to write so well.
But circumstances will explain this. In the first place, nature endowed her with quick
perceptions. Secondly, the mistress, with whom she lived till she was twelve years old, was a
kind, considerate friend, who taught her to read and spell. Thirdly, she was placed in favorable
circumstances after she came to the North; having frequent intercourse with intelligent persons,
who felt a friendly interest in her welfare, and were disposed to give her opportunities for selfimprovement.
I am well aware that many will accuse me of indecorum for presenting these pages to the public;
for the experiences of this intelligent and much-injured woman belong to a class which some call
delicate subjects, and others indelicate. This peculiar phase of Slavery has generally been kept
veiled; but the public ought to be made acquainted with its monstrous features, and I willingly
take the responsibility of presenting them with the veil withdrawn. I do this for the sake of my
sisters in bondage, who are suffering wrongs so foul, that our ears are too delicate to listen to
them. I do it with the hope of arousing conscientious and reflecting women at the North to a
sense of their duty in the exertion of moral influence on the question of Slavery, on all possible
occasions. I do it with the hope that every man who reads this narrative will swear solemnly
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before God that, so far as he has power to prevent it, no fugitive from Slavery shall ever be sent
back to suffer in that loathsome den of corruption and cruelty.
— L. Maria Child
I. Childhood
I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My
father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skillful in his trade, that, when buildings
out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head
workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting
himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was
to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose,
he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were
termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I
was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them for
safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who
was two years younger than myself—a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great treasure in my
maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of
a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free, with
money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War;
and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was
the story my grandmother used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a
little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard her
tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much
intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for
their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable
personage in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to seamstress.
She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the
neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous
requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the
household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and
her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she
began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved profitable;
and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund to purchase her children. Her
master died, and the property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the
hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but
her children were divided among her master's children. As she had five, Benjamin, the youngest
one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was
so little difference in our ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a
bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived
from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars were
paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and
she went to work with renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her
children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan,
promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a
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slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave, being property, can hold no
property. When my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her
honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!
To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother Willie and I often
received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to
be children we were indebted to her for many more important services.
Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When I was six years
old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I learned, by the talk around me, that I was a
slave. My mother's mistress was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster
sister of my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my mother
had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress might obtain sufficient food.
They played together as children; and, when they became women, my mother was a most faithful
servant to her whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her word. They all spoke
kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely in name, but in nature was noble and
womanly. I grieved for her, and my young mind was troubled with the thought who would now
take care of me and my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress;
and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed on me. My mistress
was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as
my young years would permit. I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart
as free from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was tired, she would
send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather berries or flowers to decorate her
room. Those were happy days—too happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the
morrow; but there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a
chattel.
When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As I saw the cheek
grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed in my heart that she might live! I
loved her; for she had been almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died,
and they buried her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave.
I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to begin to think of the
future; and again and again I asked myself what they would do with me. I felt sure I should never
find another mistress so kind as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that
her children should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled her
many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes that she had left me free.
My friends were almost certain it would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on
account of my mother's love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a
faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block.
After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we learned that she had
bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of five years old. So vanished our hopes. My
mistress had taught me the precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." But I was her
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slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her neighbor. I would give much to blot out
from my memory that one great wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the
happy days I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of injustice. While I was
with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of
a slave, I bless her memory.
She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed among her relatives.
Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had shared the same milk that nourished her
mother's children. Notwithstanding my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners,
not one of her children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no more, in
the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the horses they tend.
II. The New Master And Mistress
Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now
the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new
home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased
by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a
skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My
brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the
name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call
him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the
strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father
reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first."
"You are my child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if
you have to pass through fire and water."
Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to
cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth.
When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We
were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and
alone.
I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother
sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling
thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me,
Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the
people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had
died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My
heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The
good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they
have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She
promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and
strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my
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father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house
might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them
into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my
owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his
children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine
for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters.
The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There
were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory.
My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded
harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a
very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will
come by and by."
"You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days;
we shall never be free."
I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be
allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William
declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to buy his freedom.
We held daily controversies upon this subject.
Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food
while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various
errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I
was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid
detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted
to her for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was her labor that supplied my scanty
wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs.
Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery.
While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred
dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr.
Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate
was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining
the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed
down in the family, from generation to generation.
My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it
was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint
told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be
sold.
On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would
be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was
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unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose
of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that
he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell
her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know
it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently,
"Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected
her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well
known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took
her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices
called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell you, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no
place for you." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a
feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my
grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my
grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been
defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid;
but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when
the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when
she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom.
At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then;
and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried
to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in
his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and
waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing.
Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to
superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy
chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a
member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian
frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would
station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans
that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out
their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing
to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce,
three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour
barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they
ought to be.
Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for
if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or
compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have
objected to eating it; but she did not object to having her master cram it down her throat till she
choked.
They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian
mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his
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mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had
not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook,
and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's;
but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many
cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing
baby, for a whole day and night.
When I had been in the family a fe