THE
COMPLETE
TALES & POEMS
OF
EDGAR ALLAN POE
THE
COMPLETE
TALES & POEMS
OF
EDGAR ALLAN POE
in
th
th
me
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ISBN-13: 978-1-937994-43-3
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C O NT E NT S
introduction
xi
tales
the unparalleled adventure of one hans pfaall
3
the balloon-hoax
34
mesmeric revelation
43
ms. found in a bottle
51
a descent into the maelström
59
von kempelen and his discovery
71
the gold-bug
76
the facts in the case of m. valdemar
102
the thousand-and-second tale of scheherazade
109
the murders in the rue morgue
119
the mystery of marie rogêt
143
the fall of the house of usher
176
the purloined letter
190
the tell-tale heart
203
the black cat
207
the imp of the perverse
214
the premature burial
219
the island of the fay
229
the cask of amontillado
233
the pit and the pendulum
238
the oval portrait
249
the masque of the red death
252
the assignation
257
the system of doctor tarr and professor fether
266
mystification
279
how to write a blackwood article
285
a predicament
293
the literary life of thingum bob, esq.
300
diddling
314
x-ing a paragrab
322
the angel of the odd
327
loss of breath
334
the business man
343
mellonta tauta
350
the man that was used up
360
maelzel’s chess-player
367
the power of words
383
the conversation of eiros and charmion
386
the colloquy of monos and una
391
silence—a fable
397
shadow—a parable
400
a tale of jerusalem
402
philosophy of furniture
405
the sphinx
410
the man of the crowd
414
“thou art the man”
421
hop-frog
432
never bet the devil your head
439
four beasts in one
446
why the little frenchman wears his hand in a sling
452
some words with a mummy
456
bon-bon
468
magazine-writing—peter snook
480
review of stephens’ “arabia petrÆa”
489
the quacks of helicon—a satire
502
astoria
509
the domain of arnheim
528
landor’s cottage
539
william wilson
548
ligeia
562
berenice
573
morella
579
eleonora
583
metzengerstein
588
a tale of the ragged mountains
594
the oblong box
602
the duc de l’omelette
610
the spectacles
613
king pest
630
three sundays in a week
639
the devil in the belfry
644
lionizing
650
the narrative of a. gordon pym
655
poems
preface to the poems
775
miscellaneous poems
the raven
lenore
a valentine
hymn
the coliseum
to — —
ulalume
to helen
an enigma
annabel lee
to one in paradise
the bells
to my mother
the haunted palace
the conqueror worm
to f—s s. o—d
the valley of unrest
the city in the sea
the sleeper
a dream within a dream
silence
dream-land
777
777
780
781
781
782
783
784
786
788
789
790
791
794
794
795
797
797
798
799
801
801
802
eulalie
to zante
bridal ballad
to f—
eldorado
israfel
to —
for annie
scenes from “politian”
803
804
804
805
806
806
808
808
811
poems written in youth
sonnet—to science
al aaraaf
to the river —
tamerlane
to —
a dream
the lake—to——
song
to m. l. s——
spirits of the dead
to helen
dreams
evening star
alone
a pÆan
fairy-land
romance
“stanzas”
827
827
827
838
839
845
846
846
847
848
848
849
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
index of first lines
857
reviews and notices
858
the life and times of edgar allan poe
861
suggested reading and sources
864
I NT R O D UC T I O N
In May of 1829, at the age of twenty, Edgar Allan Poe sent the manuscript of a lengthy
poem to a Philadelphia publisher, along with a heartfelt letter. “If the poem is published,” he wrote, “succeed or not, I am ‘irrecoverably a poet.’” It was a telling phrase,
signaling not only the degree of his commitment to his art but also the many difficulties
he had already faced in his life.
Edgar Allan Poe was perhaps the most original and influential American writer of
his era, producing a stunning array of poems, short stories, and literary criticism, and
lighting the way for generations of writers to come. The French poet Charles Baudelaire was an early and enthusiastic admirer, producing lyrical translations of Poe’s work
that would exert a profound influence on French literature. “Poe,” he declared, “took
flight in dreams.” German-language authors Nietzsche, Rilke, and Kafka all found their
way to Poe in their turn, praising his skill and variety. “Imagination only served him
as a crutch,” wrote Kafka. “Imagination has fewer pitfalls than reality has.” In Britain,
Oscar Wilde admired Poe as a “marvelous lord of rhythmic expression” while Swinburne wrote of his “strong and delicate genius, so sure of aim and faultless of touch.”
Arthur Conan Doyle, whose legendary detective Sherlock Holmes owed much to Poe’s
mystery tales, praised him as “the master of all.” Poe, he insisted, was “the supreme
original short story writer of all time. His brain was like a seed-pod full of seeds which
flew carelessly around, and from which have sprung nearly all our modern types of
story. Just think of what he did in his offhand, prodigal fashion, seldom troubling to
repeat a success, but pushing on to some new achievement.”
Poe’s achievements are all the more admirable when weighed against the grim
realities of his life, which seemed at times to be as strange and fevered as one of his own
tales of the imagination. David Poe, Edgar’s father, had been destined for a career in law
when he spied a young actress named Eliza Arnold Hopkins across the footlights of a
theater in Norfolk, Virginia. Instantly smitten, he abandoned his legal studies and gave
himself over to life on the stage. In time, he managed to join Eliza’s theatrical troupe,
where he wooed and won the recently widowed actress.
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Eliza was only nineteen at the time. Two years later, on January 19, 1809, Edgar, the
second of their three children, was born in a boarding house near the Boston Common.
By this time a heavy strain was evident in the Poes’ marriage. David Poe was given to
bouts of hard drinking, and as his behavior grew more and more erratic, the burden of
providing for the family fell on Eliza. She was obliged to continue performing until the
week of Edgar’s birth, and to resume some two weeks later.
David Poe abandoned his wife and children in July of 1811, and is said to have died,
alone and destitute, five months later. By this time the unhappy circumstances had also
taken a toll on Eliza. For a brief time she struggled alone in failing health, only to die of
tuberculosis in Richmond, Virginia, on December 8, 1811, with her children at her side.
Edgar was not quite three.
Homes were found for Edgar’s siblings, and Edgar himself was taken into the charge
of a prosperous Richmond merchant named John Allan, whose wife, Frances, had been
unable to have children of her own. John Allan, a hot-tempered and imperious Scottish
immigrant, would become the closest thing to a father that Poe would ever know. The
Allans lavished attention on their new charge, and resolved to provide him with a firstrate education befitting a young gentleman. From the first, however, John Allan’s
benevolence was conditional. “I know that often when angry with Edgar he threatened
to turn him adrift,” a friend said of Allan, “and that he never allowed him to lose sight
of his dependence on his charity.” Although Allan added the family name to Edgar’s as
a kind of honorific, he never formally adopted the boy.
The newly christened Edgar Allan Poe proved to be a charming and precocious child,
with many of his late mother’s theatrical tendencies. Dinner guests were occasionally
treated to the spectacle of the boy standing on the dining-room table in a velvet suit and
stockinged feet, declaiming passages of poetry. By the age of eleven the boy was studying
Horace in Latin and Homer in Greek. Already the seeds of his future career were taking
hold; he filled his notebooks with poems, and was said to be “fully imbued in his early
youth with an idea that he would one day become a great writer.”
As Poe’s seventeenth birthday approached, Allan enrolled him at the University of
Virginia, which had recently opened its doors in Charlottesville, sixty miles away.
Popular legend holds that Poe was a wild and dissolute rebel among sober young academicians. In fact, on arrival in Charlottesville in February of 1826, he excelled,
receiving the highest honors in both ancient and modern languages. From the first,
however, Poe struggled with a chronic shortage of money, and his letters home to
Richmond were filled with increasingly desperate requests for books, soap, clothing,
and other basics. By accident or design, John Allan had sent Poe off to the university
with insufficient funds, a situation that would soon prove ruinous. Within weeks, Poe
found himself unable to pay his room and board. He turned to gambling to make up
the shortfall, only to sink further into debt. As his losses mounted, he sought consolation in alcohol. “Poe’s passion for strong drink was as marked and as peculiar as that
for cards,” a friend recalled. “It was not the taste of the beverage that influenced him;
INTRODUCTION
xiii
without a sip or smack of the mouth he would seize a full glass, without water or
sugar, and send it home with a single gulp.”
Not surprisingly, Poe found that alcohol and cards were a poor mix. He soon racked
up staggering losses, estimated in some accounts to have exceeded $2,000—more than
five times his yearly expenses. In December, after only ten months of college life, John
Allan descended on Charlottesville and withdrew his foster son from the university, all
but dragging him back to Richmond by the ear.
Back in Richmond, Poe’s unhappy circumstances were compounded by the ruin of
his courtship of Elmira Royster, a beautiful young woman to whom he had been
secretly engaged. Poe had written to her often from Charlottesville, but she had failed
to answer. It would be many years before he discovered the reason: Elmira’s father had
intercepted the letters to derail the courtship. One account holds that Poe attended
a party at her home in hopes of a reunion, only to discover that the gathering was a
celebration of her engagement to another man. While this incident may be apocryphal, Elmira would be married within two years, an occasion that inspired Poe to write
the poem “Song”—better known as “I saw thee on thy bridal day”—in which he
spoke of a “burning blush” of “maiden shame,” suggesting that the bride’s feelings for
him had never faded.
Soon, Poe’s festering resentments boiled over into an open confrontation with his
foster father. After a particularly bitter argument, Allan threw Poe out of the house. At
length, finding himself at loose ends, Poe enlisted for a five-year stint in the United States
Army, listing his name as “Edgar A. Perry” and giving his age as twenty-two. In fact, he
was only eighteen.
“Private Perry” would spend six months with Battery H of the First Artillery, stationed at Fort Independence in Boston Harbor. He adapted quickly to the harsh regimen
of army life, serving various functions as a company clerk, commissary worker, and messenger. It is unlikely that there were many other recruits in Battery H who were able to
translate Cicero and Homer, and fewer still who had published a collection of verse. In
the summer of 1827, just two months after Poe joined the army, a forty-page pamphlet
entitled “Tamerlane and Other Poems” appeared in Boston. Poe had arranged for the
publication before his enlistment, somehow paying for the private printing with funds
cobbled together from various odd jobs. Still incognito, Poe presented the volume as the
anonymous work of “a Bostonian.” It drew heavily on his thwarted romance with
Elmira Royster, with many of the poems addressing the follies of youth and lost love.
Poe’s limited resources had restricted the printing to a meager fifty copies—too few to
attract serious attention from critics or readers. Today, it is one of the rarest and most
collectible items in all of American literature. On publication, the collection drew
almost no notice at all.
Another collection, entitled Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems, appeared at the end
of 1829, in an edition of only 250 copies. The twenty-year-old poet set aside the anonymous “Bostonian” pseudonym of his earlier effort and published the work as Edgar A. Poe.
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INTRODUCTION
This was the name he would use for the rest of his life, neither abandoning nor fully
acknowledging his uncertain claim on the name of Allan.
By this time Poe had hatched a plan to withdraw from the army and advance
through the ranks by securing a place at the United States Military Academy. He
arrived at West Point in June of 1830. After the comparatively light duties of his army
service, Poe struggled under the difficult regimen of West Point. A fellow cadet
named Timothy Jones would recall that Poe seemed “given to extreme dissipation”
shortly after arrival. “At first he studied hard and his ambition seemed to be to lead
the class in all studies,” Jones noted, but after a few weeks “he seemed to lose interest
in his studies and to be disheartened and discouraged.” Poe sought refuge in a nearby
tavern, whose proprietor he would recall as the “sole congenial soul in the entire
God-forsaken place.” Worse yet, Poe’s fragile relationship with his foster father had
unraveled, with old grievances boiling to the surface. When news came from Richmond that John Allan had remarried, Poe found himself unwelcome in his foster
father’s home.
Poe now hoped to withdraw from West Point but he required John Allan’s consent
to do so honorably. When Allan declined to cooperate, Poe resolved to have himself
dismissed from the academy by abandoning his duties. On January 28, 1831, Poe was
brought up on charges of neglect and disobedience. He offered no defense, thereby
assuring his discharge. “I have been dismissed,” he wrote to Allan, “when a single line
from you would have saved it.”
John Allan’s death in March of 1834 brought this stormy chapter of Poe’s life to a
close. Any hopes Poe might have had for a reconciliation, or even a token bequest in
deference to the wishes of Frances Allan, were dashed. Poe received nothing in his foster
father’s will: Allan had made good on his oft-stated threat to cast Poe out “without a
shilling.” In one of his last letters to Allan, Poe wrote, “When I think of the long
twenty-one years that I have called you father, and you have called me son, I cry like a
child to think that it should all end in this.”
The sentiment was reflected in a third collection of work, entitled simply Poems,
which had appeared in May of 1831. The volume reflected Poe’s growing maturity,
forged in the crucible of desperate circumstances. With chilling clarity, the twentytwo-year-old poet announced the themes that would dominate his life and career:
And so, being young and dipt in folly
I fell in love with melancholy,
And used to throw my earthly rest
And quiet all away in jest—
I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath—
Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny
Were stalking between her and me.
INTRODUCTION
xv
Though barely out of his teens, Poe had managed to give voice to a sense of loss and
wretchedness that would echo in nearly every poem and story he would ever write,
together with a vision of the world in which beauty and death would always shadow one
another. It was a theme that Poe would find in every corner of his life. For all of its
considerable accomplishment, however, Poe’s third collection of poems failed to “cut
out a path to reputation,” as he had hoped. At loose ends, Poe washed up in Baltimore
and sought out his aunt, Maria Clemm, one of the few remaining links to the family of
David Poe, his father. Though Maria’s husband, William Clemm, had been prominent in
Baltimore society, his death five years earlier had left the family in financial straits.
Maria had been reduced to taking in sewing and boarders to augment a modest pension
drawn by her elderly mother, Elizabeth Poe, Edgar’s grandmother.
Aunt Maria, known to the family as “Muddy,” was a sturdy and sweet-natured
woman who bore her hardships with “martyr-like fortitude,” according to Poe. In addition to her bedridden mother, she cared for her two children—thirteen-year-old Henry
and nine-year-old Virginia—as well as a steady stream of more peripheral relations who
were down on their luck. Even so, Aunt Maria welcomed Edgar with open arms. Coming
to the household after the unhappiness of Richmond, Poe formed an intense attachment to his aunt and would later write of her as “dearer than the mother I knew.”
Eager to provide for his new family, Poe tried his hand at short stories. A friend would
describe him as “constantly occupied by his literary labors,” inspired at least in part by a
prize of one hundred dollars on offer in a Philadelphia newspaper contest. Though he
failed to win, Poe’s work impressed the editors greatly. Five of his stories would appear in
the newspaper in 1832, including “Metzengerstein,” which tells of a noble orphan who
exacts a supernatural vengeance on those who have wronged him.
Though he had turned to short stories of necessity, it was a form in which Poe would
show uncommon ability. A later essay—a review of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice-Told
Tales—showed that he had given a great deal of thought to the “short prose narrative.”
Poe believed that the success of a shorter tale depended on brevity—“requiring from a
half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal”—to permit the necessary “unity of effect
or impression,” and he laid down a famous dictum that would inspire generations to
come: “In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design.”
While Poe bent to his labors, Maria Clemm took it upon herself to act as an intermediary between her nephew and local publishers. Poe literally could not afford to be
discouraged. The following year, when Baltimore’s Sunday Visitor offered a fifty-dollar
award for the best prose tale submitted, he fired off six submissions, claiming the prize
with the now-famous “MS. Found in a Bottle,” the haunting story of a ghostly ship and
its spectral crew who find themselves at the brink of a terrifying abyss.
In the early months of 1835, a friend recommended Poe as “very clever with his pen”
to Thomas Willis White, the publisher of a Richmond literary journal called the Southern
Literary Messenger. Poe was hired as assistant editor and returned to Richmond, intending
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INTRODUCTION
to help the magazine make good on its stated intention “to stimulate the pride and
genius of the South.” Poe soon made his mark, impressing Thomas White with his talent
and editorial ability. Over the course of his tenure Poe would oversee every aspect of
production—dealing with printers; editing copy; soliciting submissions; and writing
reviews, poetry, and editorial filler. In addition to his many other duties, Poe soon established a formidable reputation as a literary critic, writing nearly one hundred critical
pieces over the course of some ten months. One especially notable review lambasted a
popular novel as “the most inestimable piece of balderdash with which the common
sense of the good people of America was ever so openly or so villainously insulted.” The
sheer savagery of Poe’s reviews earned him many enemies among the literary establishment, and he was soon made to suffer for his impudence.
Busy as he was, Poe felt an overpowering sense of loneliness at his separation from his
Aunt Maria, whom he hoped would join him in Richmond, as well as his cousin Virginia, whom he now intended to make his “darling little wifey.” It is difficult to track the
stages by which Poe developed romantic feelings for his young cousin, who was barely
nine years old when he began living under Aunt Maria’s roof. Although it was fairly
common for close cousins to wed, Virginia had only recently turned thirteen when Poe
began at the Messenger, and her extreme youth placed the idea of marriage outside the
conventions of the time. When Aunt Maria hesitated over relocating to Virginia, Poe
wrote an anguished and likely drunken letter to his aunt, begging her to reconsider.
“Oh, Aunty, Aunty you loved me once,” he wrote, “how can you be so cruel now?” He
finished the letter with a direct appeal to Virginia: “My love, my own sweetest Sissy . . .
think well before you break the heart of your cousin.”
In time, Poe managed to persuade Virginia and Maria to join him in Richmond.
In May of 1836, Poe and Virginia Clemm were married in a small ceremony held at
their boarding house. A witness would attest that the bride was twenty-one years of
age, though in fact she was not yet fourteen. By all accounts, Virginia had a cherubic
face, dark brown hair, and captivating violet eyes. Friends often spoke of her gentle
manner and uncanny ability to bring out her moody groom’s better nature. In
her presence, an admirer declared, “the character of Edgar Allan Poe appeared in its
most beautiful light.” A friend recalled that Poe “devoted a large part of his salary to
Virginia’s education, and she was instructed in every elegant accomplishment at his
expense.” On the rare occasions when finances allowed, Poe would provide her with a
piano and a harp.
Whatever Virginia’s talents as a student and a musician, Poe was reported to have
felt considerable discomfort over her youth. One frequent visitor of the time recorded
that “although he loved her with an undivided heart he could not think of her [at first]
as his wife, as any other than his sister, and indeed he did not for two years assume the
position of husband, still occupying his own chamber by himself.” It has been suggested
that this arrangement persisted until the bride reached the age of sixteen. In any event,
Poe declared himself to be content and confident of a bright future: “My health is better
INTRODUCTION
xvii
than for years past, my mind is fully occupied, my pecuniary difficulties have vanished,
I have a fair prospect of future success—in a word, all is right.”
It would not remain so for long. Despite his happiness at home, Poe developed feelings of resentment toward the Messenger and its editor, Thomas White. Though Poe’s
efforts had helped to increase the magazine’s readership sevenfold, and brought a
profit in excess of ten thousand dollars, Poe continued to be paid what he considered
a “contemptible” wage. Poe would later complain that “my best energies were wasted
in the service of an illiterate and vulgar, although well-meaning man, who had neither the capacity to appreciate my labors, nor the will to reward them.” Despondent,
Poe indulged in bouts of heavy drinking, much to the disgust of White, who had
founded his magazine on principles of moral rectitude and the “chaste empress” of
temperance. “Mr. Poe was a fine gentleman when he was sober,” observed a clerk at
the Messenger. “But when he was drinking he was about one of the most disagreeable
men I have ever met.” In January of 1837, Poe and the Southern Literary Messenger parted
ways, with White declaring that “I am as sick of his writings as I am of him.”
Whatever the justice of Poe’s grievances, his failure at the Messenger was largely his
own doing, establishing a pattern that he would repeat again and again throughout
his career. As his literary talent flowered so too did his genius for self-destruction, with
the result that nearly every triumph was immediately nullified by an alcoholic binge or
other reckless behavior. Years later, in a story called “The Imp of the Perverse,” Poe
commented at length on this seemingly preordained impulse toward self-immolation.
“With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible,” he
would write. “I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong
or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us.”
For the moment, Poe was determined to make a fresh start. With nothing to hold
him in Richmond, he gathered up his household and moved to New York in February
of 1837. He arrived at the outset of a nationwide banking panic, however, and opportunities for work—literary and otherwise—were in short supply. He spent much of his
time toiling away at a novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, presented as a first-person
account of a perilous sea voyage to the South Pole. Throughout the novel Poe took
delight in blurring the line between fact and fiction, even withholding his own name
from the title page. Instead the book was presented as the work of “A. G. Pym,” whose
preface identified “Mr. Poe” as one of a group of gentlemen from Virginia who had
expressed interest in the tale. Poe bolstered the conceit with mock diary extracts, logbook entries, and even hieroglyphic inscriptions. At a time when little was known
about the Antarctic, some editors and readers accepted the fanciful narrative as fact. In
a few places, extracts from the novel would be reprinted as breaking news, as if Pym
were a genuine pioneer sending back dispatches from a distant realm.
The firm of Harper & Brothers agreed to publish the novel in July of 1837, but reviews
were mixed, in part because the literary elite of New York and Boston had not forgotten Poe’s
critical thunderbolts from Richmond. In the wake of the book’s modest sales, Poe sank even
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INTRODUCTION
deeper into what he called “a state of pecuniary embarrassment.” After only a few months
in New York, Poe resolved to try his luck elsewhere. In the early months of 1839, he abandoned New York for Philadelphia, where he found a position as assistant editor to William
Burton, the publisher of Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine. The title was impressive, but the salary
was not. Claiming that his expenses were “woefully heavy,” Burton started Poe off at ten dollars a week, promising a raise if the arrangement bore fruit. Poe was in no position to bargain.
Initially the duties were much the same as they had been at the Messenger. Poe contributed various filler pieces while performing basic proofreading and other technical chores.
He also resumed the savage criticism of his Messenger days, and weighed in on topics ranging from mundane housekeeping tips to help with romantic quandaries. When he was not
dispensing advice to the lovelorn, Poe returned his attention to his own work and began to
turn out a new series of short stories. “The Fall of the House of Usher,” published in the
September 1839 issue of Burton’s, was especially notable. Poe seized on the conventions of
Gothic horror and spun them into an expression of psychological torment. In the process
he found the notes that would form a major chord of his career. In this story, the decay
and ultimate destruction of an isolated mansion both mirrors and obscures the anguish of
its strange inhabitant, Roderick Usher, who suffers from “a morbid acuteness of the
senses.” The story drew wide praise when it appeared, and brought Poe some welcome
notice as a writer of serious fiction.
In October of 1840 William Burton sold his magazine to a Philadelphia lawyer named
George Graham, who intended to re-launch the publication as Graham’s Lady’s and Gentleman’s Magazine. Poe signed on as an editor, receiving a salary of eight hundred dollars a
year—a healthy increase over his earnings at Burton’s. Better still, it was agreed that each
issue would feature an original Poe story, for which he would receive a contributor’s
payment on top of his salary.
On this encouraging note, Poe threw himself into his work and seems to have cultivated a genuine affection for his genial and outgoing employer. Poe admired Graham’s
willingness to spend money to make a success of the magazine, commissioning original
illustrations and shunning reprinted articles and stories in favor of fresh material. Under
Graham’s stewardship Poe’s experience and innovation came into full flower, helping to
transform the magazine into an immediate success. Over the first year, the circulation
took an astonishing leap from five thousand to forty thousand subscribers.
Under these happier conditions, Poe produced several of his most exceptional short
stories. In “The Man of the Crowd,” Poe explored the workings of the criminal mind, a
theme he expanded upon in the innovative “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” a story Poe
described almost offhandedly as “something in a new key.” The story introduced Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin and tracked his efforts to unravel a murderous outrage involving
two women found “fearfully mutilated”—one with her throat cut and the other stuffed
feet-first up a chimney. The story drew a great deal of favorable notice on publication in
the April 1841 issue of Graham’s, and today it is widely regarded as a literary milestone: the
first modern detective story.
INTRODUCTION
xix
As 1841 drew to a close, Poe had cause for satisfaction. He had moved with his wife
and mother-in-law to a small townhouse on Coates Street at the northern edges of
Philadelphia, furnished with a small piano, a harp, and a pair of songbirds in a gilded
cage. On January 20, 1842—the day after Poe’s thirty-third birthday—a small group of
friends gathered in the parlor to hear Virginia sing and play upon the harp. “There was
something peculiarly angelic and ethereal about this sight of Virginia playing the harp
in the parlor by her own fireside, that almost transported Poe,” wrote an early admirer
of the writer. “Dressed in white, singing in the glow of the lamplight, she became the
personification of the Victorian heroine. The notes mounted higher, very true and
clear—suddenly she stopped, clutched her throat, and a wave of crimson rushed down
over her breast.”
Ashen-faced, Poe carried his wife upstairs and laid her on the bed, and then ran for a
doctor. He must have known, even before the doctor’s grim confirmation, that his wife’s
hemorrhage signaled the onset of what was often described as “death-in-life,” or tuberculosis. Virginia spent two weeks in precarious health, scarcely able to breathe except
when fanned with fresh air. Poe remained at her side, brooding over the hand-to-mouth
existence that had left his wife weakened and vulnerable.
Soon enough, Virginia’s illness threw its shadow across Poe’s work. In “The Masque
of the Red Death,” Poe dwelled on themes of plague and contagion—along with the
“horror of blood”—and concluded with a grisly affirmation of death’s “illimitable
dominion over all.” In “Eleonora,” he meditated on the grim new circumstances of
his life. The story featured a young man living an idyllic life with his young cousin,
Eleonora—and her mother—in a paradise known as “the Valley of Many-Colored
Grass.” All too soon, however, Eleonora tearfully exclaims that “she had seen that the
finger of Death was upon her bosom—that, like the ephemeron, she had been made
perfect in loveliness only to die.”
For a time Poe threw himself into his work, contributing reviews, poems, and stories
to Graham’s Magazine, and finding advantage in his growing reputation. Soon enough,
however, he fell back into the same resentful frame of mind that had led to his difficulties at the Southern Literary Messenger. To an extent, Poe had cause for indignation. The
magazine’s extraordinary success was reaping a fortune for George Graham, but Poe’s
earnings remained fixed at their original level, which he now considered meager to the
point of insult. Soon, he would sever his relationship with Graham altogether, citing
disgust with the “namby-pamby” character of the magazine and the “insulting” salary.
With Virginia’s illness adding to his burdens, one can only wonder why Poe took
such an ill-advised step. Over the course of fourteen months at Graham’s, Poe had
earned roughly one thousand dollars in salary and contributor’s fees. His literary
income during the next three years would amount to only 121 dollars. Worse yet,
having abstained from alcohol for much of his tenure at Graham’s, he returned to the
bottle and suffered devastating consequences. The French poet Charles Baudelaire,
himself no stranger to stimulants, would note that Poe “did not drink like an ordinary
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INTRODUCTION
toper, but like a savage, with an altogether American energy and fear of wasting a
minute, as though he was accomplishing an act of murder, as though there was something inside him that he had to kill.”
Poe’s reasons for drinking were plain enough—Virginia’s illness, his return to poverty,
his literary disappointments—but his recourse to alcohol served in turn to make each of
these problems significantly worse. Once again Poe considered abandoning his writing, or
at least supplementing it with some presumably less taxing form of employment, even
pursuing the possibility of a government sinecure with the Philadelphia Customs House.
When these efforts failed, Poe sought new publishers for some of his magazine stories.
Within days of his departure from Graham’s, Poe set to work on a new mystery tale featuring
his detective C. Auguste Dupin. The effort was inspired by the true story of a young shopgirl named Mary Cecilia Rogers, whose gruesome murder had shocked New Yorkers the
previous year. Through the lens of fiction, Poe intended to study the facts of the case,
expose the weaknesses and false assumptions of the official inquiry, and offer his own
conclusions as to what had occurred. The resulting tale, “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,”
once again demonstrated Poe’s uncanny knack for drawing inspiration from the death of
a beautiful young woman. In time, the story would be followed by “The Purloined Letter,”
marking the third appearance of Dupin, which Poe considered to be “perhaps the best of
my tales of ratiocination.” Taken together, these stories anticipated virtually every convention of what would become the modern mystery story—the brooding, eccentric sleuth;
the comparatively dense sidekick; the wrongfully accused suspect; the unlikely villain; the
false clue; and the impossible, locked-room crime. Poe’s future reputation as “the father of
the modern detective story” was assured.
In the wake of his departure from Graham’s, however, Poe sank to new depths of poverty.
An acquaintance who met him during this period described how Poe begged him for fifty
cents so that he might get a meal: “Though he looked the used-up man all over—still he
showed the gentleman. I gave him the money—and I never saw him afterwards.”
In more lucid moments, Poe set his sights on a new arena, launching a career as a
lecturer in November of 1843 with a speech on poetry at the William Wirt Literary Institute in Philadelphia. The timing was auspicious. A few months earlier, in June, Poe had
published “The Gold-Bug,” a story in which the unusual markings of a dung beetle hold
the key to a pirate treasure. The story would become the most popular of the stories Poe
published in his lifetime, and its success helped to attract notice to the first of his Philadelphia lectures, with the result that hundreds of people were turned away at the door.
The evening brought Poe a payment of nearly one hundred dollars, and led to repeat
performances in Wilmington and New York.
By the following year, however, as these successes faded, Poe decided that Philadelphia held no more promise for him. In April of 1844, with barely five dollars to his name,
he returned to New York and soon took a position at the Evening Mirror as an assistant
editor and “mechanical paragraphist,” or writer of anonymous filler material. This was
quite a step down from his work at Graham’s and Burton’s, and a far cry from his long-held
INTRODUCTION
xxi
dream of editing his own journal. Even so, Poe felt grateful to be earning fifteen dollars
a week. With fresh optimism, he set his sights on a new anthology of his work.
He would not have long to wait. In January of 1845, Poe happened to run across a
friend, the poet William Ross Wallace, on the street. Poe had been in the habit of reading
his “not yet published poetical work” to Wallace, and on that particular day he seemed
more than usually eager to share his latest creation.
“Wallace,” he said, “I have just written the greatest poem that ever was written.”
“Have you?” said Wallace. “That is a fine achievement.”
“Would you like to hear it?” asked Poe.
“Most certainly,” Wallace answered.
Poe then read out the verses in “an impressive and captivating way,” and when he
finished, he turned to hear Wallace’s opinion. “Poe,” said his friend, “they are fine;
uncommonly fine.”
“Fine?” snapped Poe. “Is that all you can say for this poem? I tell you it’s the greatest
poem that was ever written.”
Wallace’s response is not recorded, but other critics of the new poem—“The
Raven”—would respond in terms that were nearly as rhapsodic as Poe’s. The poem
appeared on January 29, 1845, in the Evening Mirror, where Poe was doing his humble
service as a mechanical paragraphist. An instant sensation, “The Raven” soon became
the most popular American poem yet published. It went through dozens of reprints
over the course of the year, culminating in The Raven and Other Poems, a collection of Poe’s
verse published in November by Wiley & Putnam.
By the close of 1845, however, Poe’s moment in the sun was already fading. Despite
the endless reprints of “The Raven,” the poem earned him only nine dollars. Frustrated, he descended into the cycle of alcohol and argument that had soured his earlier
chances. Rumors circulated that he had gone insane and been confined to an asylum.
At one stage he came to blows with a former friend named Thomas Dunn English. “Poe
was drunk and getting the worst of it,” wrote a witness, “and was finally forced partly
under the sofa, only his face being out. English was punching Poe’s face, and at every
blow a seal ring on his finger cut Poe.” Even then, Poe managed to put up a brave front.
When friends moved forward to intervene, he shouted: “Leave him alone, I’ve got him
just where I want him!”
During the cold winter months of 1846, Virginia Poe’s health took another turn for
the worse. In the absence of warm blankets, she lay shivering in the thick overcoat her
husband had worn in the army. In her final hours, she pleaded with her mother to take
care of Poe when she was gone. She died—“suffering much pain”—on January 30, 1847,
at the age of twenty-four.
For Poe, the loss was incalculable. “I became insane,” he would write. “I drank—
God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred
the insanity to the drink, rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the death of my wife. This
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INTRODUCTION
I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was the horrible, never-ending oscillation
between hope and despair which I could not longer have endured, without total loss of
reason. In the death of what was my life, then, I received a new but—Oh God!—how
melancholy existence.”
This new existence offered few advances over the old one. Poe’s habits remained dissolute, and his fortunes gave no sign of improvement. In his loneliness he sought
renewed companionship through a series of earnest, even frantic, courtships, with predictably unhappy results. In time his love life grew so chaotic that upon the publication
of “Annabel Lee,” one of his greatest poems of love and loss, no fewer than four of the
women in his life were identified as possible sources of inspiration.
In July of 1849, Poe traveled to Richmond to deliver a lecture. To his delight, he was
greeted warmly as a returning native son and his lecture drew a rapturous crowd. “I never
was received with so much enthusiasm,” he told his aunt. “The papers have done nothing but praise me before the lecture & since.” Many of the friends of his youth turned
out to see him, and it pleased him to be reminded of happier times. Soon enough, Poe
renewed his acquaintance with Elmira Royster, now Mrs. Alexander Shelton, to whom
he had been secretly engaged years earlier. Now a wealthy widow with two children,
Mrs. Shelton had never entirely forgotten the romance of her youth, and had followed
Poe’s career with fond longing. In his marriageable frame of mind, Poe’s youthful passion
was soon rekindled. Within days he proposed that they renew their decades-old engagement. Mrs. Shelton hesitated, knowing something of Poe’s history and his weakness
for drink. Her uncertainty had the effect of increasing Poe’s ardor; he promised to
reform, and even joined the Richmond chapter of the Sons of Temperance. Apparently
Mrs. Shelton gave Poe reason to hope that she would soon consent. In September, he
made plans to return to New York and settle his affairs, so as to return to Richmond
permanently—with his Aunt Maria in tow. “I hope,” he wrote to Mrs. Clemm on the
eve of his departure, “that our troubles are nearly over.”
On September 27, stopping in Baltimore on his way back to New York, Poe ran into
some old friends who suggested that they celebrate their reunion with a glass of whiskey.
Poe, who had been sober for three months, seems to have offered no resistance. What
followed has long been a blank page in Poe’s timeline, though it has invited a great deal
of earnest speculation. Six days later, on October 3, Poe was found collapsed in a gutter
outside an Irish tavern. A local election was under way, and the tavern was serving as a
polling place, leading to speculation that Poe had been encouraged to cast a ballot in
exchange for a drink. The fact that he was wearing clothes that were evidently not his
own suggests that he may have done it more than once, having changed his appearance
to avoid recognition at the polls.
A short time later, Dr. Joseph Snodgrass, an old Baltimore friend, received an urgent
note to the effect that Poe was “rather worse for wear” and “in need of immediate assistance.” Hurrying to the tavern, Snodgrass found Poe in a ragged and desperate state,
muttering incoherently. Snodgrass called for a carriage to take him to a hospital. When
INTRODUCTION
xxiii
the carriage arrived, Snodgrass recalled, “we tried to get the object of our care upon his
feet, so that he might the more easily be taken to it. But he was past locomotion.”
At the nearby Washington College Hospital, resident physician John Moran locked
Poe up in the drunk ward. For several hours Poe appeared to be unaware of his condition or his surroundings. Soon he lapsed into a hallucinatory state. Moran recorded
that Poe began a “vacant converse with spectral and imaginary objects on the walls. His
face was pale and his whole person was drenched in perspiration.”
After two days the hallucinations dissipated, but Poe remained confused and agitated.
When Moran tried to calm him, Poe insisted that the best thing to do “would be to blow
out his brains with a pistol.” By the end of the day, Moran noted, Poe had entered “a
violent delirium, resisting the efforts of two nurses to keep him in bed.”
In the early hours of the following morning, Moran reported, “a very decided
change began to affect him. Having become enfeebled from exertion, he became quiet
and seemed to rest for a short time, then gently moving his head he said, ‘Lord help my
poor Soul,’ and expired.” The doctor recorded the time as 5:00 a.m. on October 7, 1849.
Poe was forty years old.
Not surprisingly, the most fitting of Poe’s many epitaphs was one he wrote himself.
Four years earlier, as the fame of “The Raven” began to slip away, he offered a mournful
yet clear-eyed assessment of his own life and career: “I have perseveringly struggled,
against a thousand difficulties, and have succeeded, although not in making money, still
in attaining a position in the world of Letters.”
He added: “I have no reason to be ashamed.”
Daniel Stashower is the author of The Beautiful Cigar Girl: Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe, and
the Invention of Murder.
TALES
T H E U N P AR A L L E L E D A D V E NT UR E
O NE H A NS P F A A L L
OF
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.
—Tom O’Bedlam’s Song
By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical
excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a nature so completely unexpected—so entirely novel—so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions—as to
leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in a
ferment, all reason and astronomy together by the ears.
It appears that on the —— day of ——, (I am not positive about the date,) a vast
crowd of people, for purposes not specifically mentioned, were assembled in the great
square of the Exchange in the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was warm—
unusually so for the season—there was hardly a breath of air stirring; and the multitude
were in no bad humor at being now and then besprinkled with friendly showers of
momentary duration, that fell from large white masses of cloud profusely distributed
about the blue vault of the firmament. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation became apparent in the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues
succeeded; and, in an instant afterward, ten thousand faces were upturned toward the
heavens, ten thousand pipes descended simultaneously from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which could be compared to nothing but the roaring of
Niagara, resounded long, loudly, and furiously, through all the city and through all the
environs of Rotterdam.
The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From behind the huge
bulk of one of those sharply defined masses of cloud already mentioned, was seen slowly
to emerge into an open area of blue space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid
3
4
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsically put together, as not to be in any manner
comprehended, and never to be sufficiently admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who
stood open-mouthed below. What could it be? In the name of all the devils in Rotterdam,
what could it possibly portend? No one knew; no one could imagine; no one—not
even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk—had the slightest clew by
which to unravel the mystery; so, as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one
to a man replaced his pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth, and maintaining an
eye steadily upon the phenomenon, puffed, paused, waddled about, and grunted
significantly—then waddled back, grunted, paused, and finally—puffed again.
In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward the goodly city, came the
object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much smoke. In a very few minutes it
arrived near enough to be accurately discerned. It appeared to be—yes! it was undoubtedly a species of balloon; but surely no such balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam
before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon manufactured entirely of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland certainly; yet here, under the very noses of the people, or
rather at some distance above their noses was the identical thing in question, and composed, I have it on best authority, of the precise material which no one had ever before
known to be used for a similar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the good sense of
the burghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the phenomenon, it was even still more
reprehensible. Being little or nothing better than a huge fool’s-cap turned upside down.
And this similitude was regarded as by no means lessened when, upon nearer inspection,
the crowd saw a large tassel depending from its apex, and, around the upper rim or base
of the cone, a circle of little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a continual tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse.—Suspended by blue ribbons
to the end of this fantastic machine, there hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver
hat, with a brim superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a
silver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable that many citizens of Rotterdam
swore to having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed the whole assembly
seemed to regard it with eyes of familiarity; while the vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon sight of
it, uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise, and declared it to be the identical hat of her
good man himself. Now this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Pfaall, with
three companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about five years before, in
a very sudden and unaccountable manner, and up to the date of this narrative all
attempts at obtaining intelligence concerning them had failed. To be sure, some bones
which were thought to be human, mixed up with a quantity of odd-looking rubbish,
had been lately discovered in a retired situation to the east of the city; and some people
went so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been committed, and that
the sufferers were in all probability Hans Pfaall and his associates. But to return.
The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended to within a hundred feet
of the earth, allowing the crowd below a sufficiently distinct view of the person of its
occupant. This was in truth a very singular somebody. He could not have been more
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
5
than two feet in height; but this altitude, little as it was, would have been sufficient to
destroy his equilibrium, and tilt him over the edge of his tiny car, but for the intervention
of a circular rim reaching as high as the breast, and rigged on to the cords of the balloon.
The body of the little man was more than proportionally broad, giving to his entire figure a rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen at all. His hands were
enormously large. His hair was gray, and collected into a queue behind. His nose was prodigiously long, crooked, and inflammatory; his eyes full, brilliant, and acute; his chin
and cheeks, although wrinkled with age, were broad, puffy, and double; but of ears of
any kind there was not a semblance to be discovered upon any portion of his head. This
odd little gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout of sky-blue satin, with tight breeches
to match, fastened with silver buckles at the knees. His vest was of some bright yellow
material; a white taffety cap was set jauntily on one side of his head; and, to complete his
equipment, a blood-red silk handkerchief enveloped his throat, and fell down, in a
dainty manner, upon his bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions.
Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet from the surface of the
earth, the little old gentleman was suddenly seized with a fit of trepidation, and appeared
disinclined to make any nearer approach to terra firma. Throwing out, therefore, a quantity of sand from a canvas bag, which he lifted with great difficulty, he became stationary
in an instant. He then proceeded, in a hurried and agitated manner, to extract from a
side-pocket in his surtout a large morocco pocket-book. This he poised suspiciously in
his hand, then eyed it with an air of extreme surprise, and was evidently astonished at
its weight. He at length opened it, and drawing therefrom a huge letter sealed with red
sealing-wax and tied carefully with red tape, let it fall precisely at the feet of the burgomaster, Superbus Von Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it up. But the aëronaut,
still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no further business to detain him in
Rotterdam, began at this moment to make busy preparations for departure; and it being
necessary to discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the half dozen bags
which he threw out, one after another, without taking the trouble to empty their
contents, tumbled, every one of them, most unfortunately upon the back of the burgomaster, and rolled him over and over no less than half a dozen times, in the face of every
individual in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed, however, that the great Underduk suffered this impertinence on the part of the little old man to pass off with impunity. It is
said, on the contrary, that during each of his half dozen circumvolutions he emitted no
less than half a dozen distinct and furious whiffs from his pipe, to which he held fast the
whole time with all his might, and to which he intends holding fast (God willing) until
the day of his decease.
In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far away above the city, at
length drifted quietly behind a cloud similar to that from which it had so oddly emerged,
and was thus lost forever to the wondering eyes of the good citizens of Rotterdam. All
attention was now directed to the letter, the descent of which, and the consequences
attending thereupon, had proved so fatally subversive of both person and personal dignity
6
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
to his Excellency, Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, during his
circumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon the important object of securing
the epistle, which was seen, upon inspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands,
being actually addressed to himself and Professor Rubadub, in their official capacities of
President and Vice-President of the Rotterdam College of Astronomy. It was accordingly
opened by those dignitaries upon the spot, and found to contain the following extraordinary, and indeed very serious, communication:—
“To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rubadub, President and Vice-President of the States’ College
of Astronomers, in the city of Rotterdam.
“Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble artizan, by name
Hans Pfaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows, who, with three others, disappeared
from Rotterdam, about five years ago, in a manner which must have been considered
unaccountable. If, however, it so please your Excellencies, I, the writer of this communication, am the identical Hans Pfaall himself. It is well known to most of my fellow-citizens,
that for the period of forty years I continued to occupy the little square brick building,
at the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, in which I resided at the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have also resided therein time out of mind—they, as well as myself,
steadily following the respectable and indeed lucrative profession of mending of bellows;
for, to speak the truth, until of late years, that the heads of all the people have been set
agog with politics, no better business than my own could an honest citizen of Rotterdam
either desire or deserve. Credit was good, employment was never wanting, and there was
no lack of either money or good-will. But, as I was saying, we soon began to feel the
effects of liberty and long speeches, and radicalism, and all that sort of thing. People who
were formerly the best customers in the world, had now not a moment of time to think
of us at all. They had as much as they could do to read about the revolutions, and keep
up with the march of intellect and the spirit of the age. If a fire wanted fanning, it could
readily be fanned with a newspaper; and as the government grew weaker, I have no
doubt that leather and iron acquired durability in proportion—for, in a very short time,
there was not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need of a stitch or
required the assistance of a hammer. This was a state of things not to be endured. I soon
grew as poor as a rat, and, having a wife and children to provide for, my burdens at
length became intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting upon the most convenient method of putting an end to my life. Duns, in the meantime, left me little leisure
for contemplation. My house was literally besieged from morning till night. There were
three fellows in particular who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about my door, and threatening me with the law. Upon these three I vowed the
bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so happy as to get them within my clutches; and I
believe nothing in the world but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from
putting my plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing my brains out with a
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
7
blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to dissemble my wrath, and to treat them with
promises and fair words, until, by some good turn of fate, an opportunity of vengeance
should be afforded me.
“One day, having given them the slip, and feeling more than usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander about the most obscure streets without object, until at
length I chanced to stumble against the corner of a bookseller’s stall. Seeing a chair close
at hand, for the use of customers, I threw myself doggedly into it, and, hardly knowing
why, opened the pages of the first volume which came within my reach. It proved to be
a small pamphlet treatise on Speculative Astronomy, written either by Professor Encke
of Berlin or by a Frenchman of somewhat similar name. I had some little tincture of
information on matters of this nature, and soon became more and more absorbed in the
contents of the book—reading it actually through twice before I awoke to a recollection
of what was passing around me. By this time it began to grow dark, and I directed my
steps toward home. But the treatise (in conjunction with a discovery in pneumatics,
lately communicated to me as an important secret, by a cousin from Nantz) had made
an indelible impression on my mind, and, as I sauntered along the dusky streets, I
revolved carefully over in my memory the wild and sometimes unintelligible reasonings
of the writer. There are some particular passages which affected my imagination in an
extraordinary manner. The longer I meditated upon these, the more intense grew the
interest which had been excited within me. The limited nature of my education in general, and more especially my ignorance on subjects connected with natural philosophy,
so far from rendering me diffident of my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or
inducing me to mistrust the many vague notions which had arisen in consequence,
merely served as a farther stimulus to imagination; and I was vain enough, or perhaps
reasonable enough, to doubt whether those crude ideas which, arising in ill-regulated
minds, have all the appearance, may not often in effect possess all the force, the reality,
and other inherent properties, of instinct or intuition.
“It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed. My mind, however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the whole night buried in meditation.
Arising early in the morning, I repaired eagerly to the bookseller’s stall, and laid out
what little ready money I possessed, in the purchase of some volumes of Mechanics and
Practical Astronomy. Having arrived at home safely with these, I devoted every spare
moment to their perusal, and soon made such proficiency in studies of this nature as I
thought sufficient for the execution of a certain design with which either the Devil or
my better genius had inspired me. In the intervals of this period, I made every endeavor
to conciliate the three creditors who had given me so much annoyance. In this I finally
succeeded—partly by selling enough of my household furniture to satisfy a moiety of
their claim, and partly by a promise of paying the balance upon completion of a little
project which I told them I had in view, and for assistance in which I solicited their services. By these means (for they were ignorant men) I found little difficulty in gaining
them over to my purpose.
8
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife and with the greatest
secrecy and caution, to dispose of what property I had remaining, and to borrow, in small
sums, under various pretences, and without giving any attention (I am ashamed to say)
to my future means of repayment, no inconsiderable quantity of ready money. With the
means thus accruing I proceeded to procure at intervals, cambric muslin, very fine, in
pieces of twelve yards each; twine; a lot of the varnish of caoutchouc; a large and deep
basket of wicker-work, made to order; and several other articles necessary in the construction and equipment of a balloon of extraordinary dimensions. This I directed my
wife to make up as soon as possible, and gave her all requisite information as to the particular method of proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the twine into net-work of
sufficient dimensions; rigged it with a hoop and the necessary cords; and made purchase
of numerous instruments and materials for experiment in the upper regions of the upper
atmosphere. I then took opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired situation east of
Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty gallons each, and one of a larger
size; six tin tubes, three inches in diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in length; a
quantity of a particular metallic substance, or semi-metal, which I shall not name, and a dozen
demijohns of a very common acid. The gas to be formed from these latter materials is a gas
never yet generated by any other person than myself—or at least never applied to any
similar purpose. I can only venture to say here, that it is a constituent of azote, so long considered irreducible, and that its density is about 37.4 times less than that of hydrogen. It is tasteless,
but not odorless; burns, when pure, with a greenish flame; and is instantaneously fatal to
animal life. Its full secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right
belongs (as I have before hinted) to a citizen of Nantz, in France, by whom it was conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual submitted to me, without being
at all aware of my intentions, a method of constructing balloons from the membrane of
a certain animal, through which substance any escape of gas was nearly an impossibility.
I found it however altogether too expensive, and was not sure, upon the whole, whether
cambric muslin with a coating of gum caoutchouc, was not equally as good. I mention
this circumstance, because I think it probable that hereafter the individual in question
may attempt a balloon ascension with the novel gas and material I have spoken of, and I
do not wish to deprive him of the honor of a very singular invention.
“On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy respectively during
the inflation of the balloon, I privately dug a small hole; the holes forming in this manner a
circle twenty-five feet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being the station designed for
the large cask, I also dug a hole of greater depth. In each of the five smaller holes, I deposited
a canister containing fifty pounds, and in the larger one a keg holding one hundred and fifty
pounds, of cannon powder. These—the keg and canisters—I connected in a proper manner
with covered trains; and having let into one of the canisters the end of about four feet
of slow-match, I covered up the hole, and placed the cask over it, leaving the other end of
the match protruding about an inch, and barely visible beyond the cask. I then filled up the
remaining holes, and placed the barrels over them in their destined situation!
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
9
“Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the dépôt, and there secreted,
one of M. Grimm’s improvements upon the apparatus for condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this machine, however, to require considerable alteration before it
could be adapted to the purposes to which I intended making it applicable. But, with
severe labor and unremitting perseverance, I at length met with entire success in all my
preparations. My balloon was soon completed. It would contain more than forty thousand cubic feet of gas; would take me up easily, I calculated, with all my implements,
and, if I managed rightly, with one hundred and seventy-five pounds of ballast into the
bargain. It had received three coats of varnish, and I found the cambric muslin to answer
all the purposes of silk itself, being quite as strong and a good deal less expensive.
“Every thing being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of secrecy in relation
to all my actions from the day of my first visit to the bookseller’s stall; and promising,
on my part, to return as soon as circumstances would permit, I gave her what little
money I had left, and bade her farewell. Indeed I had no fear on her account. She was
what people call a notable woman, and could manage matters in the world without my
assistance. I believe, to tell the truth, she always looked upon me as an idle body—a
mere make-weight—good for nothing but building castles in the air,—and was rather
glad to get rid of me. It was a dark night when I bade her good-bye, and taking with me,
as aides-de-camp, the three creditors who had given me so much trouble, we carried the
balloon, with the car and accoutrements, by a roundabout way, to the station where
the other articles were deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I proceeded immediately to business.
“It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was dark; there was not a star to
be seen; and a drizzling rain, falling at intervals, rendered us very uncomfortable. But my
chief anxiety was concerning the balloon, which, in spite of the varnish with which it was
defended, began to grow rather heavy with the moisture; the powder also was liable to
damage. I therefore kept my three duns working with great diligence, pounding down
ice around the central cask, and stirring the acid in the others. They did not cease, however, importuning me with questions as to what I intended to do with all this apparatus,
and expressed much dissatisfaction at the terrible labor I made them undergo. They
could not perceive (so they said) what good was likely to result from their getting wet to
the skin, merely to take a part in such horrible incantations. I began to get uneasy, and
worked away with all my might, for I verily believe the idiots supposed that I had entered
into a compact with the Devil, and that, in short, what I was now doing was nothing
better than it should be. I was, therefore, in great fear of their leaving me altogether. I
contrived, however, to pacify them by promises of payment of all scores in full, as soon
as I could bring the present business to a termination. To these speeches they gave, of
course, their own interpretation; fancying, no doubt, that at all events I should come
into possession of vast quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed,
and a trifle more, in consideration of their services, I dare say they cared very little what
became of either my soul or my carcass.
10
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently inflated. I attached the
car, therefore, and put all my implements in it: a telescope, a barometer, with some
important modifications; a thermometer; an electrometer; a compass; a magnetic needle;
a seconds watch; a bell; a speaking-trumpet, etc., etc., etc.; also a globe of glass, exhausted
of air, and carefully closed with a stopper,—not forgetting the condensing apparatus,
some unslacked lime, a stick of sealing-wax, a copious supply of water, and a large quantity of provisions, such as pemmican, in which much nutriment is contained in
comparatively little bulk. I also secured in the car a pair of pigeons and a cat.
“It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it high time to take my departure. Dropping a lighted cigar on the ground, as if by accident, I took the opportunity, in stooping
to pick it up, of igniting privately the piece of slow-match, the end of which as I said
before, protruded a little beyond the lower rim of one of the smaller casks. This manœuvre was totally unperceived on the part of the three duns; and, jumping into the car, I
immediately cut the single cord which held me to the earth, and was pleased to find
that I shot upward with inconceivable rapidity, carrying with all ease one hundred and
seventy-five pounds of leaden ballast, and able to have carried up as many more. As I left
the earth, the barometer stood at thirty inches, and the centigrade thermometer at 19°.
“Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when, roaring and rumbling up after me in the most tumultuous and terrible manner, came so dense a
hurricane of fire, and gravel, and burning wood, and blazing metal, and mangled limbs,
that my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down in the bottom of the car, trembling
with terror. Indeed, I now perceived that I had entirely overdone the business, and that
the main consequences of the shock were yet to be experienced. Accordingly, in less
than a second, I felt all the blood in my body rushing to my temples, and immediately
thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst abruptly through the night,
and seemed to rip the very firmament asunder. When I afterward had time for reflection,
I did not fail to attribute the extreme violence of the explosion, as regarded myself, to its
proper cause—my situation directly above it, and in the line of its greatest power. But at
the time, I thought only of preserving my life. The balloon at first collapsed, then furiously expanded, then whirled round and round with sickening velocity, and finally,
reeling and staggering like a drunken man, hurled me over the rim of the car, and left
me dangling, at a terrific height, with my head downward, and my face outward, by
a piece of slender cord about three feet in length, which hung accidentally through a
crevice near the bottom of the wicker-work, and in which, as I fell, my left foot became
most providentially entangled. It is impossible—utterly impossible—to form any adequate idea of the horror of my situation. I gasped convulsively for breath—a shudder
resembling a fit of the ague agitated every nerve and muscle in my frame—I felt my eyes
starting from their sockets—a horrible nausea overwhelmed me—and at length I lost
all consciousness in a swoon.
“How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. It must, however, have
been no inconsiderable time, for when I partially recovered the sense of existence, I
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
11
found the day breaking, the balloon at a prodigious height over a wilderness of ocean,
and not a trace of land to be discovered far and wide within the limits of the vast horizon. My sensations, however, upon thus recovering, were by no means so replete with
agony as might have been anticipated. Indeed, there was much of madness in the calm
survey which I began to take of my situation. I drew up to my eyes each of my hands,
one after the other, and wondered what occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of the veins, and the horrible blackness of the finger-nails. I afterward carefully
examined my head, shaking it repeatedly, and feeling it with minute attention, until I
succeeded in satisfying myself that it was not, as I had more than half suspected, larger
than my balloon. Then, in a knowing manner, I felt in both my breeches pockets, and,
missing therefrom a set of tablets and a tooth-pick case, endeavored to account for
their disappearance, and not being able to do so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now
occurred to me that I suffered great uneasiness in the joint of my left ankle, and a dim
consciousness of my situation began to glimmer through my mind. But, strange to
say! I was neither astonished nor horror-stricken. If I felt any emotion at all, it was a
kind of chuckling satisfaction at the cleverness I was about to display in extricating
myself from this dilemma; and never, for a moment, did I look upon my ultimate
safety as a question susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I remained wrapped in the
profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of frequently compressing my
lips, putting my fore-finger to the side of my nose, and making use of other gesticulations and grimaces common to men who, at ease in their arm-chairs, meditate upon
matters of intricacy or importance. Having, as I thought, sufficiently collected my
ideas, I now, with great caution and deliberation, put my hands behind my back, and
unfastened the large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my pantaloons.
This buckle had three teeth, which, being somewhat rusty, turned with great difficulty on their axis. I brought them, however, after some trouble, at right angles to the
body of the buckle, and was glad to find them remain firm in that position. Holding
within my teeth the instrument thus obtained, I now proceeded to untie the knot of
my cravat. I had to rest several times before I could accomplish this manœuvre; but it
was at length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made fast the buckle, and
the other end I tied, for greater security, tightly around my wrist. Drawing now my
body upward, with a prodigious exertion of muscular force, I succeeded, at the very
first trial, in throwing the buckle over the car, and entangling it, as I had anticipated,
in the circular rim of the wicker-work.
“My body was now inclined toward the side of the car, at an angle of about forty-five
degrees; but it must not be understood that I was therefore only forty-five degrees below
the perpendicular. So far from it, I still lay nearly level with the plane of the horizon;
for the change of situation which I had acquired, had forced the bottom of the car considerably outward from my position, which was accordingly one of the most imminent
peril. It should be remembered, however, that when I fell, in the first instance, from the
car, if I had fallen with my face turned toward the balloon, instead of turned outwardly
12
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
from it, as it actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by which I was suspended
had chanced to hang over the upper edge, instead of through a crevice near the bottom
of the car,—I say it may readily be conceived that, in either of these supposed cases, I
should have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now accomplished, and
the disclosures now made would have been utterly lost to posterity. I had therefore
every reason to be grateful; although, in point of fact, I was still too stupid to be any thing
at all, and hung for, perhaps, a quarter of an hour, in that extraordinary manner, without making the slightest farther exertion, and in a singularly tranquil state of idiotic
enjoyment. But this feeling did not fail to die rapidly away, and thereunto succeeded
horror, and dismay, and a sense of utter helplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood so long
accumulating in the vessels of my head and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up
my spirits with delirium, had now begun to retire within their proper channels, and the
distinctness which was thus added to my perception of the danger, merely served to
deprive me of the self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness was,
luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came to my rescue the spirit of
despair, and, with frantic cries and struggles, I jerked my way bodily upward, till at
length, clutching with a vise-like grip the long-desired rim, I writhed my person over it,
and fell headlong and shuddering within the car.
“It was not until some time afterward that I recovered myself sufficiently to attend
to the ordinary cares of the balloon. I then, however, examined it with attention, and
found it, to my great relief, uninjured. My implements were all safe, and, fortunately, I
had lost neither ballast nor provisions. Indeed, I had so well secured them in their places,
that such an accident was entirely out of the question. Looking at my watch, I found it
six o’clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and the barometer gave a present altitude of
three and three-quarter miles. Immediately beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black
object, slightly oblong in shape, seemingly about the size of a domino, and in every
respect bearing a great resemblance to one of those toys. Bringing my telescope to bear
upon it, I plainly discerned it to be a British ninety-four-gun ship, close-hauled, and
pitching heavily in the sea with her head to the W.S.W. Besides this ship, I saw nothing
but the ocean and the sky, and the sun, which had long arisen.
“It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies the object of my voyage.
Your Excellencies will bear in mind that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam had at
length driven me to the resolution of committing suicide. It was not, however, that to life
itself I had any positive disgust, but that I was harassed beyond endurance by the adventitious miseries attending my situation. In this state of mind, wishing to live, yet wearied
with life, the treatise at the stall of the bookseller, backed by the opportune discovery of
my cousin of Nantz, opened a resource to my imagination. I then finally made up my
mind. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the world, yet continue to exist—in
short, to drop enigmas, I resolved, let what would ensue, to force a passage, if I could, to
the moon. Now, lest I should be supposed more of a madman than I actually am, I will detail,
as well as I am able, the considerations which led me to believe that an achievement of this
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
13
nature, although without doubt difficult, and full of danger, was not absolutely, to a bold
spirit, beyond the confines of the possible.
“The moon’s actual distance from the earth was the first thing to be attended to.
Now, the mean or average interval between the centres of the two planets is 59.9643 of the
earth’s equatorial radii, or only about 237,000 miles. I say the mean or average interval;
but it must be borne in mind that the form of the moon’s orbit being an ellipse of
eccentricity amounting to no less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis of the ellipse itself,
and the earth’s centre being situated in its focus, if I could, in any manner, contrive to
meet the moon in its perigee, the above-mentioned distance would be materially diminished. But, to say nothing at present of this possibility, it was very certain that, at all
events, from the 237,000 miles I would have to deduct the radius of the earth, say 4,000,
and the radius of the moon, say 1,080, in all 5,080, leaving an actual interval to be traversed, under average circumstances, of 231,920 miles. Now this, I reflected, was no very
extraordinary distance. Travelling on the land has been repeatedly accomplished at the
rate of sixty miles per hour; and indeed a much greater speed may be anticipated. But
even at this velocity, it would take me no more than 161 days to reach the surface of the
moon. There were, however, many particulars inducing me to believe that my average
rate of travelling might possibly very much exceed that of sixty miles per hour, and, as
these considerations did not fail to make a deep impression upon my mind, I will mention
them more fully hereafter.
“The next point to be regarded was one of far greater importance. From indications
afforded by the barometer, we find that, in ascensions from the surface of the earth we
have, at the height of 1,000 feet, left below us about one thirtieth of the entire mass of
atmospheric air; that at 10,600 we have ascended through nearly one third; and that at
18,000, which is not far from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmounted one half
the material, or, at all events, one half the ponderable, body of air incumbent upon our
globe. It is also calculated that at an altitude not exceeding the hundredth part of the
earth’s diameter—that is, not exceeding eighty miles—the rarefaction would be so
excessive that animal life could in no manner be sustained, and, moreover, that the
most delicate means we possess of ascertaining the presence of the atmosphere would
be inadequate to assure us of its existence. But I did not fail to perceive that these latter
calculations are founded altogether on our experimental knowledge of the properties
of air, and the mechanical laws regulating its dilation and compression, in what may be
called, comparatively speaking, the immediate vicinity of the earth itself; and, at the same
time, it is taken for granted that animal life is and must be essentially incapable of modification at any given unattainable distance from the surface. Now, all such reasoning and
from such data must, of course, be simply analogical. The greatest height ever reached
by man was that of 25,000 feet, attained in the aëronautic expedition of Messieurs
Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a moderate altitude, even when compared with the eighty
miles in question; and I could not help thinking that the subject admitted room for
doubt and great latitude for speculation.
14
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any given altitude, the ponderable
quantity of air surmounted in any farther ascension is by no means in proportion to the
additional height ascended (as may be plainly seen from what has been stated before),
but in a ratio constantly decreasing. It is therefore evident that, ascend as high as we may,
we cannot, literally speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which no atmosphere is to be
found. It must exist, I argued; although it may exist in a state of infinite rarefaction.
“On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been wanting to prove the
existence of a real and definite limit to the atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely
no air whatsoever. But a circumstance which has been left out of view by those who
contend for such a limit, seemed to me, although no positive refutation of their creed
still a point worthy very serious investigation. On comparing the intervals between the
successive arrivals of Encke’s comet at its perihelion, after giving credit, in the most exact
manner, for all the disturbances due to the attractions of the planets, it appears that the
periods are gradually diminishing; that is to say, the major axis of the comet’s ellipse is
growing shorter, in a slow but perfectly regular decrease. Now, this is precisely what
ought to be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced from the comet from an
extremely rare ethereal medium pervading the regions of its orbit. For it is evident that such
a medium must, in retarding the comet’s velocity, increase its centripetal, by weakening
its centrifugal, force. In other words, the sun’s attraction would be constantly attaining
greater power, and the comet would be drawn nearer at every revolution. Indeed, there
is no other way of accounting for the variation in question. But again:—The real diameter of the same comet’s nebulosity is observed to contract rapidly as it approaches the
sun, and dilate with equal rapidity in its departure toward its aphelion. Was I not justifiable in supposing, with M. Valz, that this apparent condensation of volume has its origin
in the compression of the same ethereal medium I have spoken of before, and which is
dense in proportion to its vicinity to the sun? The lenticular-shaped phenomenon, also
called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of attention. This radiance, so apparent in
the tropics, and which cannot be mistaken for any meteoric lustre, extends from the
horizon obliquely upward, and follows generally the direction of the sun’s equator. It
appeared to me evidently in the nature of a rare atmosphere extending from the sun
outward, beyond the orbit of Venus at least, and I believed indefinitely farther. Indeed,
this medium I could not suppose confined to the path of the comet’s ellipse, or to the
immediate neighborhood of the sun. It was easy, on the contrary, to imagine it pervading the entire regions of our planetary system, condensed into what we call atmosphere
at the planets themselves, and perhaps at some of them modified by considerations
purely geological; that is to say, modified, or varied in its proportions (or absolute
nature) by matters volatilized from the respective orbs.
“Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little farther hesitation. Granting
that on my passage I should meet with atmosphere essentially the same as at the surface
of the earth, I conceived that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm,
I should readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient quantity for the purpose of
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
15
respiration. This would remove the chief obstacle in a journey to the moon. I had
indeed spent some money and great labor in adapting the apparatus to the object
intended, and confidently looked forward to its successful application, if I could manage
to complete the voyage within any reasonable period. This brings me back to the rate at
which it would be possible to travel.
“It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions from the earth, are known
to rise with a velocity comparatively moderate. Now, the power of elevation lies altogether
in the superior gravity of the atmospheric air compared with the gas in the balloon; and, at
first sight, it does not appear probable that, as the balloon acquires altitude, and consequently arrives successively in atmospheric strata of densities rapidly diminishing—I say, it
does not appear at all reasonable that, in this its progress upward, the original velocity
should be accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any recorded ascension,
a diminution had been proved to be apparent in the absolute rate of ascent; although such
should have been the case, if on account of nothing else, on account of the escape of gas
through balloons ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material than the ordinary
varnish. It seemed, therefore, that the effect of such escape was only sufficient to counterbalance the effect of the acceleration attained in the diminishing of the balloon’s distance
from the gravitating centre. I now considered that, provided in my passage I found the
medium I had imagined, and provided that it should prove to be essentially what we denominate atmospheric air, it could make comparatively little difference at what extreme state of
rarefaction I should discover it—that is to say, in regard to my power of ascending—for
the gas in the balloon would not only be itself subject to similar rarefaction (in proportion
to the occurrence of which, I could suffer an escape of so much as would be requisite to
prevent explosion), but, being what it was, would, at all events, continue specifically lighter
than any compound whatever of mere nitrogen and oxygen. Thus there was a chance—in
fact there was a strong probability—that, at no epoch of my ascent, I should reach a point where the
united weights of my immense balloon, the inconceivably rare gas within it, the car, and its contents, should equal
the weight of the mass of the surrounding atmosphere displaced; and this will be readily understood as the
sole condition upon which my upward flight would be arrested. But, if this point were even
attained, I could dispense with ballast and other weight to the amount of nearly three
hundred pounds. In the meantime, the force of gravitation would be constantly diminishing, in proportion to the squares of the distances, and so, with a velocity prodigiously
accelerating, I should at length arrive in those distant regions where the force of the earth’s
attraction would be superseded by that of the moon.
“There was another difficulty, however, which occasioned me some little disquietude. It has been observed, that, in balloon ascensions to any considerable height,
besides the pain attending respiration, great uneasiness is experienced about the head
and body, often accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and other symptoms of an
alarming kind, and growing more and more inconvenient in proportion to the altitude
attained. This was a reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable that
these symptoms would increase until terminated by death itself? I finally thought not.
16
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
Their origin was to be looked for in the progressive removal of the customary atmospheric
pressure upon the surface of the body, and consequent distention of the superficial
blood-vessels—not in any positive disorganization of the animal system, as in the case of
difficulty in breathing, where the atmospheric density is chemically insufficient for the due
renovation of blood in a ventricle of the heart. Unless for default of this renovation, I
could see no reason, therefore, why life could not be sustained even in a vacuum; for the
expansion and compression of chest, commonly called breathing, is action purely muscular, and the cause, not the effect, of respiration. In a word, I conceived that, as the body
should become habituated to the want of atmospheric pressure, the sensations of pain
would gradually diminish—and to endure them while they continued, I relied with
confidence upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.
“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, I have detailed some, though by no means all,
the considerations which led me to form the project of a lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before you the result of an attempt so apparently audacious in conception,
and, at all events, so utterly unparalleled in the annals of mankind.
“Having attained the altitude before mentioned—that is to say three miles and three
quarters—I threw out from the car a quantity of feathers, and found that I still ascended
with sufficient rapidity; there was, therefore, no necessity for discharging any ballast. I
was glad of this, for I wished to retain with me as much weight as I could carry, for the
obvious reason that I could not be positive either about the gravitation or the atmospheric
density of the moon. I as yet suffered no bodily inconvenience, breathing with great
freedom, and feeling no pain whatever in the head. The cat was lying very demurely
upon my coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing the pigeons with an air of nonchalance.
These latter being tied by the leg, to prevent their escape, were busily employed in picking up some grains of rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car.
“At twenty minutes past six o’clock, the barometer showed an elevation of 26,400 feet,
or five miles to a fraction. The prospect seemed unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily calculated by means of spherical geometry, how great an extent of the earth’s area I beheld. The
convex surface of any segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the sphere itself, as
the versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. Now, in my case, the versed
sine—that is to say, the thickness of the segment beneath me—was about equal to my elevation or the elevation of the point of sight above the surface. ‘As five miles, then, to eight
thousand,’ would express the proportion of the earth’s area seen by me. In other words, I
beheld as much as a sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the globe. The sea
appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the telescope, I could perceive it to
be in a state of violent agitation. The ship was no longer visible, having drifted away,
apparently to the eastward. I now began to experience, at intervals, severe pain in the
head, especially about the ears—still, however, breathing with tolerable freedom. The cat
and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience whatsoever.
“At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered a long series of dense cloud,
which put me to great trouble, by damaging my condensing apparatus, and wetting me
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
17
to the skin; this was, to be sure, a singular rencontre, for I had not believed it possible that a
cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an elevation. I thought it best, however,
to throw out two five-pound pieces of ballast, reserving still a weight of one hundred and
sixty-five pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above the difficulty, and perceived immediately, that I had obtained a great increase in my rate of ascent. In a few seconds after my
leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid lightning shot from one end of it to the other, and
caused it to kindle up, throughout its vast extent, like a mass of ignited charcoal. This, it
must be remembered, was in the broad light of day. No fancy may picture the sublimity
which might have been exhibited by a similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of the night. Hell itself might have been found a fitting image. Even as it was, my hair
stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the yawning abysses, letting imagination
descend, and stalk about in the strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly
chasms of the hideous and unfathomable fire. I had indeed made a narrow escape. Had the
balloon remained a very short while longer within the cloud—that is to say, had not
the inconvenience of getting wet, determined me to discharge the ballast—my destruction might, and probably would, have been the consequence. Such perils, although little
considered, are perhaps the greatest which must be encountered in balloons. I had by this
time, however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer uneasy on this head.
“I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o’clock the barometer indicated an altitude of
no less than nine miles and a half. I began to find great difficulty in drawing my breath.
My head, too, was excessively painful; and, having felt for some time a moisture about
my cheeks, I at length discovered it to be blood, which was oozing quite fast from the
drums of my ears. My eyes, also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon passing the hand over
them they seemed to have protruded from their sockets in no inconsiderable degree; and
all objects in the car, and even the balloon itself, appeared distorted to my vision. These
symptoms were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm. At this juncture, very imprudently, and without consideration, I threw out from the car three
five-pound pieces of ballast. The accelerated rate of ascent thus obtained, carried me too
rapidly, and without sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum of the atmosphere,
and the result had nearly proved fatal to my expedition and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm which lasted for more than five minutes, and even when this,
in a measure, ceased, I could catch my breath only at long intervals, and in a gasping
manner,—bleeding all the while copiously at the nose and ears, and even slightly at
the eyes. The pigeons appeared distressed in the extreme, and struggled to escape; while the
cat mewed piteously, and, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, staggered to and
fro in the car as if under the influence of poison. I now too late discovered the great rashness of which I had been guilty in discharging the ballast, and my agitation was excessive.
I anticipated nothing less than death, and death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent contributed also to render me nearly incapable of making any exertion
for the preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little power of reflection left, and the violence of the pain in my head seemed to be greatly on the increase. Thus I found that my
18
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
senses would shortly give way altogether, and I had already clutched one of the valve
ropes with the view of attempting a descent, when the recollection of the trick I had
played the three creditors, and the possible consequences to myself, should I return,
operated to deter me for the moment. I lay down in the bottom of the car, and endeavoured to collect my faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the
experiment of losing blood. Having no lancet, however, I was constrained to perform
the operation in the best manner I was able, and finally succeeded in opening a vein in
my left arm, with the blade of my penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing
when I experienced a sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a moderate
basin-full, most of the worst symptoms had abandoned me entirely. I nevertheless did
not think it expedient to attempt getting on my feet immediately; but, having tied up
my arm as well as I could, I lay still for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of this time
I arose, and found myself freer from absolute pain of any kind than I had been during the
last hour and a quarter of my ascension. The difficulty of breathing, however, was
diminished in a very slight degree, and I found that it would soon be positively necessary
to make use of my condenser. In the meantime, looking toward the cat, who was again
snugly stowed away upon my coat, I discovered to my infinite surprise, that she had
taken the opportunity of my indisposition to bring into light a litter of three little kittens. This was an addition to the number of passengers on my part altogether unexpected;
but I was pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a chance of bringing to a kind of
test the truth of a surmise, which, more than any thing else, had influenced me in
attempting this ascension. I had imagined that the habitual endurance of the atmospheric
pressure at the surface of the earth was the cause, or nearly so, of the pain attending
animal existence at a distance above the surface. Should the kittens be found to suffer
uneasiness in an equal degree with their mother, I must consider my theory in fault, but a failure
to do so I should look upon as a strong confirmation of my idea.
“By eight o’clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen miles above the
surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident that my rate of ascent was not only
on the increase, but that the progression would have been apparent in a slight degree
even had I not discharged the ballast which I did. The pains in my head and ears returned,
at intervals, with violence, and I still continued to bleed occasionally at the nose; but,
upon the whole, I suffered much less than might have been expected. I breathed, however, at every moment, with more and more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended
with a troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the condensing apparatus, and got it ready for immediate use.
“The view of the earth, at this period of my ascension, was beautiful indeed. To the
westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I could see, lay a boundless sheet
of apparently unruffled ocean, which every moment gained a deeper and deeper tint of
blue. At a vast distance to the eastward, although perfectly discernible, extended the
islands of Great Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a small portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of individual edifices not a trace
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
19
could be discovered, and the proudest cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the
face of the earth.
“What mainly astonished me, in the appearance of things below, was the seeming
concavity of the surface of the globe. I had, thoughtlessly enough, expected to see its real
convexity become evident as I ascended; but a very little reflection sufficed to explain the
discrepancy. A line, dropped from my position perpendicularly to the earth, would
have formed the perpendicular of a right-angled triangle, of which the base would have
extended from the right-angle to the horizon, and the hypothenuse from the horizon
to my position. But my height was little or nothing in comparison with my prospect. In
other words, the base and hypothenuse of the supposed triangle would, in my case, have
been so long, when compared to the perpendicular, that the two former might have been
regarded as nearly parallel. In this manner the horizon of the aëronaut appears always
to be upon a level with the car. But as the point immediately beneath him seems, and is, at
a great distance below him, it seems, of course, also at a great distance below the horizon.
Hence the impression of concavity; and this impression must remain, until the elevation
shall bear so great a proportion to the prospect, that the apparent parallelism of the base
and hypothenuse disappears.
“The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I determined upon
giving them their liberty. I first untied one of them, a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon, and
placed him upon the rim of the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking
anxiously around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud cooing noise, but could
not be persuaded to trust himself from the car. I took him up at last, and threw him to
about half a dozen yards from the balloon. He made, however, no attempt to descend as
I had expected, but struggled with great vehemence to get back, uttering at the same time
very shrill and piercing cries. He at length succeeded in regaining his former station on
the rim, but had hardly done so when his head dropped upon his breast, and he fell dead
within the car. The other one did not prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the
example of his companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him downward with all
my force, and was pleased to find him continue his descent, with great velocity, making
use of his wings with ease, and in a perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he
was out of sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who seemed in a
great measure recovered from her illness, now made hearty meal of the dead bird, and
then went to sleep with much apparent satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so
far evinced not the slightest sign of any uneasiness.
“At a quarter past eight, being able no longer to draw breath without the most intolerable pain, I proceeded forthwith to adjust around the car the apparatus belonging to the
condenser. This apparatus will require some little explanation, and your Excellencies will
please to bear in mind that my object, in the first place, was to surround myself and car
entirely with a barricade against the highly rarefied atmosphere in which I was existing,
with the intention of introducing within this barricade, by means of my condenser, a quantity of this same atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the purposes of respiration. With
20
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
this object in view I had prepared a very strong, perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic
bag. In this bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a manner placed.
That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the whole bottom of the car, up its sides, and so
on, along the outside of the ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work is
attached. Having pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a complete enclosure on all
sides, and at bottom, it was now necessary to fasten up its top or mouth, by passing its
material over the hoop of the net-work,—in other words, between the net-work and the
hoop. But if the net-work were separated from the hoop to admit this passage, what was to
sustain the car in the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to the
hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I therefore undid only a few of
these loops at one time, leaving the car suspended by the remainder. Having thus inserted
a portion of the cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I refastened the loops—not to the
hoop, for that would have been impossible, since the cloth now intervened,—but to a
series of large buttons, affixed to the cloth itself, about three feet below the mouth of the
bag; the intervals between the buttons having been made to correspond to the intervals
between the loops. This done, a few more of the loops were unfastened from the rim, a
farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the disengaged loops then connected with
their proper buttons. In this way it was possible to insert the whole upper part of the bag
between the net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the hoop would now drop down
within the car, while the whole weight of the car itself, with all its contents, would be held
up merely by the strength of the buttons. This, at first sight, would seem an inadequate
dependence; but it was by no means so, for the buttons were not only very strong in themselves, but so close together that a very slight portion of the whole weight was supported
by any one of them. Indeed, had the car and contents been three times heavier than they
were, I should not have been at all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again within the covering of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its former height by means of three light
poles prepared for the occasion. This was done, of course, to keep the bag distended at the
top, and to preserve the lower part of the net-work in its proper situation. All that now
remained was to fasten up the mouth of the enclosure; and this was readily accomplished
by gathering the folds of the material together, and twisting them up very tightly on the
inside by means of a kind of stationary tourniquet.
“In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had been inserted three
circular panes of thick but clear glass, through which I could see without difficulty
around me in every horizontal direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the
bottom, was likewise a fourth window, of the same kind, and corresponding with a
small aperture in the floor of the car itself. This enabled me to see perpendicularly
down, but having found it impossible to place any similar contrivance overhead, on
account of the peculiar manner of closing up the opening there, and the consequent
wrinkles in the cloth, I could expect to see no objects situated directly in my zenith.
This, of course, was a matter of little consequence; for, had I even been able to place a
window at top, the balloon itself would have prevented my making any use of it.
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
21
“About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening, three inches in
diameter, and fitted with a brass rim adapted in its inner edge to the windings of a screw.
In this rim was screwed the large tube of the condenser, the body of the machine being,
of course, within the chamber of gum-elastic. Through this tube a quantity of the rare
atmosphere circumjacent being drawn by means of a vacuum created in the body of the
machine, was thence discharged, in a state of condensation, to mingle with the thin air
already in the chamber. This operation being repeated several times, at length filled the
chamber with atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration; but in so confined
a space it would, in a short time, necessarily become foul, and unfit for use from frequent
contact with the lungs. It was then ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car;—
the dense air readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To avoid the
inconvenience of making a total vacuum at any moment within the chamber, this purification was never accomplished all at once, but in a gradual manner,—the valve being
opened only for a few seconds, then closed again, until one or two strokes from the
pump of the condenser had supplied the place of the atmosphere ejected. For the sake
of experiment I had put the cat and kittens in a small basket, and suspended it outside
the car to a button at the bottom, close by the valve, through which I could feed them
at any moment when necessary. I did this at some little risk, and before closing the
mouth of the chamber, by reaching under the car with one of the poles before mentioned to which a hook had been attached. As soon as dense air was admitted in the
chamber, the hoop and poles became unnecessary; the expansion of the enclosed atmosphere powerfully distending the gum-elastic.
“By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled the chamber as
explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o’clock. During the whole period of my
being thus employed, I endured the most terrible distress from difficulty of respiration,
and bitterly did I repent the negligence or rather fool-hardiness, of which I had been
guilty, of putting off to the last moment a matter of so much importance. But having at
length accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my invention. Once again I
breathed with perfect freedom and ease—and indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably surprised to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the violent pains which
had hitherto tormented me. A slight headache, accompanied with a sensation of fulness
or distention about the wrists, the ankles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I had
now to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of the uneasiness attending
the removal of atmospheric pressure had actually worn off, as I had expected, and that
much of the pain endured for the last two hours should have been attributed altogether
to the effects of a deficient respiration.
“At twenty minutes before nine o’clock—that is to say, a short time prior to my
closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury attained its limit, or ran down, in
the barometer, which, as I mentioned before, was one of an extended construction. It
then indicated an altitude on my part of 132,000 feet, or five-and-twenty miles, and I
consequently surveyed at that time an extent of the earth’s area amounting to no less
22
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
than the three-hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire surperficies. At nine o’clock I
had again lost sight of land to the eastward, but not before I became aware that the
balloon was drifting rapidly to the N.N.W. The ocean beneath me still retained its
apparent concavity, although my view was often interrupted by the masses of cloud
which floated to and fro.
“At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of feathers through
the valve. They did not float as I had expected; but dropped down perpendicularly, like a
bullet, en masse, and with the greatest velocity,—being out of sight in a very few seconds. I
did not at first know what to make of this extraordinary phenomenon; not being able to
believe that my rate of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so prodigious an acceleration.
But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere was now far too rare to sustain even the
feathers; that they actually fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had
been surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my own elevation.
“By ten o’clock I found that I had very little to occupy my immediate attention.
Affairs went on swimmingly, and I believed the balloon to be going upward with a speed
increasing momently although I had no longer any means of ascertaining the progression of the increase. I suffered no pain or uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed better
spirits than I had at any period since my departure from Rotterdam; busying myself now
in examining the state of my various apparatus, and now in regenerating the atmosphere
within the chamber. This latter point I determined to attend to at regular intervals of
forty minutes, more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so frequent
a renovation being absolutely necessary. In the meanwhile I could not help making
anticipations. Fancy revelled in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination,
feeling herself for once unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders
of a shadowy and unstable land. Now there were hoary and time-honored forests, and
craggy precipices, and waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without a bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where no wind of heaven ever
intruded, and where vast meadows of poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread
themselves out a weary distance, all silent and motionless for ever. Then again I journeyed far down away into another country where it was all one dim and vague lake, with
a boundary line of clouds. But fancies such as these were not the sole possessors of my
brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would too frequently obtrude
themselves upon my mind, and shake the innermost depths of my soul with the bare
supposition of their possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length of
time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the real and palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my undivided attention.
“At five o’clock, p.m., being engaged in regenerating the atmosphere within the
chamber, I took that opportunity of observing the cat and kittens through the valve.
The cat herself appeared to suffer again very much, and I had no hesitation in attributing
her uneasiness chiefly to a difficulty in breathing; but my experiment with the kittens
had resulted very strangely. I had expected, of course, to see them betray a sense of pain,
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
23
although in a less degree than their mother; and this would have been sufficient to
confirm my opinion concerning the habitual endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I
was not prepared to find them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying a high
degree of health, breathing with the greatest ease and perfect regularity, and evincing
not the slightest sign of any uneasiness. I could only account for all this by extending my
theory, and supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might perhaps not
be, as I had taken for granted, chemically insufficient for the purposes of life, and that a
person born in such a medium might, possibly, be unaware of any inconvenience attending
its inhalation, while, upon removal to the denser strata near the earth, he might endure
tortures of a similar nature to those I had so lately experienced. It has since been to me a
matter of deep regret that an awkward accident, at this time, occasioned me the loss of
my little family of cats, and deprived me of the insight into this matter which a continued experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through the valve, with a cup
of water for the old puss, the sleeve of my shirt became entangled in the loop which
sustained the basket, and thus, in a moment, loosened it from the button. Had the whole
actually vanished into air, it could not have shot from my sight in a more abrupt and
instantaneous manner. Positively, there could not have intervened the tenth part of a
second between the disengagement of the basket and its absolute disappearance with all
that it contained. My good wishes followed it to the earth, but of course, I had no hope
that either cat or kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their misfortune.
“At six o’clock, I perceived a great portion of the earth’s visible area to the eastward
involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance with great rapidity, until, at five
minutes before seven, the whole surface in view was enveloped in the darkness of night.
It was not, however, until long after this time that the rays of the setting sun ceased to
illumine the balloon; and this circumstance, although of course fully anticipated, did
not fail to give me an infinite deal of pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I
should behold the rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of Rotterdam,
in spite of their situation so much farther to the eastward, and thus, day after day, in
proportion to the height ascended, would I enjoy the light of the sun for a longer and a
longer period. I now determined to keep a journal of my passage, reckoning the days
from one to twenty-four hours continuously, without taking into consideration the
intervals of darkness.
“At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest of the night; but
here a difficulty presented itself, which, obvious as it may appear, had escaped my attention up to the very moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I proposed,
how could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated in the interim? To breathe it for
more than an hour, at the farthest, would be a matter of impossibility; or, if even this term
could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous consequences might
ensue. The consideration of this dilemma gave me no little disquietude; and it will hardly
be believed, that, after the dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this business in
so serious a light, as to give up all hope of accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally
24
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
make up my mind to the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only momentary.
I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom, and that many points in the routine of
his existence are deemed essentially important, which are only so at all by his having rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do without sleep; but I might
easily bring myself to feel no inconvenience from being awakened at intervals of an hour
during the whole period of my repose. It would require but five minutes at most to regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner—and the only real difficulty was to contrive
a method of arousing myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
which, I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble in its solution. To be sure,
I had heard of the student who, to prevent his falling asleep over his books, held in one
hand a ball of copper, the din of whose descent into a basin of the same metal on the floor
beside his chair, served effectually to startle him up, if, at any moment, he should be overcome with drowsiness. My own case, however, was very different indeed, and left me no
room for any similar idea; for I did not wish to keep awake, but to be aroused from slumber at regular intervals of time. I at length hit upon the following expedient, which,
simple as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the moment of discovery, as an invention fully
equal to that of the telescope, the steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.
“It is necessary to premise, that the balloon, at the elevation now attained, continued
its course upward with an even and undeviating ascent, and the car consequently followed with a steadiness so perfect that it would have been impossible to detect in it the
slightest vacillation. This circumstance favored me greatly in the project I now determined to adopt. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs containing five
gallons each, and ranged very securely around the interior of the car. I unfastened one
of these, and taking two ropes, tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from
one side to the other; placing them about a foot apart and parallel, so as to form a kind
of shelf, upon which I placed the keg, and steadied it in a horizontal position. About
eight inches immediately below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of the car I
fastened another shelf—but made of thin plank, being the only similar piece of wood
I had. Upon this latter shelf, and exactly beneath one of the rims of the keg, a small
earthen pitcher was deposited. I now bored a hole in the end of the keg over the pitcher,
and fitted in a plug of soft wood, cut in a tapering or conical shape. This plug I pushed
in or pulled out as might happen, until, after a few experiments, it arrived at that exact
degree of tightness, at which the water, oozing from the hole, and falling into the pitcher
below, would fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of course, was
a matter briefly and easily ascertained, by noticing the proportion of the pitcher filled in
any given time. Having arranged all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so
contrived upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in lying down, immediately
below the mouth of the pitcher. It was evident, that, at the expiration of an hour, the
pitcher, getting full, would be forced to run over, and to run over at the mouth, which
was somewhat lower than the rim. It was also evident, that the water thus falling from
a height of more than four feet, could not do otherwise than fall upon my face, and that
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
25
the sure consequence would be, to waken me up instantaneously, even from the soundest slumber in the world.
“It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements, and I immediately betook myself to bed, with full confidence in the efficiency of my invention. Nor in
this matter was I disappointed. Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused by my
trusty chronometer, when, having emptied the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg,
and performed the duties of the condenser, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions to my slumber caused me even less discomfort than I had anticipated; and
when I finally arose for the day, it was seven o’clock, and the sun had attained many
degrees above the line of my horizon.
“April 3d. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the earth’s convexity
had now become strikingly manifest. Below me in the ocean lay a cluster of black specks,
which undoubtedly were islands. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and the stars were
brilliantly visible; indeed they had been so constantly since the first day of ascent. Far away
to the northward I perceived a thin, white, and exceedingly brilliant line, or streak, on the
edge of the horizon, and I had no hesitation in supposing it to be the southern disc of
the ices of the Polar Sea. My curiosity was greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on
much farther to the north, and might possibly, at some period, find myself placed directly
above the Pole itself. I now lamented that my great elevation would, in this case, prevent
my taking as accurate a survey as I could wish. Much, however, might be ascertained.
“Nothing else of an extraordinary nature occurred during the day. My apparatus all
continued in good order, and the balloon still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The cold was intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an overcoat. When
darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to bed, although it was for many hours
afterward broad daylight all around my immediate situation. The water-clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept until next morning soundly, with the exception of the
periodical interruption.
“April 4th. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at the singular change
which had taken place in the appearance of the sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the
deep tint of blue it had hitherto worn, being now of a grayish-white, and of a lustre
dazzling to the eye. The convexity of the ocean had become so evident, that the entire
mass of the distant water seemed to be tumbling headlong over the abyss of the horizon,
and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes of the mighty cataract. The islands
were no longer visible; whether they had passed down the horizon to the southeast, or
whether my increasing elevation had left them out of sight, it is impossible to say. I was
inclined, however, to the latter opinion. The rim of ice to the northward was growing
more and more apparent. Cold by no means so intense. Nothing of importance occurred,
and I passed the day in reading, having taken care to supply myself with books.
“April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while nearly the whole
visible surface of the earth continued to be involved in darkness. In time, however, the
light spread itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now
26
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
very distinct, and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was
evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again distinguish a strip
of land to the eastward, and one also to the westward, but could not be certain. Weather
moderate. Nothing of any consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.
“April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very moderate distance, and an
immense field of the same material stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was
evident that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive above the Frozen
Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the Pole. During the whole of the
day I continued to near the ice. Toward night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and
materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth’s form being that of an oblate
spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle.
When darkness at length overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over
the object of so much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it.
“April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what there could be no
hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my feet; but, alas! I had now ascended to so vast a distance, that nothing
could with accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the numbers
indicating my various altitudes, respectively, at different periods, between six a.m. on the
second of April, and twenty minutes before nine a.m. of the same day (at which time
the barometer ran down), it might be fairly inferred that the balloon had now, at four
o’clock in the morning of April the seventh, reached a height of not less, certainly, than
7,254 miles above the surface of the sea. This elevation may appear immense, but the
estimate upon which it is calculated gave a result in all probability far inferior to the truth.
At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth’s major diameter; the entire
northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a chart orthographically projected: and the
great circle of the equator itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your Excellencies may, however, readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored
within the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath me, and therefore seen without any appearance of being foreshortened, were still, in themselves,
comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a distance from the point of sight, to
admit of any very accurate examination. Nevertheless, what could be seen was of a
nature singular and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and
which, with slight qualification, may be called the limit of human discovery in these
regions, one unbroken, or nearly unbroken, sheet of ice continues to extend. In the first
few degrees of this progress, its surface is very sensibly flattened, farther on depressed
into a plane, and finally, becoming not a little concave, it terminates, at the Pole itself, in a
circular centre, sharply defined, whose apparent diameter subtended at the balloon an
angle of about sixty-five seconds, and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at
all times, darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and occasionally
deepened into the most absolute blackness. Farther than this, little could be ascertained.
By twelve o’clock the circular centre had materially decreased in circumference, and by
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
27
seven p.m. I lost sight of it entirely; the balloon passing over the western limb of the ice,
and floating away rapidly in the direction of the equator.
“April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth’s apparent diameter, besides a
material alteration in its general color and appearance. The whole visible area partook in
different degrees of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy
even painful to the eye. My view downward was also considerably impeded by the dense
atmosphere in the vicinity of the surface being loaded with clouds, between whose
masses I could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This difficulty of
direct vision had troubled me more or less for the last forty-eight hours; but my present
enormous elevation brought closer together, as it were, the floating bodies of vapor, and
the inconvenience became, of course, more and more palpable in proportion to my
ascent. Nevertheless, I could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the
range of great lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a course, due
south, which would soon bring me to the tropics. This circumstance did not fail to give
me the most heartfelt satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success.
Indeed, the direction I had hitherto taken, had filled me with uneasiness; for it was evident that, had I continued it much longer, there would have been no possibility of my
arriving at the moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at only the small angle
of 5° 8´ 48˝. Strange as it may seem, it was only at this late period that I began to understand the great error I had committed, in not taking my departure from earth at some
point in the plane of the lunar ellipse.
“April 9th. Today the earth’s diameter was greatly diminished, and the color of the
surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her course
to the southward, and arrived, at nine p.m., over the northern edge of the Mexican Gulf.
“April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o’clock this morning, by
a loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I could in no manner account. It was of
very brief duration, but, while it lasted, resembled nothing in the world of which I had
any previous experience. It is needless to say that I became excessively alarmed, having,
in the first instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined all my
apparatus, however, with great attention, and could discover nothing out of order.
Spent a great part of the day in meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but
could find no means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied, and in a state
of great anxiety and agitation.
“April 11th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of the earth, and
a considerable increase, now observable for the first time, in that of the moon itself,
which wanted only a few days of being full. It now required long and excessive labor to
condense within the chamber sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.
“April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the direction of the balloon, and
although fully anticipated, afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in
its former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off suddenly, at an acute angle, to the eastward, and thus proceeded throughout the day, keeping
28
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar ellipse. What was worthy of remark, a very
perceptible vacillation in the car was a consequence of this change of route,—a vacillation
which prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours.
“April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the loud crackling noise
which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon the subject, but was unable to form
any satisfactory conclusion. Great decrease in the earth’s apparent diameter, which now
subtended from the balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The
moon could not be seen at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still continued in the plane
of the ellipse, but made little progress to the eastward.
“April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth. Today I became
strongly impressed with the idea, that the balloon was now actually running up the line
of apsides to the point of perigee,—in other words, holding the direct course which
would bring it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit the nearest to the earth.
The moon itself was directly overhead, and consequently hidden from my view. Great
and long-continued labor necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.
“April 15th. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could now be traced upon
the earth with distinctness. About twelve o’clock I became aware, for the third time, of
that appalling sound which had so astonished me before. It now, however, continued for
some moments, and gathered intensity as it continued. At length, while, stupefied and
terror-stricken, I stood in expectation of I knew not what hideous destruction, the car
vibrated with excessive violence, and a gigantic and flaming mass of some material which
I could not distinguish, came with a voice of a thousand thunders, roaring and booming
by the balloon. When my fears and astonishment had in some degree subsided, I had
little difficulty in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic fragment ejected from that
world to which I was so rapidly approaching, and, in all probability, one of that singular
class of substances occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric stones for
want of a better appellation.
“April 16th. Today, looking upward as well as I could, through each of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very small portion of the moon’s disk
protruding, as it were, on all sides beyond the huge circumference of the balloon. My
agitation was extreme; for I had now little doubt of soon reaching the end of my perilous
voyage. Indeed, the labor now required by the condenser, had increased to a most oppressive degree, and allowed me scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep was a matter nearly
out of the question. I became quite ill, and my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was
impossible that human nature could endure this state of intense suffering much longer.
During the now brief interval of darkness a meteoric stone again passed in my vicinity,
and the frequency of these phenomena began to occasion me much apprehension.
“April 17th. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be remembered that,
on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an angular breadth of twenty-five degrees. On
the fourteenth this had greatly diminished; on the fifteenth a still more remarkable
decrease was observable; and, on retiring on the night of the sixteenth, I had noticed an
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
29
angle of no more than about seven degrees and fifteen minutes. What, therefore, must
have been my amazement, on awakening from a brief and disturbed slumber, on the
morning of this day, the seventeenth, at finding the surface beneath me so suddenly and
wonderfully augmented in volume, as to subtend no less than thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular diameter! I was thunderstruck! No words can give any adequate idea of the
extreme, the absolute horror and astonishment, with which I was seized, possessed, and
altogether overwhelmed. My knees tottered beneath me—my teeth chattered—my
hair started up on end. ‘The balloon, then, had actually burst!’ These were the first
tumultuous ideas that hurried through my mind: ‘The balloon had positively burst!—I
was falling—falling with the most impetuous, the most unparalleled velocity! To judge
by the immense distance already so quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten
minutes, at the farthest, before I should reach the surface of the earth, and be hurled into
annihilation!’ But at length reflection came to my relief. I paused; I considered; and I
began to doubt. The matter was impossible. I could not in any reason have so rapidly
come down. Besides, although I was evidently approaching the surface below me, it was
with speed by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first conceived. This
consideration served to calm the perturbation of my mind, and I finally succeeded in
regarding the phenomenon in its proper point of view. In fact, amazement must have
fairly deprived me of my senses, when I could not see the vast difference, in appearance,
between the surface below me, and the surface of my mother earth. The latter was
indeed over my head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the moon—the
moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath me, and at my feet.
“The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this extraordinary change in the
posture of affairs, was, perhaps, after all, that part of the adventure least susceptible of
explanation. For the bouleversement in itself was not only natural and inevitable, but had
been long actually anticipated as a circumstance to be expected whenever I should arrive
at that exact point of my voyage where the attraction of the planet should be superseded
by the attraction of the satellite—or, more precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon toward the earth should be less powerful than its gravitation toward the moon. To
be sure I arose from a sound slumber, with all my senses in confusion, to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon, and one which, although expected, was not
expected at the moment. The revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an
easy and gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I even been awake at the
time of the occurrence, I should have been made aware of it by any internal evidence of an
inversion,—that is to say, by any inconvenience or disarrangement, either about my
person or about my apparatus.
“It is almost needless to say that, upon coming to a due sense of my situation, and
emerging from the terror which had absorbed every faculty of my soul, my attention
was, in the first place, wholly directed to the contemplation of the general physical
appearance of the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart—and although I judged it to be
still at no inconsiderable distance, the indentures of its surface were defined to my vision
30
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
with a most striking and altogether unaccountable distinctness. The entire absence of
ocean or sea, and indeed of any lake or river, or body of water whatsoever, struck me, at
first glance, as the most extraordinary feature in its geological condition. Yet, strange to
say, I beheld vast level regions of a character decidedly alluvial, although by far the
greater portion of the hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic
mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of artificial than of natural protuberances. The highest among them does not exceed three and three-quarter
miles in perpendicular elevation; but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi
Phlegræi would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of their general surface than any
unworthy description I might think proper to attempt. The greater part of them were
in a state of evident eruption, and gave me fearfully to understand their fury and their
power, by the repeated thunders of the miscalled meteoric stones, which now rushed
upward by the balloon with a frequency more and more appalling.
“April 18th. Today I found an enormous increase in the moon’s apparent bulk—and
the evidently accelerated velocity of my descent began to fill me with alarm. It will be
remembered, that, in the earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of a passage to the moon, the existence, in its vicinity, of an atmosphere dense in proportion to
the bulk of the planet, had entered largely into my calculations; this too in spite of many
theories to the contrary, and, it may be added, in spite of a general disbelief in the existence of any lunar atmosphere at all. But, in addition to what I have already urged in
regard to Encke’s comet and the zodiacal light, I had been strengthened in my opinion
by certain observations of Mr. Schroeter, of Lilienthal. He observed the moon when two
days and a half old, in the evening soon after sunset, before the dark part was visible, and
continued to watch it until it became visible. The two cusps appeared tapering in a very
sharp faint prolongation, each exhibiting its farthest extremity faintly illuminated by the
solar rays, before any part of the dark hemisphere was visible. Soon afterward, the
whole dark limb became illuminated. This prolongation of the cusps beyond the semicircle, I thought, must have arisen from the refraction of the sun’s rays by the moon’s
atmosphere. I computed, also, the height of the atmosphere (which could refract
light enough into its dark hemisphere to produce a twilight more luminous than the light
reflected from the earth when the moon is about 32° from the new) to be 1,356 Paris feet;
in this view, I supposed the greatest height capable of refracting the solar ray, to be 5,376
feet. My ideas on this topic had also received confirmation by a passage in the eightysecond volume of the Philosophical Transactions, in which it is stated, that, at an
occultation of Jupiter’s satellites, the third disappeared after having been about 1” or 2”
of time indistinct, and the fourth became indiscernible near the limb.
“Upon the resistance or, more properly, upon the support of an atmosphere, existing
in the state of density imagined, I had, of course, entirely depended for the safety of my
ultimate descent. Should I then, after all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in consequence nothing better to expect, as a finale to my adventure, than being dashed into
atoms against the rugged surface of the satellite. And, indeed, I had now every reason to
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
31
be terrified. My distance from the moon was comparatively trifling, while the labor
required by the condenser was diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication
whatever of a decreasing rarity in the air.
“April 19th. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o’clock, the surface of the moon
being frightfully near, and my apprehensions excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at length gave evident tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten, I had
reason to believe its density considerably increased. By eleven, very little labor was necessary at the apparatus; and at twelve o’clock, with some hesitation, I ventured to unscrew
the tourniquet, when, finding no inconvenience from having done so, I finally threw open the
gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it from around the car. As might have been expected,
spasms and violent headache were the immediate consequences of an experiment so precipitate and full of danger. But these and other difficulties attending respiration, as they
were by no means so great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to endure as I best
could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me momently in my approach to the
denser strata near the moon. This approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme;
and it soon became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not been deceived in
the expectation of an atmosphere dense in proportion to the mass of the satellite, still I had
been wrong in supposing this density, even at the surface, at all adequate to the support of
the great weight contained in the car of my balloon. Yet this should have been the case,
and in an equal degree as at the surface of the earth, the actual gravity of bodies at either
planet supposed in the ratio of the atmospheric condensation. That it was not the case, however, my precipitous downfall gave testimony enough; why it was not so, can only be
explained by a reference to those possible geological disturbances to which I have formerly
alluded. At all events I was now close upon the planet, and coming down with the most
terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment, accordingly, in throwing overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and
finally every article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still fell with horrible
rapidity, and was now not more than half a mile from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the car itself,
which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, clinging with both hands to the network, I had barely time to observe that the whole country, as far as the eye could reach,
was thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I tumbled headlong into the very
heart of a fantastical-looking city, and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little
people, who none of them uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves the least trouble to
render me assistance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, grinning in a ludicrous manner, and
eyeing me and my balloon askant, with their arms set a-kimbo. I turned from them in
contempt, and, gazing upward at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps for ever, beheld
it like a huge, dull, copper shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed immovably in the
heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges with a crescent border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land or water could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with
variable spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.
32
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great anxieties, unheard-of
dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had, at length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam, arrived in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the
most extraordinary, and the most momentous, ever accomplished, undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed
your Excellencies may well imagine that, after a residence of five years upon a planet not
only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character, but rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of satellite, with the world inhabited by man, I may have
intelligence for the private ear of the States’ College of Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily
concluded. This is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would give me
the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of the climate of the planet;
of its wonderful alternations of heat and cold; of unmitigated and burning sunshine for
one fortnight, and more than polar frigidity for the next; of a constant transfer of moisture, by distillation like that in vacuo, from the point beneath the sun to the point the
farthest from it; of a variable zone of running water; of the people themselves; of their
manners, customs, and political institutions; of their peculiar physical construction; of
their ugliness; of their want of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly modified; of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties of speech; of
their substitute for speech in a singular method of inter-communication; of the incomprehensible connection between each particular individual in the moon with some
particular individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and depending upon,
that of the orbs of the planet and the satellite, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it so please your Excellencies—above all, of
those dark and hideous mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon,—regions
which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the satellite’s rotation on its own
axis with its sidereal revolution about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by
God’s mercy, never shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man. All this, and
more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But, to be brief, I must have my
reward. I am pining for a return to my family and to my home; and as the price of any
farther communication on my part—in consideration of the light which I have it in my
power to throw upon many very important branches of physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the
crime of which I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my departure from
Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the
moon, whom I have prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to the
earth, will await your Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be obtained.
“I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble servant,
Hans Pfaall.”
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAALL
33
Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document, Professor Rubadub, it
is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer
Superbus Von Underduk having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and deposited
them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his dignity, as to turn round three
times upon his heel in the quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no
doubt about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least swore, with a round
oath, Professor Rubadub, and so finally thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he
took the arm of his brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the
best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be adopted. Having reached
the door, however, of the burgomaster’s dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest that
as the messenger had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by the
savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon would be of little use, as
no one but a man of the moon would undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the
truth of this observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was therefore at an
end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published, gave
rise to a variety of gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made themselves
ridiculous by decrying the whole business as nothing better than a hoax. But hoax, with
these sort of people, is, I believe, a general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my part, I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
accusation. Let us see what they say:
Imprimis. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial antipathies to certain
burgomasters and astronomers.
Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose ears, for some
misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has been missing for several days from
the neighboring city of Bruges.
Thirdly. That the newspapers which were struck all over the little balloon were newpapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been made in the moon. They were
dirty papers—very dirty—and Gluck, the printer, would take his bible oath to their having been printed in Rotterdam.
Fourthly. That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three very idle
gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer than two or three days ago, in a
tippling house in the suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from
a trip beyond the sea.
Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought to be generally
received, that the College of Astronomers in the city of Rotterdam, as well as all other
colleges in all other parts of the world,—not to mention colleges and astronomers in
general,—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser
than they ought to be.
T H E B A L L O O N -H O A X
[Astounding News by Express, viâ Norfolk!—The Atlantic Crossed in Three Days! Signal Triumph of Mr.
Monck Mason’s Flying Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, S.C., of Mr. Mason,
Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the Steering Balloon,
“Victoria,” after a Passage of Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the Voyage!
The subjoined jeu d’ esprit with the preceding heading in magnificent capitals, well interspersed with
notes of admiration, was originally published, as matter of fact, in the New-York Sun, a daily newspaper,
and therein fully subserved the purpose of creating indigestible aliment for the quidnuncs during the few
hours intervening between a couple of the Charleston mails. The rush for the “sole paper which had the news,”
was something beyond even the prodigious; and, in fact, if (as some assert) the “Victoria” did not absolutely
accomplish the voyage recorded, it will be difficult to assign a reason why she should not have accomplished it.]
The great problem is at length solved! The air, as well as the earth and the ocean, has
been subdued by science, and will become a common and convenient highway for
mankind. The Atlantic has been actually crossed in a Balloon! and this too without difficulty—
without any great apparent danger—with thorough control of the machine—and in
the inconceivably brief period of seventy-five hours from shore to shore! By the energy
of an agent at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the first to furnish the public with
a detailed account of this most extraordinary voyage, which was performed between
Saturday, the 6th instant, at 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., on Tuesday, the 9th instant, by Sir Everard
Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck’s; Mr. Monck Mason and Mr.
Robert Holland, the well-known aëronauts; Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, author of “Jack
Sheppard,” etc.; and Mr. Henson, the projector of the late unsuccessful flying
machine—with two seamen from Woolwich—in all, eight persons. The particulars
furnished below may be relied on as authentic and accurate in every respect, as, with a
slight exception, they are copied verbatim from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and
Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also indebted for much verbal
information respecting the balloon itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of throwing
the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a connected and intelligible form.
34
THE BALLOON-HOAX
35
“THE BALLOON.
“Two very decided failures, of late,—those of Mr. Henson and Sir George Cayley,—had
much weakened the public interest in the subject of aërial navigation. Mr Henson’s
scheme (which at first was considered very feasible even by men of science) was founded
upon the principle of an inclined plane, started from an eminence by an extrinsic force,
applied and continued by the revolution of impinging vanes, in form and number
resembling the vanes of a windmill. But, in all the experiments made with models at the
Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these fans not only did not propel
the machine, but actually impeded its flight. The only propelling force it ever exhibited,
was the mere impetus acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and this impetus
carried the machine farther when the vanes were at rest, than when they were in
motion—a fact which sufficiently demonstrates their inutility; and in the absence of the
propelling, which was also the sustaining, power, the whole fabric would necessarily
descend. This consideration led Sir George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller
to some machine having of itself an independent power of support—in a word, to a balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original, with Sir George, only so far as regards
the mode of its application to practice. He exhibited a model of his invention at the Polytechnic Institution. The propelling principle, or power, was here, also, applied to
interrupted surfaces, or vanes, put in revolution. These vanes were four in number, but
were found entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding its ascending power.
The whole project was thus a complete failure.
“It was at this juncture that Mr. Monck Mason (whose voyage from Dover to
Weilburg in the balloon, ‘Nassau,’ occasioned so much excitement in 1837) conceived
the idea of employing the principle of the Archimedean screw for the purpose of propulsion through the air—rightly attributing the failure of Mr. Henson’s scheme, and
of Sir George Cayley’s, to the interruption of surface in the independent vanes. He
made the first public experiment at Willis’s Rooms, but afterward removed his model
to the Adelaide Gallery.
“Like Sir George Cayley’s balloon, his own was an ellipsoid. Its length was thirteen
feet six inches—height, six feet eight inches. It contained about three hundred and
twenty cubic feet of gas, which, if pure hydrogen, would support twenty-one pounds
upon its first inflation, before the gas has time to deteriorate or escape. The weight of the
whole machine and apparatus was seventeen pounds—leaving about four pounds to
spare. Beneath the centre of the balloon, was a frame of light wood, about nine feet long,
and rigged on to the balloon itself with a net-work in the customary manner. From this
framework was suspended a wicker basket or car.
“The screw consists of an axis of hollow brass tube, eighteen inches in length,
through which, upon a semi-spiral inclined at fifteen degrees, pass a series of steelwire radii, two feet long, and thus projecting a foot on either side. These radii are
connected at the outer extremities by two bands of flattened wire—the whole in this
36
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
manner forming the framework of the screw, which is completed by a covering of
oiled silk cut into gores, and tightened so as to present a tolerably uniform surface.
At each end of its axis this screw is supported by pillars of hollow brass tube descending from the hoop. In the lower ends of these tubes are holes in which the pivots
of the axis revolve. From the end of the axis which is next the car, proceeds a shaft of
steel, connecting the screw with the pinion of a piece of spring machinery fixed in the
car. By the operation of this spring, the screw is made to revolve with great rapidity,
communicating a progressive motion to the whole. By means of the rudder, the
machine was readily turned in any direction. The spring was of great power, compared with its dimensions, being capable of raising forty-five pounds upon a barrel of
four inches diameter, after the first turn, and gradually increasing as it was wound
up. It weighed, altogether, eight pounds six ounces. The rudder was a light frame of
cane covered with silk, shaped somewhat like a battledoor, and was about three feet
long, and at the widest, one foot. Its weight was about two ounces. It could be turned
flat, and directed upward or downward, as well as to the right or left; and thus
enabled the aëronaut to transfer the resistance of the air which in an inclined position it must generate in its passage, to any side upon which he might desire to act;
thus determining the balloon in the opposite direction.
“This model (which, through want of time, we have necessarily described in an
imperfect manner) was put in action at the Adelaide Gallery, where it accomplished
a velocity of five miles per hour; although, strange to say, it excited very little interest
in comparison with the previous complex machine of Mr. Henson—so resolute is the
world to despise any thing which carries with it an air of simplicity. To accomplish
the great desideratum of aërial navigation, it was very generally supposed that some
exceedingly complicated application must be made of some unusually profound
principle in dynamics.
“So well satisfied, however, was Mr. Mason of the ultimate success of his invention, that he determined to construct immediately, if possible, a balloon of sufficient
capacity to test the question by a voyage of some extent—the original design being
to cross the British Channel, as before, in the Nassau balloon. To carry out his views,
he solicited and obtained the patronage of Sir Everard Bringhurst and Mr. Osborne,
two gentlemen well known for scientific acquirement, and especially for the interest
they have exhibited in the progress of aërostation. The project, at the desire of Mr.
Osborne, was kept a profound secret from the public—the only persons entrusted
with the design being those actually engaged in the construction of the machine,
which was built (under the superintendence of Mr. Mason, Mr. Holland, Sir Everard
Bringhurst, and Mr. Osborne) at the seat of the latter gentleman near Penstruthal, in
Wales. Mr. Henson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Ainsworth, was admitted to a
private view of the balloon, on Saturday last—when the two gentlemen made final
arrangements to be included in the adventure. We are not informed for what reason
the two seamen were also included in the party—but, in the course of a day or two,
THE BALLOON-HOAX
37
we shall put our readers in possession of the minutest particulars respecting this
extraordinary voyage.
“The balloon is composed of silk, varnished with the liquid gum caoutchouc. It is of
vast dimensions, containing more than 40,000 cubic feet of gas; but as coal-gas was
employed in place of the more expensive and inconvenient hydrogen, the supporting
power of the machine, when fully inflated, and immediately after inflation, is not more
than about 2,500 pounds. The coal-gas is not only much less costly, but is easily procured
and managed.
“For its introduction into common use for purposes of aërostation, we are indebted
to Mr. Charles Green. Up to his discovery, the process of inflation was not only exceedingly expensive, but uncertain. Two and even three days have frequently been wasted in
futile attempts to procure a sufficiency of hydrogen to fill a balloon, from which it had
great tendency to escape, owing to its extreme subtlety, and its affinity for the surrounding atmosphere. In a balloon sufficiently perfect to retain its contents of coal-gas
unaltered, in quality or amount, for six months, an equal quantity of hydrogen could
not be maintained in equal purity for six weeks.
“The supporting power being estimated at 2,500 pounds, and the united weights
of the party amounting only to about 1,200, there was left a surplus of 1,300, of which
again 1,200 was exhausted by ballast, arranged in bags of different sizes, with their
respective weights marked upon them—by cordage, barometers, telescopes, barrels
containing provision for a fortnight, water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and various
other indispensable matters, including a coffee-warmer, contrived for warming coffee by means of slack-lime, so as to dispense altogether with fire, if it should be judged
prudent to do so. All these articles, with the exception of the ballast, and a few trifles,
were suspended from the hoop overhead. The car is much smaller and lighter, in
proportion, than the one appended to the model. It is formed of a light wicker, and
is wonderfully strong, for so frail-looking a machine. Its rim is about four feet deep.
The rudder is also very much larger, in proportion, than that of the model; and the
screw is considerably smaller. The balloon is furnished besides with a grapnel, and a
guide-rope; which latter is of the most indispensable importance. A few words, in
explanation, will here be necessary for such of our readers as are not conversant with
the details of aërostation.
“As soon as the balloon quits the earth, it is subjected to the influence of many
circumstances tending to create a difference in its weight; augmenting or diminishing
its ascending power. For example, there may be a deposition of dew upon the silk, to
the extent, even, of several hundred pounds; ballast has then to be thrown out, or the
machine may descend. This ballast being discarded, and a clear sunshine evaporating
the dew, and at the same time expanding the gas in the silk, the whole will again rapidly
ascend. To check this ascent, the only resource is (or rather was, until Mr. Green’s invention of the guide-rope) the permission of the escape of gas from the valve; but, in the loss
of gas, is a proportionate general loss of ascending power; so that, in a comparatively brief
38
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
period, the best-constructed balloon must necessarily exhaust all its resources, and come
to the earth. This was the great obstacle to voyages of length.
“The guide-rope remedies the difficulty in the simplest manner conceivable. It is
merely a very long rope which is suffered to trail from the car, and the effect of which
is to prevent the balloon from changing its level in any material degree. If, for example, there should be a deposition of moisture upon the silk, and the machine begins to
descend in consequence, there will be no necessity for discharging ballast to remedy
the increase of weight, for it is remedied, or counteracted, in an exactly just proportion, by the deposit on the ground of just so much of the end of the rope as is
necessary. If, on the other hand, any circumstances should cause undue levity, and
consequent ascent, this levity is immediately counteracted by the additional weight of
rope upraised from the earth. Thus, the balloon can neither ascend nor descend,
except within very narrow limits, and its resources, either in gas or ballast, remain
comparatively unimpaired. When passing over an expanse of water, it becomes necessary to employ small kegs of copper or wood, filled with liquid ballast of a lighter
nature than water. These float, and serve all the purposes of a mere rope on land.
Another most important office of the guide-rope, is to point out the direction of the
balloon. The rope drags, either on land or sea, while the balloon is free; the latter, consequently, is always in advance, when any progress whatever is made; a comparison,
therefore, by means of the compass, of the relative positions of the two objects, will
always indicate the course. In the same way, the angle formed by the rope with the vertical axis of the machine, indicates the velocity. When there is no angle—in other words,
when the rope hangs perpendicularly, the whole apparatus is stationary; but the
larger the angle, that is to say, the farther the balloon precedes the end of the rope,
the greater the velocity; and the converse.
“As the original design was to cross the British Channel, and alight as near Paris
as possible, the voyagers had taken the precaution to prepare themselves with passports directed to all parts of the Continent, specifying the nature of the expedition,
as in the case of the ‘Nassau’ voyage, and entitling the adventurers to exemption
from the usual formalities of office; unexpected events, however, rendered these
passports superfluous.
“The inflation was commenced very quietly at daybreak, on Saturday morning, the
6th instant, in the courtyard of Wheal-Vor House, Mr. Osborne’s seat, about a mile from
Penstruthal, in North Wales; and at seven minutes past eleven, every thing being ready
for departure, the balloon was set free, rising gently but steadily, in a direction nearly
south; no use being made, for the first half hour, of either the screw or the rudder. We
proceed now with the journal, as transcribed by Mr. Forsyth from the joint MSS. of Mr.
Monck Mason and Mr. Ainsworth. The body of the journal, as given, is in the handwriting of Mr. Mason, and a P.S. is appended, each day, by Mr. Ainsworth, who has in
preparation, and will shortly give the public a more minute and, no doubt, a thrillingly
interesting account of the voyage.
THE BALLOON-HOAX
39
“THE JOURNAL.
“Saturday, April the 6th.—Every preparation likely to embarrass us having been made overnight, we commenced the inflation this morning at daybreak; but owing to a thick fog,
which encumbered the folds of the silk and rendered it unmanageable, we did not get
through before nearly eleven o’clock. Cut loose, then, in high spirits, and rose gently but
steadily, with a light breeze at north, which bore us in the direction of the British Channel. Found the ascending force greater than we had expected; and as we arose higher and
so got clear of the cliffs, and more in the sun’s rays, our ascent became very rapid. I did
not wish, however, to lose gas at so early a period of the adventure, and so concluded to
ascend for the present. We soon ran out our guide-rope; but even when we had raised it
clear of the earth, we still went up very rapidly. The balloon was unusually steady, and
looked beautifully. In about ten minutes after starting, the barometer indicated an altitude of 15,000 feet. The weather was remarkably fine, and the view of the subjacent
country—a most romantic one when seen from any point—was now especially sublime. The numerous deep gorges presented the appearance of lakes, on account of the
dense vapors with which they were filled, and the pinnacles and crags to the south east,
piled in inextricable confusion, resembling nothing so much as the giant cities of Eastern
fable. We were rapidly approaching the mountains in the south, but our elevation was
more than sufficient to enable us to pass them in safety. In a few minutes we soared over
them in fine style; and Mr. Ainsworth, with the seamen, was surprised at their apparent
want of altitude when viewed from the car, the tendency of great elevation in a balloon
being to reduce inequalities of the surface below, to nearly a dead level. At half-past
eleven still proceeding nearly south, we obtained our first view of the Bristol Channel;
and, in fifteen minutes afterward, the line of breakers on the coast appeared immediately
beneath us, and we were fairly out at sea. We now resolved to let off enough gas to bring
our guide-rope, with the buoys affixed, into the water. This was immediately done, and
we commenced a gradual descent. In about twenty minutes our first buoy dipped, and
at the touch of the second soon afterward, we remained stationary as to elevation. We
were all now anxious to test the efficiency of the rudder and screw, and we put them
both into requisition forthwith, for the purpose of altering our direction more to the
eastward, and in a line for Paris. By means of the rudder we instantly effected the necessary change of direction, and our course was brought nearly at right angles to that of the
wind; when we set in motion the spring of the screw, and were rejoiced to find it propel
us readily as desired. Upon this we gave nine hearty cheers, and dropped in the sea a
bottle, inclosing a slip of parchment with a brief account of the principle of the invention. Hardly, however, had we done with our rejoicings, when an unforeseen accident
occurred which discouraged us in no little degree. The steel rod connecting the spring
with the propeller was suddenly jerked out of place, at the car end, (by a swaying of the
car through some movement of one of the two seamen we had taken up,) and in an
instant hung dangling out of reach, from the pivot of the axis of the screw. While we
40
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
were endeavoring to regain it, our attention being completely absorbed, we became
involved in a strong current of wind from the east, which bore us, with rapidly increasing force, toward the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving out to sea at a rate of not
less, certainly, than fifty or sixty miles an hour, so that we came up with Cape Clear, at
some forty miles to our north, before we had secured the rod, and had time to think
what we were about. It was now that Mr. Ainsworth made an extraordinary but, to my
fancy, a by no means unreasonable or chimerical proposition, in which he was instantly
seconded by Mr. Holland—viz.: that we should take advantage of the strong gale which
bore us on, and in place of beating back to Paris, make an attempt to reach the coast of
North America. After slight reflection I gave a willing assent to this bold proposition,
which (strange to say) met with objection from the two seamen only. As the stronger
party, however, we overruled their fears, and kept resolutely upon our course. We
steered due west; but as the trailing of the buoys materially impeded our progress, and
we had the balloon abundantly at command, either for ascent or descent, we first threw
out fifty pounds of ballast, and then wound up (by means of a windlass) so much of the
rope as brought it quite clear of the sea. We perceived the effect of this manœuvre immediately, in a vastly increased rate of progress; and, as the gale freshened, we flew with a
velocity nearly inconceivable; the guide-rope flying out behind the car, like a streamer
from a vessel. It is needless to say that a very short time sufficed us to lose sight of the
coast. We passed over innumerable vessels of all kinds, a few of which were endeavoring
to beat up, but the most of them lying to. We occasioned the greatest excitement on
board all—an excitement greatly relished by ourselves, and especially by our two men,
who, now under the influence of a dram of Geneva, seemed resolved to give all scruple,
or fear, to the wind. Many of the vessels fired signal guns; and in all we were saluted with
loud cheers (which we heard with surprising distinctness) and the waving of caps and
handkerchiefs. We kept on in this manner throughout the day with no material incident, and, as the shades of night closed around us, we made a rough estimate of the
distance traversed. It could not have been less than five hundred miles, and was probably
much more. The propeller was kept in constant operation, and, no doubt, aided our
progress materially. As the sun went down, the gale freshened into an absolute hurricane, and the ocean beneath was clearly visible on account of its phosphorescence. The
wind was from the east all night, and gave us the brightest omen of success. We suffered
no little from cold, and the dampness of the atmosphere was most unpleasant; but the
ample space in the car enabled us to lie down, and by means of cloaks and a few blankets
we did sufficiently well.
“P.S. [by Mr. Ainsworth.] The last nine hours have been unquestionably the most
exciting of my life. I can conceive nothing more sublimating than the strange peril and
novelty of an adventure such as this. May God grant that we succeed! I ask not success for
mere safety to my insignificant person, but for the sake of human knowledge and—
for the vastness of the triumph. And yet the feat is only so evidently feasible that the
sole wonder is why men have scrupled to attempt it before. One single gale such as now
THE BALLOON-HOAX
41
befriends us—let such a tempest whirl forward a balloon for four or five days (these gales
often last longer) and the voyager will be easily borne, in that period, from coast to coast.
In view of such a gale the broad Atlantic becomes a mere lake. I am more struck, just
now, with the supreme silence which reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding its
agitation, than with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The waters give up no
voice to the heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes and is tortured uncomplainingly. The mountainous surges suggest the idea of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends
struggling in impotent agony. In a night such as is this to me, a man lives—lives a
whole century of ordinary life—nor would I forego this rapturous delight for that of
a whole century of ordinary existence.
“Sunday, the 7th. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning the gale, by ten, had subsided to an
eight- or nine-knot breeze (for a vessel at sea), and bears us, perhaps, thirty miles per
hour, or more. It has veered, however, very considerably to the north; and now, at sundown, we are holding our course due west, principally by the screw and rudder, which
answer their purposes to admiration. I regard the project as thoroughly successful, and
the easy navigation of the air in any direction (not exactly in the teeth of a gale) as no
longer problematical. We could not have made head against the strong wind of yesterday; but, by ascending, we might have got out of its influence, if requisite. Against a
pretty stiff breeze, I feel convinced, we can make our way with the propeller. At noon,
today, ascended to an elevation of nearly 25,000 feet, by discharging ballast. Did this to
search for a more direct current, but found none so favorable as the one we are now in.
We have an abundance of gas to take us across this small pond, even should the voyage
last three weeks. I have not the slightest fear for the result. The difficulty has been
strangely exaggerated and misapprehended. I can choose my current, and should I find
all currents against me, I can make very tolerable headway with the propeller. We have
had no incidents worth recording. The night promises fair.
“P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] I have little to record, except the fact (to me quite a surprising one) that, at an elevation equal to that of Cotopaxi, I experienced neither very intense
cold, nor headache, nor difficulty of breathing; neither, I find, did Mr. Mason, nor Mr.
Holland, nor Sir Everard. Mr. Osborne complained of constriction of the chest—but this
soon wore off. We have flown at a great rate during the day, and we must be more than
half way across the Atlantic. We have passed over some twenty or thirty vessels of various
kinds, and all seem to be delightfully astonished. Crossing the ocean in a balloon is not so
difficult a feat after all. Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Mem.: at 25,000 feet elevation the sky
appears nearly black, and the stars are distinctly visible; while the sea does not seem convex (as one might suppose) but absolutely and most unequivocally concave.
“Monday, the 8th. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning we had again some little trouble
with the rod of the propeller, which must be entirely remodelled, for fear of serious
accident—I mean the steel rod, not the vanes. The latter could not be improved. The
wind has been blowing steadily and strongly from the northeast all day; and so far fortune seems bent upon favoring us. Just before day, we were all somewhat alarmed at
42
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
some odd noises and concussions in the balloon, accompanied with the apparent rapid
subsidence of the whole machine. These phenomena were occasioned by the expansion
of the gas, through increase of heat in the atmosphere, and the consequent disruption of
the minute particles of ice with which the network had become encrusted during the
night. Threw down several bottles to the vessels below. See one of them picked up by a
large ship—seemingly one of the New York line packets. Endeavored to make out her
name, but could not be sure of it. Mr. Osborne’s telescope made it out something like
‘Atalanta.’ It is now twelve at night, and we are still going nearly west, at a rapid pace.
The sea is peculiarly phosphorescent.
“P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] It is now two a.m., and nearly calm, as well as I can judge—
but it is very difficult to determine this point, since we move with the air so completely. I
have not slept since quitting Wheal-Vor, but can stand it no longer, and must take a nap.
We cannot be far from the American coast.
“Tuesday, the 9th. [Mr. Ainsworth’s MS.] One, p.m. We are in full view of the low coast of South Carolina.
The great problem is accomplished. We have crossed the Atlantic—fairly and easily crossed
it in a balloon! God be praised! Who shall say that any thing is impossible hereafter?”
***
The Journal here ceases. Some particulars of the descent were communicated, however,
by Mr. Ainsworth to Mr. Forsyth. It was nearly dead calm when the voyagers first came
in view of the coast, which was immediately recognized by both the seamen, and by Mr.
Osborne. The latter gentleman having acquaintances at Fort Moultrie, it was immediately resolved to descend in its vicinity. The balloon was brought over the beach (the
tide being out and the sand hard, smooth, and admirably adapted for a descent), and
the grapnel let go, which took firm hold at once. The inhabitants of the island, and of the
fort, thronged out, of course, to see the balloon; but it was with the greatest difficulty
that any one could be made to credit the actual voyage—the crossing of the Atlantic. The
grapnel caught at two p.m. precisely; and thus the whole voyage was completed in seventy-five hours; or rather less, counting from shore to shore. No serious accident
occurred. No real danger was at any time apprehended. The balloon was exhausted and
secured without trouble; and when the MS. from which this narrative is compiled was
despatched from Charleston, the party were still at Fort Moultrie. Their further intentions were not ascertained; but we can safely promise our readers some additional
information either on Monday or in the course of the next day, at furthest.
This is unquestionably the most stupendous, the most interesting, and the most
important undertaking ever accomplished or even attempted by man. What magnificent events may ensue, it would be useless now to think of determining.
M ESM E R I C R E V E L A T I O N
Whatever doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its startling facts are now
almost universally admitted. Of these latter, those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession—an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more
absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove, at the present day, that man, by
mere exercise of will, can so impress his fellow, as to cast him into an abnormal condition, in which the phenomena resemble very closely those of death, or at least
resemble them more nearly than they do the phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that, while in this state, the person so impressed employs
only with effort, and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with
keenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown, matters
beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his intellectual faculties are
wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and, finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases
with its frequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena elicited
are more extended and more pronounced.
I say that these—which are the laws of mesmerism in its general features—it would
be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict upon my readers so needless a
demonstration today. My purpose at present is a very different one indeed. I am
impelled, even in the teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail, without comment, the
very remarkable substance of a colloquy occurring between a sleep-waker and myself.
I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr. Vankirk),
and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the mesmeric perception had supervened. For many months he had been laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more
distressing effects of which had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of
Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside.
The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart, and breathed
with great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as
these he had usually found relief from the application of mustard to the nervous centres, but tonight this had been attempted in vain.
43
44
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although evidently in
much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease.
“I sent for you tonight,” he said, “not so much to administer to my bodily ailment,
as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal impressions which, of late, have occasioned
me much anxiety and surprise. I need not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on
the topic of the soul’s immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if in
that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of its own existence.
But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical
than before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own works as well
as in those of his European and American echoes. The ‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout
I found it logical, but the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the
initial arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end had
plainly forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not
long in perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality,
he will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long the
fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse
and exercise, but take no hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am
persuaded, will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will may
assent—the soul—the intellect, never.
“I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually believed. But latterly
there has been a certain deepening of the feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble
the acquiescence of reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am
enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I cannot better
explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the mesmeric exaltation enables me to
perceive a train of ratiocination which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which,
in full accordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through its
effect, into my normal condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning and its conclusion—
the cause and its effect—are present together. In my natural state, the cause vanishing, the
effect only, and perhaps only partially, remains.
“These considerations have led me to think that some good results might ensue from
a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while mesmerized. You have often
observed the profound self-cognizance evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive
knowledge he displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from
this self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a catechism.”
I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr. Vankirk into
the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more easy, and he seemed to
suffer no physical uneasiness. The following conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing the patient, and P. myself.
MESMERIC REVELATION
45
P. Are you asleep?
V. Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.
P. [After a few more passes.] Do you sleep now?
V. Yes.
P. How do you think your present illness will result?
V. [After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort.] I must die.
P. Does the idea of death afflict you?
V. [Very quickly.] No—no!
P. Are you pleased with the prospect?
V. If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me.
P. I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.
V. I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I feel able to make. You do
not question me properly.
P. What then shall I ask?
V. You must begin at the beginning.
P. The beginning! But where is the beginning?
V. You know that the beginning is God. [This was said in a low, fluctuating tone, and with every
sign of the most profound veneration.]
P. What, then, is God?
V. [Hesitating for many minutes.] I cannot tell.
P. Is not God spirit?
V. While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,” but now it seems only a
word—such, for instance, as truth, beauty—a quality, I mean.
P. Is not God immaterial?
V. There is no immateriality; it is a mere word. That which is not matter, is not at
all—unless qualities are things.
P. Is God, then, material?
V. No. [This reply startled me very much.]
P. What, then, is he?
V. [After a long pause, and mutteringly.] I see—but it is a thing difficult to tell. [Another long pause.]
He is not spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as you understand it. But there are gradations of
matter of which man knows nothing; the grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading
the grosser. The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while the electric
principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations of matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a matter unparticled—without particles—indivisible—one; and here the
law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The ultimate or unparticled matter not only
permeates all things, but impels all things; and thus is all things within itself. This matter is
God. What men attempt to embody in the word “thought,” is this matter in motion.
P. The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to motion and thinking,
and that the latter is the origin of the former.
46
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
V. Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the action of mind, not of thinking.
The unparticled matter, or God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what
men call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect to human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of its unity and omni-prevalence; how, I
know not, and now clearly see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set
in motion by a law or quality existing within itself, is thinking.
P. Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the unparticled matter?
V. The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in gradation. We have,
for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric,
electricity, the luminiferous ether. Now, we call all these things matter, and embrace all
matter in one general definition; but in spite of this, there can be no two ideas more
essentially distinct than that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to
the luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is
our conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to seek aid from our
notion of an atom, as something possessing in infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability,
weight. Destroy the idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able to
regard the ether as an entity, or, at least, as matter. For want of a better word we might
term it spirit. Take, now, a step beyond the luminiferous ether; conceive a matter as
much more rare than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we arrive
at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique mass—an unparticled matter. For
although we may admit infinite littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness in the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a point—there will be
a degree of rarity at which, if the atoms are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must
vanish, and the mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass inevitably glides into what we
conceive of spirit. It is clear, however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it is
impossible to conceive spirit, since it is impossible to imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have formed its conception, we have merely deceived our
understanding by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter.
P. There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance experienced by the heavenly bodies in their
revolutions through space—a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in some
degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have been quite overlooked by the
sagacity even of Newton. We know that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion
to their density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there are no interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether, absolutely dense, would put an infinitely
more effectual stop to the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.
V. Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in the ratio of its apparent
unanswerability.—As regards the progress of the star, it can make no difference whether
the star passes through the ether or the ether through it. There is no astronomical error more
MESMERIC REVELATION
47
unaccountable than that which reconciles the known retardation of the comets with the
idea of their passage through an ether; for, however rare this ether be supposed, it would
put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a very far briefer period than has been admitted by
those astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they found it impossible to comprehend. The retardation actually experienced is, on the other hand, about
that which might be expected from the friction of the ether in the instantaneous passage
through the orb. In the one case, the retarding force is momentary and complete within
itself—in the other it is endlessly accumulative.
P. But in all this—in this identification of mere matter with God—is there nothing of
irreverence? [I was forced to repeat this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my meaning.]
V. Can you say why matter should be less reverenced than mind? But you forget that
the matter of which I speak is, in all respects, the very “mind” or “spirit” of the schools,
so far as regards its high capacities, and is, moreover, the “matter” of these schools at the
same time. God, with all the powers attributed to spirit, is but the perfection of matter.
P. You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is thought.
V. In general, this motion is the universal thought of the universal mind. This
thought creates. All created things are but the thoughts of God.
P. You say, “in general.”
V. Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities, matter is necessary.
P. But you now speak of “mind” and “matter” as do the metaphysicians.
V. Yes—to avoid confusion. When I say “mind,” I mean the unparticled or ultimate
matter; by “matter,” I intend all else.
P. You were saying that “for new individualities matter is necessary.”
V. Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate portions of the divine mind. Thus man is
individualized. Divested of corporate investiture, he were God. Now the particular
motion of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the thought of man; as
the motion of the whole is that of God.
P. You say that divested of the body man will be God?
V. [After much hesitation.] I could not have said this; it is an absurdity.
P. [Referring to my notes.] You did say that “divested of corporate investiture man
were God.”
V. And this is true. Man thus divested would be God—would be unindividualized. But
he can never be thus divested—at least never will be—else we must imagine an action of
God returning upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature. Creatures
are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be irrevocable.
P. I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the body?
V. I say that he will never be bodiless.
P. Explain.
V. There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete, corresponding with the
two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful
48
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our
future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.
P. But of the worm’s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.
V. We, certainly—but not the worm. The matter of which our rudimental body is
composed, is within the ken of the organs of that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are adapted to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body; but
not to that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell which falls, in decaying, from the inner
form; not that inner form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is appreciable by
those who have already acquired the ultimate life.
P. You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly resembles death. How is this?
V. When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles the ultimate life; for
when I am entranced the senses of my rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive
external things directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ in the
ultimate, unorganized life.
P. Unorganized?
V. Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and
forms. The organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to that only; his
ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of unlimited comprehension in all points but
one—the nature of the volition of God—that is to say, the motion of the unparticled
matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by conceiving it to be entire
brain. This it is not; but a conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension
of what it is. A luminous body imparts vibration to the luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within the retina; these again communicate similar ones to
the optic nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain, also, similar ones
to the unparticled matter which permeates it. The motion of this latter is thought, of
which perception is the first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the
rudimental life communicates with the external world; and this external world is, to
the rudimental life, limited, through the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate,
unorganized life, the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a substance
having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with no other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than even the luminiferous; and to this ether—in unison with it—the
whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter which permeates it. It is
to the absence of idiosyncratic organs, therefore, that we must attribute the nearly
unlimited perception of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages
necessary to confine them until fledged.
P. You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental thinking beings
than man?
V. The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ, planets, suns, and
other bodies which are neither nebulæ, suns, nor planets, is for the sole purpose of
MESMERIC REVELATION
49
supplying pabulum for the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental beings.
But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the ultimate life, there would have
been no bodies such as these. Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic,
rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these creatures, enjoying the ultimate
life—immortality—and cognizant of all secrets but the one, act all things and pass every
where by mere volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly deem space created—but that
space itself—that infinity of which the truly substantive vastness swallows up the starshadows—blotting them out as non-entities from the perception of the angels.
P. You say that “but for the necessity of the rudimental life,” there would have been no
stars. But why this necessity?
V. In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter generally, there is nothing
to impede the action of one simple unique law—the Divine Volition. With the view of
producing impediment, the organic life and matter (complex, substantial, and lawencumbered) were contrived.
P. But again—why need this impediment have been produced?
V. The result of law inviolate is perfection—right—negative happiness. The result of
law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by
the number, complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and matter, the
violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent, practicable. Thus pain, which in the inorganic life is impossible, is possible in the organic.
P. But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?
V. All things are either good or bad by comparison. A sufficient analysis will show
that pleasure, in all cases, is but the contrast of pain. Positive pleasure is a mere idea. To be
happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never to suffer would have
been never to have been blessed. But it has been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain
cannot be; thus the necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of Earth, is
the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in Heaven.
P. Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it impossible to comprehend—
“the truly substantive vastness of infinity.”
V. This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic conception of the term
“substance” itself. We must not regard it as a quality, but as a sentiment:—it is the perception, in thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their organization. There are
many things on the Earth, which would be nihility to the inhabitants of Venus—many
things visible and tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as
existing at all. But to the inorganic beings—to the angels—the whole of the unparticled
matter is substance; that is to say, the whole of what we term “space,” is to them the
truest substantiality;—the stars, meantime, through what we consider their materiality,
escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion as the unparticled matter, through what
we consider its immateriality, eludes the organic.
50
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble tone, I observed on his
countenance a singular expression, which somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to
awake him at once. No sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating all
his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed that in less than a minute
afterward his corpse had all the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of
ice. Thus, ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure from Azrael’s
hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the latter portion of his discourse, been
addressing me from out the region of the shadows?
MS. F O UND
IN A
BOTTLE
Qui n’a plus qu’un moment à vivre
N’a plus rien à dissimuler.
—Quinault, Atys
Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have
driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded
me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me
to methodise the stores which early study diligently garnered up. Beyond all things,
the works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from my ill-advised
admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid
thoughts enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the
aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime;
and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a
strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age—I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least
susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no
person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of
truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much,
lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude
imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy
have been a dead letter and a nullity.
After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from the port of
Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago Islands.
I went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness
which haunted me as a fiend.
Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and
built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the
Lachadive Islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases
of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.
51
52
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the
eastern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course
than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which
we were bound.
One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular isolated cloud, to the
N.W. It was remarkable, as well from its color as from its being the first we had seen since
our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at
once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor,
and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterward attracted by the
dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was
undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent.
Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in
fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heated iron. As night came on, every breath of wind
died away, and a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle
burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held
between the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration.
However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were
drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No
watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below—not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every
appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoon. I told the captain of my fears; but
he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My
uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon
deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion-ladder, I was startled
by a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a millwheel,
and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the
next instant a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us
fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.
The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship.
Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose,
after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted.
By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of
the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder.
With great difficulty I regained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was at first struck
with the idea of our being among breakers; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination,
was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed.
After a while I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment
of leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft.
We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
53
exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; the captain and mates must have perished while they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance we
could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like
pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously
overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made
clear breaches over us. The framework of our stern was shattered excessively, and, in
almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but to our extreme joy we
found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The
main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from
the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay; well
believing, that in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous
swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to
be soon verified. For five entire days and nights—during which our only subsistence was
a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the hulk
flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoon, were still more terrific than any tempest I
had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, with trifling variations,
S.E. and by S.; and we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the
cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above
the horizon—emitting no decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind
was upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as
we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out
no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without reflection, as if all its rays
were polarized. Just before sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went
out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-like
rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean.
We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me has not yet
arrived—to the Swede never did arrive. Thenceforward we were enshrouded in pitchy
darkness, so that we could not have seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal
night continued to envelope us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea-brilliancy to which
we had been accustomed in the tropics. We observed, too, that, although the tempest
continued to rage with unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the
usual appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept
by degrees into the spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapt in silent wonder.
We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and securing ourselves as well as
possible, to the stump of the mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean.
We had no means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our situation. We
were, however, well aware of having made farther to the southward than any previous
54
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
navigators, and felt great amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice.
In the meantime every moment threatened to be our last—every mountainous billow
hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed anything I had imagined possible, and
that we were not instantly buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of
our cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship; but I could not help
feeling the utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death
which I thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot of way the
ship made, the swelling of the black stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At
times we gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the albatross—at times became dizzy
with the velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew stagnant, and
no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken.
We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. “See! see!” cried he, shrieking in my ears,
“Almighty God! see! see!” As he spoke I became aware of a dull sullen glare of red light
which streamed down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards, I beheld a spectacle which froze the
current of my blood. At a terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of
the precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship, of perhaps four thousand tons.
Although upreared upon the summit of a wave more than a hundred times her own
altitude, her apparent size still exceeded that of any ship of the line or East Indianman in
existence. Her huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the customary
carvings of a ship. A single row of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and
dashed from the polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns which swung
to and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with horror and astonishment,
was that she bore up under a press of sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and
of that ungovernable hurricane. When we first discovered her, her bows were alone to
be seen, as she rose slowly from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of
intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle as if in contemplation of her own
sublimity, then trembled, and tottered, and—came down.
At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own
vessel was at length ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The
shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently in that portion of her frame
which was nearly under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible
violence, upon the rigging of the stranger.
As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the confusion ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the crew. With little difficulty I made my way,
unperceived, to the main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an
opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. An indefinite
sense of awe, which at first sight of the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind,
was perhaps the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself with a race
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
55
of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken, so many points of vague
novelty, doubt, and apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a hiding-place
in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to afford me a convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.
I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced me to make
use of it. A man passed by my place of concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I
could not see his face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance.
There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a
load of years, and his entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself,
in a low broken tone, some words of a language which I could not understand, and
groped in a corner among a pile of singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of
navigation. His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second childhood, and
the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on deck, and I saw him no more.
***
A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul—a sensation which
will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of by-gone time are inadequate, and for
which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own, the
latter consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know that I shall never—be satisfied with
regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions
are indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense—a
new entity is added to my soul.
***
It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays of my destiny are, I
think, gathering to a focus. Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind
which I cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly on my
part, for the people will not see. It is but just now that I passed directly before the eyes of
the mate; it was no long while ago that I ventured into the captain’s own private cabin,
and took thence the materials with which I write, and have written. I shall from time to
time continue this journal. It is true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting
it to the world, but I will not fail to make the endeavor. At the last moment I will enclose
the MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the sea.
***
An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. Are such things
the operation of ungoverned chance? I had ventured upon deck and thrown myself
down, without attracting any notice, among a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails, in the
56
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed
with a tar-brush the edges of a neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel.
The studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of the brush
are spread out into the word Discovery.
I have made my observations lately upon the structure of the vessel. Although well
armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all
negative a supposition of this kind. What she is not, I can easily perceive; what she is, I fear
it is impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and
singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvass, her severely simple
bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of
familiar things, and there is always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of recollection, an unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago.
***
I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a material to which I am a
stranger. There is a peculiar character about the wood which strikes me as rendering it
unfit for the purpose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme porousness, considered independently of the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of navigation
in these seas, and apart from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear perhaps
an observation somewhat over-curious, but this would have every characteristic of
Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by any unnatural means.
In reading the above sentence, a curious apothegm of an old weather-beaten Dutch
navigator comes full upon my recollection. “It is as sure,” he was wont to say, when any
doubt was entertained of his veracity, “as sure as there is a sea where the ship itself will
grow in bulk like the living body of the seaman.”
***
About an hour ago, I made bold to trust myself among a group of the crew. They paid
me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very midst of them all, seemed
utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold, they all
bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity;
their shoulders were bent double with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in
the wind; their voices were low, tremulous, and broken; their eyes glistened with the
rheum of years; and their gray hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them, on
every part of the deck, lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and
obsolete construction.
I mentioned, some time ago, the bending of a studding-sail. From that period, the
ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has continued her terrific course due south, with
every rag of canvas packed upon her, from her truck to her lower studding-sail booms,
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
57
and rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of
water which it can enter into the mind of man to imagine. I have just left the deck,
where I find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to experience
little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of miracles that our enormous bulk is
not swallowed up at once and forever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon
the brink of eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of
the arrowy sea-gull; and the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the
deep, but like demons confined to simple threats, and forbidden to destroy. I am led to
attribute these frequent escapes to the only natural cause which can account for such
effect. I must suppose the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or
impetuous under-tow.
***
I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin—but, as I expected, he paid me
no attention. Although in his appearance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which
might bespeak him more or less than man, still, a feeling of irrepressible reverence and
awe mingled with the sensation of wonder with which I regarded him. In stature, he is
nearly my own height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor remarkable otherwise. But it is the singularity of
the expression which reigns upon the face—it is the intense, the wonderful, the thrilling
evidence of old age so utter, so extreme, which excites within my spirit a sense—a sentiment ineffable. His forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the stamp
of a myriad of years. His gray hairs are records of the past, and his grayer eyes are sybils of
the future. The cabin floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and
mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten charts. His head was
bowed down upon his hands, and he pored, with a fiery, unquiet eye, over a paper which
I took to be a commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a monarch. He
murmured to himself—as did the first seaman whom I saw in the hold—some low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue; and although the speaker was close at my elbow, his
voice seemed to reach my ears from the distance of a mile.
***
The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the
ghosts of buried centuries; their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning; and when their
fingers fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never
felt before, although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the
shadows of fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my very soul has
become a ruin.
58
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
***
When I look around me, I feel ashamed of my former apprehension. If I trembled at the
blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and
ocean, to convey any idea of which, the words tornado and simoon are trivial and ineffective? All in the immediate vicinity of the ship, is the blackness of eternal night, and a
chaos of foamless water; but, about a league on either side of us, may be seen, indistinctly
and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into the desolate sky, and
looking like the walls of the universe.
***
As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current—if that appellation can properly be
given to a tide which, howling and shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward with a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract.
To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions, predominates even over my
despair, and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we
are hurrying onward to some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret,
whose attainment is destruction. Perhaps this current leads us to the southern pole
itself. It must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every probability
in its favor.
***
The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there is upon their countenance and expression more of the eagerness of hope than of the apathy of despair.
In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a crowd of canvas, the
ship is at times lifted bodily from out the sea! Oh, horror upon horror!—the ice opens
suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense concentric
circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose
walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder
upon my destiny! The circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly within the
grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and thundering of ocean
and tempest, the ship is quivering—oh God! and—going down!
A D ESCEN T
I NT O T HE
MAELSTRÖM
The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we frame in any way
commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them
greater than the well of Democritus.
—Joseph Glanville
We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man
seemed too much exhausted to speak.
“Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well
as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event
such as never happened before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived
to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up
body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single
day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to
unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a
shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy?”
The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to rest
that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling
by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose, a
sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet
from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to be within half
a dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my
companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me,
and dared not even glance upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself
of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of
the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and
look out into the distance.
“You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought you here that
you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned—and to
tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye.”
59
60
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which distinguished
him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in the sixty-eighth-degree of
latitude—in the great province of Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden.
The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up
a little higher—hold on to the grass if you feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond the
belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea.”
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a
hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To
the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts
of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was
but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white
and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon
whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there
was visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more properly, its position was discernible
through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer
the land, arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed
at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the
shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was
blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail,
and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a
regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction—
as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the
immediate vicinity of the rocks.
“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the Norwegians
Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off—between
Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are
the true names of the places—but why it has been thought necessary to name them at
all, is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear any thing? Do you see any
change in the water?”
We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had
ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until
it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud
and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an
American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to
the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each
moment added to its speed—to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea,
as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
61
coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and
scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all
whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere
assumes, except in precipitous descents.
In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The
general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen
before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed
to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the
whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into
the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a
smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering
motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as
not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.
The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself upon
my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation.
“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this can be nothing else than the great
whirlpool of the Maelström.”
“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-ström, from
the island of Moskoe in the midway.”
The ordinary account of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I saw.
That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of any, cannot impart
the faintest conception either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene—or
of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which confounds the beholder. I am not sure
from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could
neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. These are some
passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although
their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle.
“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is between thirtysix and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases
so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on the
rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up
the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its
impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts;
the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such an extent
and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried
down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquility are
only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an
hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury
heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts,
and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were carried
within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that whales come too near the stream,
and are overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and
bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting
to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he
roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being
absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew
upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they
are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea—it being
constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of
Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the
houses on the coast fell to the ground.”
In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The “forty fathoms” must have
reference only to portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or
Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-ström must be unmeasurably greater;
and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong
glance into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen.
Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help
smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears, for it appeared to me, in fact, a
self-evident thing, that the largest ships of the line in existence, coming within the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane, and must
disappear bodily and at once.
The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which I remember, seemed
to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore a very different and unsatisfactory
aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among
the Ferroe Islands, “have no other cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at
flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it
precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the
fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of
which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments.”—These are the words of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that in the centre of the channel of the
Maelström is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part—
the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle
in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, my imagination most readily assented; and,
mentioning it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
63
the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it nevertheless
was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it;
and here I agreed with him—for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether
unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss.
“You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man, “and if you will creep
round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a
story that will convince you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-ström.”
I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.
“Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about seventy
tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the islands beyond
Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper
opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the
Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only ones who made a regular business of going
out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the
southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these
places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only
yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so that we often got in a single day,
what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made
it a matter of desperate speculation—the risk of life standing instead of labor, and courage answering for capital.
“We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than this; and it was
our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the fifteen minutes’ slack to push across
the main channel of the Moskoe-ström, far above the pool, and then drop down upon
anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent
as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we
weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without a steady side
wind for going and coming—one that we felt sure would not fail us before our return—
and we seldom made a mis-calculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were
forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed
just about here; and once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to
death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too
boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in
spite of every thing, (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently, that, at
length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of
the innumerable cross currents—here today and gone tomorrow—which drove us
under the lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up.
“I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered ‘on the
ground’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather—but we make shift always to
run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-ström itself without accident, although at times my
heart has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before
the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack
unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys
of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, in using the sweeps
as well as afterward in fishing—but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we
had not the heart to let the young ones get into the danger—for, after all is said and
done, it was a horrible danger, and that is the truth.
“It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred.
It was on the tenth of July, 18—, a day which the people of this part of the world will
never forget—for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came
out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon,
there was a gentle and steady breeze from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly,
so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow.
“The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over to the islands
about two o’clock p.m., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all
remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven,
by my watch, when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Ström
at slack water, which we knew would be at eight.
“We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time spanked
along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen.
This was most unusual—something that had never happened to us before—and I began
to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but
could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to
return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with
a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.
“In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away and we were dead
becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, however, did not last
long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon
us—in less than two the sky was entirely overcast—and what with this and the driving
spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack.
“Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The oldest seaman in
Norway never experienced any thing like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it
cleverly took us; but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had
been sawed off—the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed
himself to it for safety.
“Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been
our custom to batten down when about to cross the Ström, by way of precaution against
the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once—for we
lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
65
the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale
of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the foremast. It was
mere instinct that prompted me to do this—which was undoubtedly the very best thing
I could have done—for I was too much flurried to think.
“For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my
breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised myself upon
my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our
little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid
herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that
had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt
somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had
made sure that he was overboard—but the next moment all this joy was turned into
horror—for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word ‘Moskoe-ström!’
‘No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from head
to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by that one
word well enough—I knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind
that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Ström, and nothing could
save us!
“You perceive that in crossing the Ström channel, we always went a long way up above
the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and watch carefully for the
slack—but now we were driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as
this! ‘To be sure,’ I thought, ‘we shall get there just about the slack—there is some little
hope in that’—but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to
dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a
ninety-gun ship.
“By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it
so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept
down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as
black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear
sky—as clear as I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—and through it there blazed forth
the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up every thing
about us with the greatest distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up!
“I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother—but in some manner
which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear
a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook
his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say ‘listen!’
“At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought flashed
upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the
moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run down at
seven o’clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves in a
strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her—which
appears strange to a landsman—and this is what is called riding, in sea phrase.
“Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose—up—up—as if
into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down
we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was
falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a
quick glance around—and that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our exact position in
an instant. The Moskoe-ström whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but
no more like the every-day Moskoe-ström than the whirl, as you now see it, is like a
mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not
have recognized the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The
lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm.
“It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly felt
the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to
larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment
the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek—such
a sound as you might imagine given out by the water-pipes of many thousand steamvessels letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always
surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge us
into the abyss, down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing
velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water
at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side
was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood
like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon.
“It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt
more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up my mind to
hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I supposed it was despair that strung my nerves.
“It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began to reflect how
magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to
think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful
a manifestation of God’s power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea
crossed my mind. After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity
about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice
I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my
old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were
singular fancies to occupy a man’s mind in such extremity—and I have often thought
since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me a
little light-headed.
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
67
“There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession; and
this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present situation—
for, as you saw for yourself, the belt of the surf is considerably lower than the general bed
of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If
you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of
mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you,
and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid
of these annoyances—just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain.
“How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We careered round
and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and
more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge.
All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on
to a small empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale
first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and
made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my
hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief
than when I saw him attempt this act—although I knew he was a madman when he did
it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point
with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all; so I let
him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in
doing; for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying
to and fro with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured
myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss; I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over.
“As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold
upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them—while I
expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles
with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had
ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt
of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked
once again upon the scene.
“Never shall I forget the sensation of awe, horror, and admiration with which I gazed
about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the
interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity
with which they spun around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot
forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have
already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away
down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“At first I was too much confused to observe any thing accurately. The general burst of
terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze
fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from
the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite
upon an even keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water—
but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be
lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely
more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been
upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved.
“The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but
still I could make out nothing distinctly on account of a thick mist in which every thing
there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and
Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls
of the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went up to the
Heavens from out of that mist I dare not attempt to describe.
“Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us to a
great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by no means proportionate.
Round and round we swept—not with any uniform movement—but in dizzying
swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards—sometimes nearly
the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow,
but very perceptible.
“Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus
borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl.
Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large masses of buildingtimber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture,
broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which
had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer
and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the
numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious, for I even
sought amusement in speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents
toward the foam below. ‘This fir-tree,’ I found myself at one time saying, ‘will certainly
be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,’—and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down
before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in
all—this fact—the fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection
that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more.
“It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope.
This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present observation. I called to
mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been
absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-ström. By far the greater number of the
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
69
articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as to
have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I distinctly recollected that
there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this
difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which
had been completely absorbed—that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of
the tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not
reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I
conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the
level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more
early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observations. The first was,
that as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent—the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of any other
shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere—the third, that, between
two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on
this subject with an old school-master of the district; and it was from him that I learned
the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although I have forgotten the explanation—how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the
forms of the floating fragments—and showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater
difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever.
“There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing these
observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at
every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes
upon the wonders of the whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have
moved but little from their original station.
“I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water-cask
upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it
into the water. I attracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels
that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was
about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design—but, whether this
was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station
by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency admitted of no delay;
and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by
means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it
into the sea, without another moment’s hesitation.
“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell
you this tale—as you see that I did escape—and as you are already in possession of the
mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say—I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance
beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my
loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam
below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance
between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great
change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew, gradually, less
and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the
gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full
moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean,
in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoeström had been. It was the hour of the slack—but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves
from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Ström, and
in a few minutes, was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat
picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now that the danger was removed)
speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old
mates and daily companions—but they knew me no more than they would have known
a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair, which had been raven black the day before, was
as white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had
changed. I told them my story—they did not belive it. I now tell it to you—and I can
scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.”
V O N K EMP E L E N
A ND H I S
DISCOVERY
After the very minute and elaborate paper by Arago, to say nothing of the summary in
Silliman’s Journal, with the detailed statement just published by Lieutenant Maury, it will
not be supposed, of course, that in offering a few hurried remarks in reference to Von
Kempelen’s discovery, I have any design to look at the subject in a scientific point of view.
My object is simply, in the first place, to say a few words of Von Kempelen himself (with
whom, some years ago, I had the honor of a slight personal acquaintance), since every
thing which concerns him must necessarily, at this moment, be of interest; and, in the
second place, to look in a general way, and speculatively, at the results of the discovery.
It may be as well, however, to premise the cursory observations which I have to offer,
by denying, very decidedly, what seems to be a general impression (gleaned, as usual in
a case of this kind, from the newpapers), viz.: that this discovery, astounding as it
unquestionably is, is unanticipated.
By reference to the “Diary of Sir Humphrey Davy” (Cottle and Munroe, London, pp.
150), it will be seen at pp. 53 and 82, that this illustrious chemist had not only conceived
the idea now in question, but had actually made no inconsiderable progress, experimentally, in the
very identical analysis now so triumphantly brought to an issue by Von Kempelen, who
although he makes not the slightest allusion to it, is, without doubt (I say it unhesitatingly,
and can prove it, if required), indebted to the “Diary” for at least the first hint of his own
undertaking. Although a little technical, I cannot refrain from appending two passages
from the “Diary,” with one of Sir Humphrey’s equations. [As we have not the algebraic
signs necessary, and as the “Diary” is to be found at the Athenæum Library, we omit here
a small portion of Mr. Poe’s manuscript.—Ed.]
The paragraph from the Courier and Enquirer, which is now going the rounds of the
press, and which purports to claim the invention for a Mr. Kissam, of Brunswick, Maine,
appears to me, I confess, a little apocryphal, for several reasons; although there is nothing either impossible or very improbable in the statement made. I need not go into
details. My opinion of the paragraph is founded principally upon its manner. It does not
look true. Persons who are narrating facts, are seldom so particular as Mr. Kissam seems to
be, about day and date and precise location. Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually did come upon
71
72
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
the discovery he says he did, at the period designated—nearly eight years ago,—how
happens it that he took no steps, on the instant, to reap the immense benefits which the
merest bumpkin must have known would have resulted to him individually, if not to
the world at large, from the discovery? It seems to me quite incredible that any man of
common understanding could have discovered what Mr. Kissam says he did, and yet
have subsequently acted so like a baby—so like an owl—as Mr. Kissam admits that he did.
By-the-way, who is Mr. Kissam? and is not the whole paragraph in the Courier and Enquirer
a fabrication got up to “make a talk”? It must be confessed that it has an amazingly
moon-hoax-y air. Very little dependence is to be placed upon it, in my humble opinion;
and if I were not well aware, from experience, how very easily men of science are mystified,
on points out of their usual range of inquiry, I should be profoundly astonished at finding so eminent a chemist as Professor Draper, discussing Mr. Kissam’s (or is it Mr.
Quizzem’s?) pretensions to the discovery, in so serious a tone.
But to return to the “Diary” of Sir Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet was not designed
for the public eye, even upon the decease of the writer, as any person at all conversant
with authorship may satisfy himself at once by the slightest inspection of the style. At
page 13, for example, near the middle, we read, in reference to his researches about the
protoxide of azote: “In less than half a minute the respiration being continued, diminished gradually and were succeeded by analogous to gentle pressure on all the muscles.”
That the respiration was not “diminished,” is not only clear by the subsequent context, but
by the use of the plural, “were.” The sentence, no doubt, was thus intended: “In less than
half a minute, the respiration being continued, [these feelings] diminished gradually, and
were succeeded by [a sensation] analogous to gentle pressure on all the muscles.” A hundred similar instances go to show that the MS. so inconsiderately published, was merely
a rough note-book, meant only for the writer’s own eye; but an inspection of the pamphlet
will convince almost any thinking person of the truth of my suggestion. The fact is, Sir
Humphrey Davy was about the last man in the world to commit himself on scientific topics.
Not only had he a more than ordinary dislike to quackery, but he was morbidly afraid of
appearing empirical; so that, however fully he might have been convinced that he was on
the right track in the matter now in question, he would never have spoken out, until he
had every thing ready for the most practical demonstration. I verily believe that his last
moments would have been rendered wretched, could he have suspected that his wishes
in regard to burning this “Diary” (full of crude speculations) would have been unattended to; as, it seems, they were. I say “his wishes,” for that he meant to include this
note-book among the miscellaneous papers directed “to be burnt,” I think there can be
no manner of doubt. Whether it escaped the flames by good fortune or by bad, yet
remains to be seen. That the passages quoted above, with the other similar ones referred
to, gave Von Kempelen the hint, I do not in the slightest degree question; but I repeat, it
yet remains to be seen whether this momentous discovery itself (momentous under any
circumstances) will be of service or disservice to mankind at large. That Von Kempelen
and his immediate friends will reap a rich harvest, it would be folly to doubt for a
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
73
moment. They will scarcely be so weak as not to “realize,” in time, by large purchases of
houses and land, with other property of intrinsic value.
In the brief account of Von Kempelen which appeared in the Home Journal, and has
since been extensively copied, several misapprehensions of the German original seem to
have been made by the translator, who professes to have taken the passage from a late
number of the Presburg Schnellpost. “Viele” has evidently been misconceived (as it often is),
and what the translator renders by “sorrows,” is probably “lieden,” which, in its true version, “sufferings,” would give a totally different complexion to the whole account; but,
of course, much of this is merely guess, on my part.
Von Kempelen, however, is by no means “a misanthrope,” in appearance, at least,
whatever he may be in fact. My acquaintance with him was casual altogether; and I am
scarcely warranted in saying that I know him at all; but to have seen and conversed with
a man of so prodigious a notoriety as he has attained, or will attain in a few days, is not a
small matter, as times go.
The Literary World speaks of him, confidently, as a native of Presburg (misled, perhaps, by
the account in The Home Journal) but I am pleased in being able to state positively, since I have
it from his own lips, that he was born in Utica, in the State of New York, although both
his parents, I believe, are of Presburg descent. The family is connected, in some way, with
Mäelzel, of automaton-chess-player memory. [If we are not mistaken, the name of the
inventor of the chess-player was either Kempelen, Von Kempelen, or something like it.—
Ed.] In person, he is short and stout, with large, fat, blue eyes, sandy hair and whiskers, a
wide but pleasing mouth, fine teeth, and I think a Roman nose. There is some defect in
one of his feet. His address is frank, and his whole manner noticeable for bonhommie. Altogether, he looks, speaks, and acts as little like “a misanthrope” as any man I ever saw. We
were fellow-sojourners for a week, about six years ago, at Earl’s Hotel, in Providence,
Rhode Island; and I presume that I conversed with him, at various times, for some three
or four hours altogether. His principal topics were those of the day; and nothing that fell
from him led me to suspect his scientific attainments. He left the hotel before me, intending to go to New York, and thence to Bremen; it was in the latter city that his great
discovery was first made public; or, rather, it was there that he was first suspected of having made it. This is about all that I personally know of the now immortal Von Kempelen;
but I have thought that even these few details would have interest for the public.
There can be little question that most of the marvellous rumors afloat about this
affair are pure inventions, entitled to about as much credit as the story of Alladin’s lamp;
and yet, in a case of this kind, as in the case of the discoveries in California, it is clear that
the truth may be stranger than fiction. The following anecdote, at least, is so well authenticated, that we may receive it implicitly.
Von Kempelen had never been even tolerably well off during his residence at Bremen;
and often, it was well known, he had been put to extreme shifts in order to raise trifling
sums. When the great excitement occurred about the forgery on the house of Gutsmuth
& Co., suspicion was directed toward Von Kempelen, on account of his having purchased
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
a considerable property in Gasperitch Lane, and his refusing, when questioned, to explain
how he became possessed of the purchase money. He was at length arrested, but nothing
decisive appearing against him, was in the end set at liberty. The police, however, kept a
strict watch upon his movements, and thus discovered that he left home frequently, taking always the same road, and invariably giving his watchers the slip in the neighborhood
of that labyrinth of narrow and crooked passages known by the flash name of the “Dondergat.” Finally, by dint of great perseverance, they traced him to a garret in an old house
of seven stories, in an alley called Flatzplatz; and, coming upon him suddenly, found him,
as they imagined, in the midst of his counterfeiting operations. His agitation is represented
as so excessive that the officers had not the slightest doubt of his guilt. After handcuffing
him, they searched his room, or rather rooms, for it appears he occupied all the mansarde.
Opening into the garret where they caught him, was a closet, ten feet by eight, fitted
up with some chemical apparatus, of which the object has not yet been ascertained. In
one corner of the closet was a very small furnace, with a glowing fire in it, and on the fire
a kind of duplicate crucible—two crucibles connected by a tube. One of these crucibles
was nearly full of lead in a state of fusion, but not reaching up to the aperture of the tube,
which was close to the brim. The other crucible had some liquid in it, which, as the officers entered, seemed to be furiously dissipating in vapor. They relate that, on finding
himself taken, Von Kempelen seized the crucibles with both hands (which were encased
in gloves that afterward turned out to be asbestic), and threw the contents on the tiled
floor. It was now that they handcuffed him; and before proceeding to ransack the premises, they searched his person, but nothing unusual was found about him, excepting a
paper parcel, in his coat-pocket, containing what was afterward ascertained to be a mixture of antimony and some unknown substance, in nearly, but not quite, equal proportions.
All attempts at analyzing the unknown substance have, so far, failed, but that it will
ultimately be analyzed, is not to be doubted.
Passing out of the closet with their prisoner, the officers went through a sort of antechamber, in which nothing material was found, to the chemist’s sleeping-room. They
here rummaged some drawers and boxes, but discovered only a few papers, of no importance, and some good coin, silver and gold. At length, looking under the bed, they saw
a large, common hair trunk, without hinges, hasp, or lock, and with the top lying carelessly across the
bottom portion. Upon attempting to draw this trunk out from under the bed, they
found that, with their united strength (there were three of them, all powerful men),
they “could not stir it one inch.” Much astonished at this, one of them crawled under
the bed, and looking into the trunk, said:
“No wonder we couldn’t move it—why it’s full to the brim of old bits of brass!”
Putting his feet, now, against the wall, so as to get a good purchase, and pushing with
all his force, while his companions pulled with all theirs, the trunk, with much difficulty,
was slid out from under the bed, and its contents examined. The supposed brass with
which it was filled was all in small, smooth pieces, varying from the size of a pea to that of
a dollar; but the pieces were irregular in shape, although more or less flat—looking, upon
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
75
the whole, “very much as lead looks when thrown upon the ground in a molten state,
and there suffered to grow cool.” Now, not one of these officers for a moment suspected
this metal to be any thing but brass. The idea of its being gold never entered their brains, of
course; how could such a wild fancy have entered it? And their astonishment may be well
conceived, when next day it became known, all over Bremen, that the “lot of brass” which
they had carted so contemptuously to the police office, without putting themselves to
the trouble of pocketing the smallest scrap, was not only gold—real gold—but gold far
finer than any employed in coinage—gold, in fact, absolutely pure, virgin, without the
slightest appreciable alloy!
I need not go over the details of Von Kempelen’s confession (as far as it went) and
release, for these are familiar to the public. That he has actually realized, in spirit and in
effect, if not to the letter, the old chimera of the philosopher’s stone, no sane person is
at liberty to doubt. The opinions of Arago are, of course, entitled to the greatest consideration; but he is by no means infallible; and what he says of bismuth, in his report to the
Academy, must be taken cum grano salis. The simple truth is, that up to this period all
analysis has failed; and until Von Kempelen chooses to let us have the key to his own
published enigma, it is more than probable that the matter will remain, for years, in statu
quo. All that yet can fairly be said to be known is, that “pure gold can be made at will, and very
readily from lead in connection with certain other substances, in kind and in proportions, unknown.”
Speculation, of course, is busy as to the immediate and ultimate results of this discovery—a discovery which few thinking persons will hesitate in referring to an increased
interest in the matter of gold generally, by the late developments in California; and this
reflection brings us inevitably to another—the exceeding inopportuneness of Von Kempelen’s analysis. If many were prevented from adventuring to California, by the mere
apprehension that gold would so materially diminish in value, on account of its plentifulness in the mines there, as to render the speculation of going so far in search of it a
doubtful one—what impression will be wrought now, upon the minds of those about to
emigrate, and especially upon the minds of those actually in the mineral region, by the
announcement of this astounding discovery of Von Kempelen? a discovery which
declares, in so many words, that beyond its intrinsic worth for manufacturing purposes
(whatever that worth may be), gold now is, or at least soon will be (for it cannot be supposed that Von Kempelen can long retain his secret), of no greater value than lead, and of
far inferior value to silver. It is, indeed, exceedingly difficult to speculate prospectively
upon the consequences of the discovery; but one thing may be positively maintained—
that the announcement of the discovery six months ago would have had material
influence in regard to the settlement of California.
In Europe, as yet, the most noticeable results have been a rise of two hundred per
cent in the price of lead, and nearly twenty-five per cent in that of silver.
T H E G O L D - B UG
What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.
—All in the Wrong
Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an
ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had
reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left
New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan’s Island,
near Charleston, South Carolina.
This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is
about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated
from the mainland by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness
of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the
western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame
buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever,
may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of
this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is covered with a
dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an
almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air with its fragrance.
In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or more remote end
of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut, which he occupied when I first, by
mere accident, made his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was
much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with
unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods
of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely
employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along
the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens—his
76
THE GOLD-BUG
77
collection of the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions
he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted
before the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by threats nor by
promises, to abandon what he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of
his young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him
to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter,
with a view to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very severe, and in the fall
of the year it is a rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of
October, 18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I had not
visited for several weeks—my residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of
nine miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and re-passage were very far
behind those of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and
getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door,
and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It was a novelty, and by no means
an ungrateful one. I threw off an overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and
awaited patiently the arrival of my hosts.
Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning
from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in
one of his fits—how else shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured,
with Jupiter’s assistance, a scarabæus which he believed to be totally new, but in respect to
which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow.
“And why not tonight?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and wishing the
whole tribe of scarabæi at the devil.
“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so long since I saw
you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this very night of all others?
As I was coming home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent
him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay here
tonight, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”
“What?—sunrise?”
“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the size of a large
hickory-nut—with two jet blacks spots near one extremity of the back, and another,
somewhat longer, at the other. The antennæ are—”
“Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin’ on you,” here interrupted Jupiter;
“de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel
half so hebby a bug in my life.”
“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it seemed to
me, than the case demanded; “is that any reason for your letting the birds burn? The
color”—here he turned to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit—but of this you cannot
judge till tomorrow. In the meantime I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this,
he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked
for some in a drawer, but found none.
“Never mind,” he said at length, “this will answer”; and he drew from his waistcoat
pocket a scrap of what I took to be a very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly.
When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud
growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large
Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded
me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention during previous visits. When his
gambols were over, I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.
“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this is a strange scarabæus, I
must confess; new to me; never saw any thing like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
death’s-head, which it more nearly resembles than any thing else that has come under
my observation.”
“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand, “Oh—yes—well, it has something of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer
one at the bottom like a mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.”
“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait until I see the
beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw tolerably—should do it at least—
have had good masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”
“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very passable skull—indeed,
I may say that it is a very excellent skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
specimens of physiology—and your scarabæus must be the queerest scarabæus in the world
if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I
presume you will call the bug scarabæus caput hominis, or something of that kind—there are
many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the antennæ you spoke of?”
“The antennæ!” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon
the subject; “I am sure you must see the antennæ. I made them as distinct as they are in the
original insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”
“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them”; and I handed him the
paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing
of the beetle, there were positively no antennæ visible, and the whole did bear a very close
resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.
He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it, apparently to
throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet his
attention. In an instant his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For
THE GOLD-BUG
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some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At
length he arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon a
sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing, however, and his
conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not to exacerbate the growing
moodiness of his temper by any comment. Presently he took from his coat-pocket a
wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he
locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As the
evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in revery, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to pass the night at the hut,
as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper
to take leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand
with even more than his usual cordiality.
It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen nothing of
Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen
the good old negro look so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen
my friend.
“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your master?”
“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.”
“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?”
“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick for all dat.”
“Very sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he confined to bed?”
“No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat ’s just whar de shoe pinch—my mind
is got to berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.”
“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. You say your
master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him?”
“Why, massa, ’t aint worf while for to git mad about de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but den what make him go about looking dis here
way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a
syphon all de time—”
“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”
“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise
gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me slip ’fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a
big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when he did come—but Ise sich
a fool dat I hadn’t de heart after all—he looked so berry poorly.”
“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be too severe
with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well stand it—but can you
form no idea of what has occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has
any thing unpleasant happened since I saw you?”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant since den—’t was ’fore den I’m feared—’t
was de berry day you was dare.”
“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout de head by dat
goole-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”
“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a deuced bug—he kick and
he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him
go ’gin mighty quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I didn’t like de
look ob de bug mouff, myself, nohow, so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my finger, but
I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff a piece of
it in he mouff—dat was de way.”
“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, and that the
bite made him sick?”
“I don’t think noffin’ about it—I nose it. What make him dream ’bout de goole so
much, if ’t aint cause he bit by the goole-bug? Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs ’fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”
“How I know? why, ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.”
“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you today?”
“What de matter, massa?”
“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”
“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel”; and here Jupiter handed me a note which ran thus:
“My Dear ——
“Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you have not been so foolish as
to take offence at any little brusquerie of mine; but no, that is improbable.
“Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you, yet
scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at all.
“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup annoys me, almost
beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and
spending the day, solus, among the hills on the main land. I verily believe that my ill looks
alone saved me a flogging.
“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.
“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. Do come. I wish to
see you tonight, upon business of importance. I assure you that it is of the highest importance.
“Ever yours,
William Legrand.”
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There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great uneasiness. Its
whole style differed materially from that of Legrand. What could he be dreaming of?
What new crotchet possessed his excitable brain? What “business of the highest importance” could he possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account of him boded no good. I
dreaded lest the continued pressure of misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled the
reason of my friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared to accompany
the negro.
Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all apparently new,
lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were to embark.
“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.
“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”
“Very true; but what are they doing here?”
“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis ’pon my buying for him in de town,
and de debbil’s own lot of money I had to gib for ’em.”
“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ‘Massa Will’ going to do with
scythes and spades?”
“Dat’s more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don’t b’lieve ’t is more dan he know
too. But it’s all cum ob de bug.”
Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole intellect
seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped into the boat, and made sail. With a fair
and strong breeze we soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and
a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon when
we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with
a nervous empressement which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions already entertained. His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with
unnatural lustre. After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing
what better to say, if he had yet obtained the scarabæus from Lieutenant G——.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that scarabæus. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right
about it?”
“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.
“In supposing it to be a bug of real gold.” He said this with an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.
“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant smile; “to reinstate
me in my family possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has
thought fit to bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly, and I shall arrive at the gold
of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that scarabæus!”
“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug; you mus’ git him for
your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately air, and brought me
the beetle from a glass case in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and, at
that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great prize in a scientific point of view.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
There were two round black spots near one extremity of the back, and a long one near
the other. The scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into
consideration, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to
make of Legrand’s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the life of me, tell.
“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you that I might have your counsel and assistance in
furthering the views of Fate and of the bug—”
“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly unwell, and had
better use some little precautions. You shall go to bed, and I will remain with you a few
days, until you get over this. You are feverish and—”
“Feel my pulse,” said he.
I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest indication of fever.
“But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to prescribe for you.
In the first place go to bed. In the next—”
“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect to be under the
excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me well, you will relieve this excitement.”
“And how is this to be done?”
“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into the hills, upon the
main land, and, in this expedition, we shall need the aid of some person in whom we can
confide. You are the only one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement
which you now perceive in me will be equally allayed.”
“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you mean to say that this
infernal beetle has any connection with your expedition into the hills?”
“It has.”
“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd proceeding.”
“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by ourselves.”
“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay!—how long do you propose
to be absent?”
“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at all events, by sunrise.”
“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak of yours is over,
and the bug business (good God!) settled to your satisfaction, you will then return
home and follow my advice implicitly, as that of your physician?”
“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to lose.”
With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four o’clock—
Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with him the scythe and spades—the
whole of which he insisted upon carrying—more through fear, it seemed to me, of
trusting either of the implements within reach of his master, than from any excess
of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in the extreme, and “dat
deuced bug” were the sole words which escaped his lips during the journey. For my
own part, I had charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself
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83
with the scarabæus, which he carried attached to the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling
it to and fro, with the air of a conjuror, as he went. When I observed this last, plain
evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely refrain from tears. I
thought it best, however, to humor his fancy, at least for the present, or until I could
adopt some more energetic measures with a chance of success. In the meantime I
endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object of the expedition.
Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold
conversation upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no other reply than “we shall see!”
We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a skiff, and, ascending the
high grounds on the shore of the main land, proceeded in a northwesterly direction,
through a tract of country excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a human
footstep was to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision; pausing only for an instant,
here and there, to consult what appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance
upon a former occasion.
In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was just setting when
we entered a region infinitely more dreary than any yet seen. It was a species of tableland,
near the summit of an almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle,
and interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie loosely upon the soil, and in many
cases were prevented from precipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by the
support of the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in various directions, gave
an air of still sterner solemnity to the scene.
The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly overgrown with
brambles, through which we soon discovered that it would have been impossible to force
our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear for
us a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with some eight or
ten oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed them all, and all other trees which I had then
ever seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread of its branches, and in
the general majesty of its appearance. When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to
Jupiter, and asked him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At length he approached
the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and examined it with minute attention. When
he had completed his scrutiny, he merely said:
“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.”
“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too dark to see what we
are about.”
“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.
“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way to go—and here—
stop! take this beetle with you.”
“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back in dismay—
“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d—n if I do!”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold of a harmless little dead
beetle, why you can carry it up by this string—but, if you do not take it up with you in
some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel.”
“What de matter now massa?” said Jup, evidently shamed into compliance; “always want
for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only funnin anyhow. Me feered de bug! what I keer for de
bug?” Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, maintaining the
insect as far from his person as circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.
In youth, the tulip-tree, or Liriodendron Tulipiferum, the most magnificent of American
foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth, and often rises to a great height without lateral
branches; but, in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short
limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension, in the present
case, lay more in semblance than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely as
possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his
naked toes upon others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length
wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to consider the whole business as
virtually accomplished. The risk of the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the
climber was some sixty or seventy feet from the ground.
“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.
“Keep up the largest branch—the one on this side,” said Legrand. The negro obeyed
him promptly, and apparently with but little trouble; ascending higher and higher, until
no glimpse of his squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.
“How much fudder is got for go?”
“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.
“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de sky fru de top ob de tree.”
“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the trunk and count the
limbs below you on this side. How many limbs have you passed?”
“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon dis side.”
“Then go one limb higher.”
In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the seventh limb
was attained.
“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to work your way
out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see any thing strange let me know.”
By this time what little doubt I might have entertained of my poor friend’s insanity
was put finally at rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him stricken with lunacy, and
I became seriously anxious about getting him home. While I was pondering upon what
was best to be done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.
“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’t is dead limb putty much all de way.”
“Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a quavering voice.
“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartin—done departed dis
here life.”
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85
“What in the name of heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in the greatest
distress.
“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, “why come home and go
to bed. Come now!—that’s a fine fellow. It’s getting late, and, besides, you remember
your promise.”
“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, “do you hear me?”
“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”
“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it very rotten.”
“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few moments, “but not so berry
rotten as mought be. Mough venture out leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat’s true.”
“By yourself!—what do you mean?”
“Why, I mean de bug. ’T is berry hebby bug. Spose I drop him down fuss, and den de
limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one nigger.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much relieved, “what do you
mean by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as you drop that beetle I’ll break your
neck. Look here, Jupiter, do you hear me?”
“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”
“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the limb as far as you think safe, and
not let go the beetle, I’ll make you a present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down.”
“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very promptly—“mos out to
the eend now.”
“Out to the end!” here fairly screamed Legrand; “do you say you are out to the end of
that limb?”
“Soon be to de eend, massa—o-o-o-o-oh! Lor-gol-a marcy! what is dis here pon
de tree?”
“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what is it?”
“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef him head up de tree, and de crows
done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off.”
“A skull, you say!—very well,—how is it fastened to the limb?—what holds it on?”
“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why dis berry curous sarcumstance, pon my word—
dare’s a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob it on to de tree.”
“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you hear?”
“Yes, massa.”
“Pay attention, then—find the left eye of the skull.”
“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why dey ain’t no eye lef at all.”
“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your left?”
“Yes, I knows dat—knows all about dat—’t is my lef hand what I chops de wood wid.”
“To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the same side as your left
hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye of the skull, or the place where the
left eye has been. Have you found it?”
Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de skull too?—cause de
skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye now—here de lef
eye! what mus do wid it?”
“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach—but be careful and not
let go your hold of the string.”
“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de hole—look out
for him dare below!”
During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person could be seen; but the beetle,
which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the end of the string, and glistened,
like a globe of burnished gold, in the last rays of the setting sun, some of which still
faintly illuminated the eminence upon which we stood. The scarabæus hung quite clear
of any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space, three of four yards in diameter,
just beneath the insect, and, having accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the
string and come down from the tree.
Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise spot where the beetle
fell, my friend now produced from his pocket a tape-measure. Fastening one end of this
at that point of the trunk of the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it
reached the peg and thence further unrolled it, in the direction already established by
the two points of the tree and the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing
away the brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg was driven,
and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described. Taking
now a spade himself, and giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set
about digging as quickly as possible.
To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at any time, and, at
that particular moment, would most willingly have declined it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of
escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity by a refusal. Could I
have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid, I would have had no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic home by force; but I was too well assured of the old negro’s
disposition, to hope that he would assist me, under any circumstances, in a personal
contest with his master. I made no doubt that the latter had been infected with some of
the innumerable Southern superstitions about money buried, and that his phantasy
had received confirmation by the finding of the scarabæus, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind disposed to luncay would
readily be led away by such suggestions—especially if chiming in with favorite preconceived ideas—and then I called to mind the poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s
being “the index of his fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and puzzled, but,
at length, I concluded to make a virtue of necessity—to dig with a good will, and thus
the sooner to convince the visionary, by ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the
opinions he entertained.
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87
The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal worthy a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our persons and implements, I could not help
thinking how picturesque a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our
labors must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might have stumbled
upon our whereabouts.
We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our chief embarrassment lay
in the yelpings of the dog, who took exceeding interest in our proceedings. He, at length,
became so obstreperous that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers
in the vicinity,—or, rather, this was the apprehension of Legrand;—for myself, I should
have rejoiced at any interruption which might have enabled me to get the wanderer
home. The noise was, at length, very effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of
the hole with a dogged air of deliberation, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his
suspenders, and then returned, with a grave chuckle to his task.
When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of five feet, and yet
no signs of any treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued, and I began to hope
that the farce was at an end. Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted,
wiped his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the entire circle of
four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to the farther depth
of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at length
clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off
at the beginning of his labor. In the meantime I made no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from
his master, began to gather up his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled,
we turned in profound silence toward home.
We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when, with a loud oath,
Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. The astonished negro opened
his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.
“You scoundrel!” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from between his clenched
teeth—“you infernal black villain!—speak, I tell you!—answer me this instant, without
prevarication!—which—which is your left eye?”
“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?” roared the terrified
Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge.
“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated Legrand, letting the negro go and
executing a series of curvets and caracols, much to the astonishment of his valet, who,
arising from his knees, looked, mutely, from his master to myself, and then from myself
to his master.
“Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the game’s not up yet”; and he again led
the way to the tulip-tree.
“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come here! was the skull nailed to the
limb with the face outward, or with the face to the limb?”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes good, widout any trouble.”
“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the beetle?”—here
Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s eyes.
“ ’T was dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell me,” and here it was his right eye
that the negro indicated.
“That will do—we must try it again.”
Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I saw, certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked the spot where the beetle fell, to a spot
about three inches to the westward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape measure
from the nearest point of the trunk to the peg, as before, and continuing the extension
in a straight line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, removed, by several
yards, from the point at which we had been digging.
Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the former instance, was
now described, and we again set to work with the spade. I was dreadfully weary, but,
scarcely understanding what had occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer
any great aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most unaccountably interested—nay, even excited. Perhaps there was something, amid all the extravagant
demeanor of Legrand—some air of forethought, or of deliberation, which impressed
me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with something
that very much resembled expectation, for the fancied treasure, the vision of which had
demented my unfortunate companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most
fully possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a half, we were
again interrupted by the violent howlings of the dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance,
had been, evidently, but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a bitter
and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould frantically with his claws. In a few
seconds he had uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two complete skeletons,
intermingled with several buttons of metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed
woollen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Spanish knife, and,
as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and silver coin came to light.
At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be restrained, but the countenance of
his master wore an air of extreme disappointment. He urged us, however, to continue our
exertions, and the words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having
caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth.
We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of more intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly unearthed an oblong chest of wood, which,
from its perfect preservation and wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to
some mineralizing process—perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury. This box was
three feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly
secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open trellis-work over
the whole. On each side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron—six in
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89
all—by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united
endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its bed. We at once saw the
impossibility of removing so great a weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These we drew back—trembling and panting with anxiety. In
an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the rays of the
lanterns fell within the pit, there flashed upward a glow and a glare, from a confused
heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely dazzled our eyes.
I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. Amazement was, of
course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement, and spoke very few
words. Jupiter’s countenance wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible,
in the nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed stupefied—
thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the pit, and burying his naked arms
up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At
length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:
“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor little goole-bug, what I
boosed in dat sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed ob yourself, nigger?—answer me dat!”
It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion,
that we might get every thing housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should
be done, and much time was spent in deliberation—so confused were the ideas of all.
We, finally, lightened the box by removing two thirds of its contents, when we were
enabled, with some trouble, to raise it from the hole. The articles taken out were deposited among the brambles, and the dog left to guard them, with strict orders from Jupiter
neither, upon any pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our
return. We then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but
after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning. Worn out as we were, it was not in
human nature to do more immediately. We rested until two, and had supper; starting
for the hills immediately afterward, armed with three stout sacks, which, by good luck,
were upon the premises. A little before four we arrived at the pit, divided the remainder
of the booty, as equally as might be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set
out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we deposited our golden burthens, just as
the first faint streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East.
We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of the time
denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of three or four hours’ duration, we arose,
as if by preconcert, to make examination of our treasure.
The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day, and the greater part
of the next night, in a scrutiny of its contents. There had been nothing like order or
arrangement. Every thing had been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with
care, we found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we had at first supposed. In
coin there was rather more than four hundred and fifty thousand dollars—estimating
the value of the pieces, as accurately as we could, by the tables of the period. There was
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
not a particle of silver. All was gold of antique date and of great variety—French, Spanish,
and German money, with a few English guineas, and some counters, of which we had
never seen specimens before. There were several very large and heavy coins, so worn that
we could make nothing of their inscriptions. There was no American money. The value
of the jewels we found more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some of
them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten in all, and not one of them small;
eighteen rubies of remarkable brilliancy;—three hundred and ten emeralds, all very
beautiful; and twenty-one sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken from
their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings themselves, which we picked
out from among the other gold, appeared to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to
prevent identification. Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments:
nearly two hundred massive finger- and ear-rings; rich chains—thirty of these, if I
remember; eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers of great value; a
prodigious golden punch-bowl, ornamented with richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller
articles which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables exceeded three hundred
and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this estimate I have not included one hundred and
ninety-seven superb gold watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred
dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, and as timekeepers valueless; the works having suffered, more or less, from corrosion—but all were richly jewelled and in cases of
great worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a
half of dollars; and upon the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being
retained for our own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the treasure.
When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the intense excitement of
the time had, in some measure, subsided, Legrand, who saw that I was dying with impatience for a solution of this most extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all the
circumstances connected with it.
“You remember,” said he, “the night when I handed you the rough sketch I had
made of the scarabæus. You recollect also, that I became quite vexed at you for insisting
that my drawing resembled a death’s-head. When you first made this assertion I thought
you were jesting; but afterward I called to mind the peculiar spots on the back of the
insect, and admitted to myself that your remark had some little foundation in fact. Still,
the sneer at my graphic powers irritated me—for I am considered a good artist—and,
therefore, when you handed me the scrap of parchment, I was about to crumple it up
and throw it angrily into the fire.”
“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.
“No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I supposed it to be such, but
when I came to draw upon it, I discovered it at once to be a piece of very thin parchment.
It was quite dirty, you remember. Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling it up, my
glance fell upon the sketch at which you had been looking, and you may imagine
my astonishment when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head just where, it
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91
seemed to me, I had made the drawing of the beetle. For a moment I was too much
amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my design was very different in detail from
this—although there was a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took a candle, and seating myself at the other end of the room, proceeded to scrutinize the
parchment more closely. Upon turning it over, I saw my own sketch upon the reverse,
just as I had made it. My first idea, now, was mere surprise at the really remarkable
similarity of outline—at the singular coincidence involved in the fact that, unknown to
me, there should have been a skull upon the other side of the parchment, immediately
beneath my figure of the scarabæus, and that this skull, not only in outline, but in size,
should so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind
struggles to establish a connection—a sequence of cause and effect—and, being unable
to do so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor,
there dawned upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more than the
coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there had been no drawing
upon the parchment when I made my sketch of the scarabæus. I became perfectly certain
of this; for I recollected turning up first one side and then the other, in search of the
cleanest spot. Had the skull been then there, of course I could not have failed to notice
it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt it impossible to explain; but, even at that early
moment, there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most remote and secret chambers
of my intellect, a glow-worm-like conception of that truth which last night’s adventure
brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and putting the parchment
securely away, dismissed all further reflection until I should be alone.
“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook myself to a more
methodical investigation of the affair. In the first place I considered the manner in which
the parchment had come into my possession. The spot where we discovered the scarabæus
was on the coast of the main-land, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a short
distance above high-water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which
caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution, before seizing the insect,
which had flown toward him, looked about him for a leaf, or something of that nature, by
which to take hold of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine also, fell upon the
scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to be paper. It was lying half buried in the sand,
a corner sticking up. Near the spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull
of what appeared to have been a ship’s longboat. The wreck seemed to have been there for
a very great while; for the resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced.
“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon
afterward we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant G——. I showed him the
insect, and he begged me to let him take it to the fort. Upon my consenting, he thrust it
forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the parchment in which it had been wrapped,
and which I had continued to hold in my hand during his inspection. Perhaps he dreaded
my changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure of the prize at once—you know
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
how enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected with Natural History. At the same time,
without being conscious of it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own pocket.
“You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of making a sketch of
the beetle, I found no paper where it was usually kept. I looked in the drawer, and found
none there. I searched my pockets, hoping to find an old letter, when my hand fell upon
the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which it came into my possession; for the
circumstances impressed me with peculiar force.
“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had already established a kind of connection. I had put together two links of a great chain. There was a boat lying upon a
sea-coast, and not far from the boat was a parchment—not a paper—with a skull depicted
upon it. You will, of course, ask ‘where is the connection?’ I reply that the skull, or
death’s-head, is the well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s-head is
hoisted in all engagements.
“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper. Parchment is durable—
almost imperishable. Matters of little moment are rarely consigned to parchment; since,
for the mere ordinary purposes of drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as
paper. This reflection suggested some meaning—some relevancy—in the death’s-head.
I did not fail to observe, also, the form of the parchment. Although one of its corners had
been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be seen that the original form was oblong. It
was just such a slip, indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum—for a
record of something to be long remembered and carefully preserved.”
“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was not upon the parchment when you
made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you trace any connection between the
boat and the skull—since this latter, according to your own admission, must have been
designed (God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the scarabæus?”
“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at this point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My steps were sure, and could afford but a single result.
I reasoned, for example, thus: When I drew the scarabæus, there was no skull apparent upon
the parchment. When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until you returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull, and no one else was
present to do it. Then it was not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was done.
“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and did remember, with
entire distinctness, every incident which occurred about the period in question. The
weather was chilly (oh, rare and happy accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the hearth.
I was heated with exercise and sat near the table. You, however, had drawn a chair close
to the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you were in the act
of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped upon your shoulders. With
your left hand you caressed him and kept him off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted to fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the
fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was about to caution you, but,
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93
before I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged in its examination. When I
considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a moment that heat had been the agent
in bringing to light, upon the parchment, the skull which I saw designed upon it. You are
well aware that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind, by means
of which it is possible to write upon either paper or vellum so that the characters shall
become visible only when subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in aqua regia, and
diluted with four times its weight of water, is sometimes employed; a green tint results.
The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at
longer or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but again become
apparent upon the re-application of heat.
“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its outer edges—the edges of the
drawing nearest the edge of the vellum—were far more distinct than the others. It was
clear that the action of the caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled
a fire, and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing heat. At first, the only
effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; but, upon persevering in
the experiment, there became visible, at the corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the
spot in which the death’s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to be
a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was intended for a kid.”
“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to laugh at you—a million and a half of money
is too serious a matter for mirth—but you are not about to establish a third link in your
chain—you will not find any especial connection between your pirates and a goat—pirates,
you know, having nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming interest.”
“But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat.”
“Well, a kid then—pretty much the same thing.”
“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. “You may have heard of one Captain
Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature; because its position upon the vellum suggested this idea.
The death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite, had, in the same manner, the air of
a stamp, or seal. But I was sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the body to my
imagined instrument—of the text for my context.”
“I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the signature.”
“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly impressed with a presentiment of
some vast good fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather
a desire than an actual belief;—but do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the bug
being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect upon my fancy? And then the series of accidents and coincidences—these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe how mere an
accident it was that these events should have occurred upon the sole day of all the year in
which it has been, or may be sufficiently cool for fire, and that without the fire, or without
the intervention of the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared, I should never
have become aware of the death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure.”
“But proceed—I am all impatience.”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current—the thousand vague
rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere upon the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his
associates. These rumors must have had some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have
existed so long and so continuous, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the
circumstance of the buried treasure still remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder
for a time, and afterward reclaimed it, the rumors would scarcely have reached us in their
present unvarying form. You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers,
not about money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the affair would have
dropped. It seemed to me that some accident—say the loss of a memorandum indicating its
locality—had deprived him of the means of recovering it, and that this accident had become
known to his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that treasure had been
concealed at all, and who, busying themselves in vain, because unguided, attempts to regain
it, had given first birth, and then universal currency, to the reports which are now so
common. Have you ever heard of any important treasure being unearthed along the coast?”
“Never.”
“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense, is well known. I took it for granted,
therefore, that the earth still held them; and you will scarcely be surprised when I tell
you that I felt a hope, nearly amounting to certainty, that the parchment so strangely
found involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”
“But how did you proceed?”
“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat, but nothing appeared. I
now thought it possible that the coating of dirt might have something to do with the failure: so I carefully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having done
this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downward, and put the pan upon a furnace of
lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I removed
the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in several places, with what appeared
to be figures arranged in lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another
minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now.”
Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:
“53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡); 806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*8†83(88)5*†;46(;88*96*?;8)* ‡(;485);5
*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4) 485†528806*81(‡9
;48;(88;4(‡?34;48)4‡;161;:188; ‡?;”
“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark as ever. Were all the
jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I
should be unable to earn them.”
“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so difficult as you might be led to
imagine from the first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might
readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then from what is
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95
known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse
cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a simple species—such, however,
as would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”
“And you really solved it?”
“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand times greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to take interest in such riddles, and it
may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind
which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. In fact, having once
established connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere difficulty of developing their import.
“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret writing—the first question regards
the language of the cipher; for the principles of solution, so far, especially, as the more
simple ciphers are concerned, depend upon, and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom. In general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed by probabilities) of
every tongue known to him who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained.
But, with the cipher now before us all difficulty was removed by the signature. The pun
upon the word ‘Kidd’ is appreciable in no other language than the English. But for this
consideration I should have begun my attempts with the Spanish and French, as the
tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally have been written by a pirate
of the Spanish main. As it was, I assumed the cryptograph to be English.
“You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there been divisions the
task would have been comparatively easy. In such cases I should have commenced with
a collation and analysis of the shorter words, and, had a word of a single letter occurred,
as is most likely, (a or I, for example,) I should have considered the solution as assured.
But, there being no division, my first step was to ascertain the predominant letters, as
well as the least frequent. Counting all, I constructed a table thus:
Of the character 8 there are 33.
; there are 26.
4 there are 19.
‡ ) there are 16.
* there are 13.
5 there are 12.
6 there are 11.
† 1 there are 8.
0 there are 6.
9 2 there are 5.
: 3 there are 4.
? there are 3.
¶ there are 2.
— . there are 1.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e. Afterward, the succession runs thus: a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l m w b k p q x z. E predominates so remarkably, that an
individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the prevailing character.
“Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the groundwork for something more
than a mere guess. The general use which may be made of the table is obvious—but, in
this particular cipher, we shall only very partially require its aid. As our predominant
character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the e of the natural alphabet. To
verify the supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples—for e is doubled
with great frequency in English—in such words, for example, as ‘meet,’ ‘fleet,’ ‘speed,’
‘seen,’ ‘been,’ ‘agree,’ etc. In the present instance we see it doubled no less than five times,
although the cryptograph is brief.
“Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of all words in the language, ‘the’ is most usual; let
us see, therefore, whether there are not repetitions of any three characters, in the same
order of collocation, the last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such letters, so
arranged, they will most probably represent the word ‘the.’ Upon inspection, we find no
less than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may, therefore, assume
that ; represents t, 4 represents h, and 8 represents e—the last being now well confirmed.
Thus a great step has been taken.
“But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish a vastly important
point; that is to say, several commencements and terminations of other words. Let us
refer, for example, to the last instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs—
not far from the end of the cipher. We know that the ; immediately ensuing is the
commencement of a word, and, of the six characters succeeding this ‘the,’ we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these characters down, thus, by the letters we know
them to represent, leaving a space for the unknown—
t eeth.
“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ‘th,’ as forming no portion of the word
commencing with the first t; since, by experiment of the entire alphabet for a letter
adapted to the vacancy, we perceive that no word can be formed of which this th can be
a part. We are thus narrowed into
t ee,
and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we arrive at the word ‘tree,’ as
the sole possible reading. We thus gain another letter, r, represented by (, with the
words ‘the tree’ in juxtaposition.
“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see the combination ;48,
and employ it by way of termination to what immediately precedes. We have thus this
arrangement:
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97
the tree ;4(‡?34 the,
or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus:
the tree thr‡?3h the.
“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we leave blank spaces, or substitute
dots, we read thus:
the tree thr...h the,
when the word ‘through’ makes itself evident at once. But this discovery gives us three new
letters, o, u, and g, represented by ‡, ?, and 3.
“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known characters,
we find, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement,
83(88, or egree,
which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ‘degree,’ and gives us another letter, d,
represented by t.
“Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’ we perceive the combination
;46(;88.
“Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown by dots, as
before, we read thus:
th.rtee,
an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word ‘thirteen,’ and again furnishing us
with two new characters, i and n, represented by 6 and *.
“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the combination,
53‡‡†.
“Translating as before, we obtain
.good,
which assures us that the first letter is A, and that the first two words are ‘A good.’
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in a tabular form, to
avoid confusion. It will stand thus:
5 represents a
† represents d
8 represents e
3 represents g
4 represents h
6 represents i
* represents n
‡ represents o
( represents r
; represents t
? represents u
“We have, therefore, no less than eleven of the most important letters represented,
and it will be unnecessary to proceed with the details of the solution. I have said enough
to convince you that ciphers of this nature are readily soluble, and to give you some
insight into the rationale of their development. But be assured that the specimen before us
appertains to the very simplest species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give you
the full translation of the characters upon the parchment, as unriddled. Here it is:
“‘A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and
by north main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head a bee-line from the tree
through the shot fifty feet out.’”
“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as ever. How is it possible
to extort a meaning from all this jargon about ‘devil’s seats,’ ‘death’s-heads,’ and ‘bishop’s hostels?’”
“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a serious aspect, when
regarded with a casual glance. My first endeavour was to divide the sentence into the
natural division intended by the cryptographist.”
“You mean, to punctuate it?”
“Something of that kind.”
“But how was it possible to effect this?”
“I reflected that it had been a point with the writer to run his words together without
division, so as to increase the difficulty of solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of
his composition, he arrived at a break in his subject which would naturally require a
pause, or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, at this place, more
than usually close together. If you will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will
THE GOLD-BUG
99
easily detect five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting upon his hint, I made the division thus:
“‘A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat—forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—northeast
and by north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head—a bee-line from
the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”
“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.”
“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days; during which I made
diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island, for any building which went
by the name of the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’; for, of course, I dropped the obsolete word ‘hostel.’
Gaining no information on the subject, I was on the point of extending my sphere of
search, and proceeding in a more systematic manner, when, one morning, it entered my
head, quite suddenly, that this ‘Bishop’s Hostel’ might have some reference to an old
family, of the name of Bessop, which, time out of mind, had held possession of an
ancient manor-house, about four miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly
went over to the plantation, and re-instituted my inquiries among the older negroes of
the place. At length one of the most aged of the women said that she had heard of such
a place as Bessop’s Castle, and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a
castle, nor a tavern, but a high rock.
“I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some demur, she consented to
accompany me to the spot. We found it without much difficulty, when, dismissing her,
I proceeded to examine the place. The ‘castle’ consisted of an irregular assemblage of
cliffs and rocks—one of the latter being quite remarkable for its height as well as for its
insulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then felt much at a loss
as to what should be next done.
“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face
of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected
about eighteen inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just
above it gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the ‘devil’s-seat’ alluded to in the MS., and now I
seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.
“The ‘good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to nothing but a telescope; for the
word ‘glass’ is rarely employed in any other sense by seamen. Now here, I at once saw,
was a telescope to be used, and a definite point of view, admitting no variation, from which to
use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘northeast and by north,’ were intended as directions for the levelling of the
glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries, I hurried home, procured a telescope, and
returned to the rock.
“I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible to retain a seat upon
it except in one particular position. This fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
to use the glass. Of course, the ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’ could allude to
nothing but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal direction was clearly
indicated by the words, ‘northeast and by north.’ This latter direction I at once established
by means of a pocket-compass; then, pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one
degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until my
attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but
could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the focus of the telescope, I again
looked, and now made it out to be a human skull.
“Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma solved; for the
phrase ‘main branch, seventh limb, east side,’ could refer only to the position of the skull
upon the tree, while ‘shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head’ admitted, also, of
but one interpretation, in regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived that the
design was to drop a bullet from the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other
words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk through ‘the shot’ (or
the spot where the bullet fell), and thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would
indicate a definite point—and beneath this point I thought it at least possible that a
deposit of value lay concealed.”
“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although ingenious, still simple and
explicit. When you left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then?”
“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned homeward. The
instant that I left ‘the devil’s seat,’ however, the circular rift vanished; nor could I get a
glimpse of it afterward, turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this
whole business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced me it is a fact) that the
circular opening in question is visible from no other attainable point of view than that
afforded by the narrow ledge upon the face of the rock.
“In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’ I had been attended by Jupiter, who had,
no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the abstraction of my demeanor, and took
especial care not to leave me alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the tree. After much toil
I found it. When I came home at night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With the
rest of the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted as myself.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the first attempt at digging, through
Jupiter’s stupidity in letting the bug fall through the right instead of through the left eye
of the skull.”
“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches and a half in the
‘shot’—that is to say, in the position of the peg nearest the tree; and had the treasure
been beneath ‘shot,’ the error would have been of little moment; but ‘the shot,’ together
with the nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for the establishment of a line
of direction; of course the error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as we proceeded with the line, and by the time we had gone fifty feet threw us quite off the scent.
THE GOLD-BUG
101
But for my deep-seated impressions that treasure was here somewhere actually buried,
we might have had all our labor in vain.”
“But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle—how excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist upon letting fall the bug,
instead of a bullet, from the skull?”
“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident suspicions touching my
sanity, and so resolved to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a little bit of sober
mystification. For this reason I swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the
tree. An observation of yours about its great weight suggested the latter idea.”
“Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles me. What are we to
make of the skeletons found in the hole?”
“That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself. There seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for them—and yet it is dreadful to believe in
such atrocity as my suggestion would imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted
this treasure, which I doubt not—it is clear that he must have had assistance in the labor.
But this labor concluded, he may have thought it expedient to remove all participants
in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit; perhaps it required a dozen—who shall tell?”
T H E F ACT S I N T HE C A S E
M. V A L D E M A R
OF
Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it
not—especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned,
to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had further opportunities for investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled or exaggerated
account made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I comprehend them myself.
They are, succinctly, these:
My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of
Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago, it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the
series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained
to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or
increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, the
encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to
be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in especial, from the
immensely important character of its consequences.
In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler
of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,” and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the
Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the
extreme spareness of his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of
his hair—the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric
experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but
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THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
103
was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me
to anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and
in regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always
attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some
months previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared him
in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching
dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted.
When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very
natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man
too well to apprehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who
would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise,
his interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise; for, although he had always
yielded his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of
sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character which would admit of exact
calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally arranged
between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period
announced by his physicians as that of his decease.
It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself,
the subjoined note:
“My Dear P——.
“You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed that I cannot hold out
beyond tomorrow midnight; and I think they have hit the time very nearly.
“Valdemar.”
I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes
more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was
appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face
wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme,
that the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable
manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with
distinctness—took some palliative medicines without aid—and, when I entered the
room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in
the bed by pillows. Doctors D—— and F—— were in attendance.
After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from
them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung had been for eighteen
months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for
all purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles,
running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point,
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe
were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual
rapidity; no sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only
been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the
patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms
rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M.
Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday.) It was then seven
o’clock on Saturday evening.
On quitting the invalid’s bedside to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D——
and F—— had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but,
at my request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.
When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his
approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed.
He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged
me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did
not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more
reliable witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of a
medical student, with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L——l,)
relieved me from further embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait
for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M.
Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was
evidently sinking fast.
Mr. L——l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that
occurred; and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most
part, either condensed or copied verbatim.
It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I begged him
to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L——l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely
willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.
He replied feebly, yet quite audibly: “Yes, I wish to be mesmerized”—adding immediately afterward: “I fear you have deferred it too long.”
While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand
across his forehead; but, although I exerted all my powers, no further perceptible effect
was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors D—— and F——
called, according to appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed,
and as they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony,
I proceeded without hesitation—exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward
ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer.
By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous, and at
intervals of half a minute.
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
105
This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this
period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh escaped from the bosom of the
dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased—that is to say, its stertorousness was
no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of
an icy coldness.
At five minutes before eleven, I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward
examination which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite
impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient
sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this,
but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will,
until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on
the bed at a moderate distance from the loins. The head was very slightly elevated.
When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen
present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few experiments, they admitted
him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the
physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— resolved at once to remain with the patient all
night, while Dr. F—— took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L——l and
the nurses remained.
We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the morning,
when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr.
F—— went away—that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a
mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold
as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.
As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm
into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such
experiments with this patient, I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had
little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily,
although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard
a few words of conversation.
“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor
about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third
repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed
themselves so far as to display a white line of a ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from
between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words:
“Yes,—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”
I here felt the limbs, and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed
the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again:
“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:
“No pain—I am dying!”
I did not think it advisable to disturb him further just then, and nothing more was
said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——, who came a little before sunrise, and
expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the
pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker
again. I did so, saying:
“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”
As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the
dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of
the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:
“Yes; still asleep—dying.”
It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar
should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition,
until death should supervene—and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place
within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely
repeated my previous question.
While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker.
The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and
the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each
cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put
me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath.
The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the
mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I
presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed
horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this
moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed.
I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be
startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed.
There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him
to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory
motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as
it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets
which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the
sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for
the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity.
There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might
fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some idea
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
107
of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears—at least
mine—from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second
place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.
I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound was one
of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar
spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before.
I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:
“Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”
No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable,
shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L——l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and
could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render
intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently—without the
utterance of a word—in endeavors to revive Mr. L——l. When he came to himself, we
addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.
It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror
no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed.
I should mention, too, that this limb was no further subject to my will. I endeavored in
vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the
mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever
I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had
no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he
seemed utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of the company
in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an
understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and
at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L——l.
In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of
awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be
served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death)
had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M.
Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy, dissolution.
From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by
medical and other friends. All this time the sleep-waker remained exactly as I have last
described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.
It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening,
or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter
experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so much of
what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of
the customary passes. These for a time were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival
was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that
this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish
ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F—— then intimated a desire to have me put a
question. I did so, as follows:
“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”
There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks: the tongue quivered, or
rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before),
and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:
“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken me!—
quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”
I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first
I made an endeavor to recompose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of
the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I
soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be
complete—and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.
For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could
have been prepared.
As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely
bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—
within the space of a single minute, or less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away
beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid
mass of loathsome—of detestable putrescence.
T H E T H O U S A ND - A ND -S E C O ND T A L E
O F S C H E H E R A ZA D E
Truth is stranger than fiction.
—Old Saying
Having had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental investigations, to consult the
“Tellmenow Isitsöornot,” a work which (like the “Zohar” of Simeon Jochaides) is
scarcely known at all, even in Europe; and which has never been quoted, to my knowledge, by any American—if we except, perhaps, the author of the “Curiosities of
American Literature”;—having had occasion, I say, to turn over some pages of the firstmentioned very remarkable work, I was not a little astonished to discover that the
literary world has hitherto been strangely in error respecting the fate of the vizier’s
daughter, Scheherazade, as that fate is depicted in the “Arabian Nights”; and that the
dénouement there given, if not altogether inaccurate, as far as it goes, is at least to blame in
not having gone very much farther.
For full information on this interesting topic, I must refer the inquisitive reader to
the “Isitsöornot” itself; but, in the meantime, I shall be pardoned for giving a summary
of what I there discovered.
It will be remembered, that, in the usual version of the tales, a certain monarch, having good cause to be jealous of his queen, not only puts her to death, but makes a vow,
by his beard and the prophet, to espouse each night the most beautiful maiden in his
dominions, and the next morning to deliver her up to the executioner.
Having fulfilled this vow for many years to the letter, and with a religious punctuality and method that conferred great credit upon him as a man of devout feeling and
excellent sense, he was interrupted one afternoon (no doubt at his prayers) by a visit
from his grand vizier, to whose daughter, it appears, there had occurred an idea.
Her name was Scheherazade, and her idea was, that she would either redeem the land
from the depopulating tax upon its beauty, or perish, after the approved fashion of all
heroines, in the attempt.
109
110
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
Accordingly, and although we do not find it to be leap-year (which makes the sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes her father, the grand vizier, to make an offer to the
king of her hand. This hand the king eagerly accepts—(he had intended to take it at all
events, and had put off the matter from day to day, only through fear of the vizier),—
but, in accepting it now, he gives all parties very distinctly to understand, that, grand
vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slightest design of giving up one iota of his vow
or of his privileges. When, therefore, the fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the
king, and did actually marry him despite her father’s excellent advice not to do any thing
of the kind—when she would and did marry him, I say, will I nill I, it was with her beautiful black eyes as thoroughly open as the nature of the case would allow.
It seems, however, that this politic damsel (who had been reading Machiavelli, beyond
doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in her mind. On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I forget what specious pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch sufficiently
near that of the royal pair to admit of easy conversation from bed to bed; and, a little before
cock-crowing, she took care to awaken the good monarch, her husband (who bore her
none the worse will because he intended to wring her neck on the morrow),—she managed
to awaken him, I say, (although on account of a capital conscience and an easy digestion, he
slept well,) by the profound interest of a story (about a rat and a black cat, I think) which she
was narrating (all in an undertone, of course) to her sister. When the day broke, it so happened that this history was not altogether finished, and that Scheherazade, in the nature of
things could not finish it just then, since it was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung—a thing very little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel!
The king’s curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say, even over his sound religious principles, induced him for this once to postpone the fulfilment of his vow until
next morning, for the purpose and with the hope of hearing that night how it fared in
the end with the black cat (a black cat, I think it was) and the rat.
The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only put the finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat was blue) but before she well knew what
she was about, found herself deep in the intricacies of a narration, having reference (if
I am not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse (with green wings) that went, in a violent
manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indigo key. With this history the
king was even more profoundly interested than with the other—and, as the day broke
before its conclusion (notwithstanding all the queen’s endeavors to get through with it
in time for the bowstringing), there was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as before, for twenty-four hours. The next night there happened a similar
accident with a similar result; and then the next—and then again the next; so that, in
the end, the good monarch, having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to
keep his vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one nights, either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time, or gets himself absolved of it in the
regular way, or (what is more probable) breaks it outright, as well as the head of his
father confessor. At all events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally descended from Eve,
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111
fell heir, perhaps, to the whole seven baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all know,
picked up from under the trees in the garden of Eden; Scheherazade, I say, finally triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.
Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it upon record) is, no
doubt, excessively proper and pleasant—but alas! like a great many pleasant things, is
more pleasant than true; and I am indebted altogether to the “Isitsöornot” for the means
of correcting the error. “Le mieux,” says a French proverb, “est l’ennemi du bien,” and, in mentioning that Scheherazade had inherited the seven baskets of talk, I should have added
that she put them out at compound interest until they amounted to seventy-seven.
“My dear sister,” said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I quote the language of
the “Isitsöornot” at this point, verbatim) “my dear sister,” said she, “now that all this little
difficulty about the bowstring has blown over, and that this odious tax is so happily
repealed, I feel that I have been guilty of great indiscretion in withholding from you and
the king (who, I am sorry to say, snores—a thing no gentleman would do) the full conclusion of Sinbad the sailor. This person went through numerous other and more interesting
adventures than those which I related; but the truth is, I felt sleepy on the particular night
of their narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short—a grievous piece of misconduct, for which I only trust that Allah will forgive me. But even yet it is not too late to
remedy my great neglect—and as soon as I have given the king a pinch or two in order
to wake him up so far that he may stop making that horrible noise, I will forthwith
entertain you (and him if he pleases) with the sequel of this very remarkable story.”
Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, as I have it from the “Isitsöornot,” expressed no
very particular intensity of gratification; but the king, having been sufficiently pinched, at
length ceased snoring, and finally said, “Hum!” and then “Hoo!” when the queen, understanding these words (which are no doubt Arabic) to signify that he was all attention, and
would do his best not to snore any more—the queen, I say, having arranged these matters
to her satisfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into the history of Sinbad the sailor:
“‘At length, in my old age,’ (these are the words of Sinbad himself, as retailed by Scheherazade)—‘at length, in my old age, and after enjoying many years of tranquility at
home, I became once more possessed of a desire of visiting foreign countries; and one day,
without acquainting any of my family with my design, I packed up some bundles of such
merchandise as was most precious and least bulky, and, engaging a porter to carry them,
went with him down to the sea-shore, to await the arrival of any chance vessel that might
convey me out of the kingdom into some region which I had not as yet explored.
“‘Having deposited the packages upon the sands, we sat down beneath some trees,
and looked out into the ocean in the hope of perceiving a ship, but during several hours
we saw none whatever. At length I fancied that I could hear a singular buzzing or humming sound—and the porter, after listening awhile, declared that he also could
distinguish it. Presently it grew louder, and then still louder, so that we could have no
doubt that the object which caused it was approaching us. At length, on the edge of the
horizon, we discovered a black speck, which rapidly increased in size until we made it out
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to be a vast monster, swimming with a great part of its body above the surface of the sea.
It came toward us with inconceivable swiftness, throwing up huge waves of foam around
its breast, and illuminating all that part of the sea through which it passed, with a long
line of fire that extended far off into the distance.
“‘As the thing drew near we saw it very distinctly. Its length was equal to that of three
of the loftiest trees that grow, and it was as wide as the great hall of audience in your
palace, O most sublime and munificent of the caliphs. Its body, which was unlike that of
ordinary fishes, was as solid as a rock, and of a jetty blackness throughout all that portion
of it which floated above the water, with the exception of a narrow blood-red streak that
completely begirdled it. The belly, which floated beneath the surface, and of which we
could get only a glimpse now and then as the monster rose and fell with the billows, was
entirely covered with metallic scales, of a color like that of the moon in misty weather.
The back was flat and nearly white, and from it there extended upwards of six spines,
about half the length of the whole body.
“‘This horrible creature had no mouth that we could perceive; but, as if to make up
for this deficiency, it was provided with at least four score of eyes, that protruded from
their sockets like those of the green dragon-fly, and were arranged all around the body
in two rows, one above the other, and parallel to the blood-red streak, which seemed to
answer the purpose of an eyebrow. Two or three of these dreadful eyes were much larger
than the others, and had the appearance of solid gold.
“‘Although this beast approached us, as I have before said, with the greatest rapidity,
it must have been moved altogether by necromancy—for it had neither fins like a fish
nor web-feet like a duck, nor wings like the sea-shell which is blown along in the manner
of a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself forward as do the eels. Its head and its tail were
shaped precisely alike, only, not far from the latter, were two small holes that served for
nostrils, and through which the monster puffed out its thick breath with prodigious
violence, and with a shrieking, disagreeable noise.
“‘Our terror at beholding this hideous thing was very great, but it was even surpassed
by our astonishment, when upon getting a nearer look, we perceived upon the creature’s back a vast number of animals about the size and shape of men, and altogether
much resembling them, except that they wore no garments (as men do), being supplied
(by nature, no doubt,) with an ugly uncomfortable covering, a good deal like cloth, but
fitting so tight to the skin, as to render the poor wretches laughably awkward, and put
them apparently to severe pain. On the very tips of their heads were certain square-looking
boxes, which, at first sight, I thought might have been intended to answer as turbans,
but I soon discovered that they were excessively heavy and solid, and I therefore concluded they were contrivances designed, by their great weight, to keep the heads of the
animals steady and safe upon their shoulders. Around the necks of the creatures were
fastened black collars, (badges of servitude, no doubt,) such as we keep on our dogs, only
much wider and infinitely stiffer—so that it was quite impossible for these poor victims
to move their heads in any direction without moving the body at the same time; and
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113
thus they were doomed to perpetual contemplation of their noses—a view puggish and
snubby in a wonderful if not positively in an awful degree.
“‘When the monster had nearly reached the shore where we stood, it suddenly pushed
out one of its eyes to a great extent, and emitted from it a terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a dense cloud of smoke, and a noise that I can compare to nothing but thunder.
As the smoke cleared away, we saw one of the odd man-animals standing near the head
of the large beast with a trumpet in his hand, through which (putting it to his mouth) he
presently addressed us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable accents, that, perhaps, we should
have mistaken for language, had they not come altogether through the nose.
“‘Being thus evidently spoken to, I was at a loss how to reply, as I could in no manner
understand what was said; and in this difficulty I turned to the porter, who was near
swooning through affright, and demanded of him his opinion as to what species of monster it was, what it wanted, and what kind of creatures those were that so swarmed upon
its back. To this the porter replied, as well as he could for trepidation, that he had once
before heard of this sea-beast; that it was a cruel demon, with bowels of sulphur and
blood of fire, created by evil genii as the means of inflicting misery upon mankind; that
the things upon its back were vermin, such as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only a
little larger and more savage; and that these vermin had their uses, however evil—for,
through the torture they caused the beast by their nibblings and stingings, it was goaded
into that degree of wrath which was requisite to make it roar and commit ill, and so
fulfil the vengeful and malicious designs of the wicked genii.
“‘This account determined me to take to my heels, and, without once even looking
behind me, I ran at full speed up into the hills, while the porter ran equally fast, although
nearly in an opposite direction, so that, by these means, he finally made his escape with
my bundles, of which I have no doubt he took excellent care—although this is a point I
cannot determine, as I do not remember that I ever beheld him again.
“‘For myself, I was so hotly pursued by a swarm of the men-vermin (who had come
to the shore in boats) that I was very soon overtaken, bound hand and foot, and conveyed to the beast, which immediately swam out again into the middle of the sea.
“‘I now bitterly repented my folly in quitting a comfortable home to peril my life in
such adventures as this; but regret being useless, I made the best of my condition, and
exerted myself to secure the good-will of the man-animal that owned the trumpet,
and who appeared to exercise authority over his fellows. I succeeded so well in this
endeavor that, in a few days, the creature bestowed upon me various tokens of his favor,
and in the end even went to the trouble of teaching me the rudiments of what it was vain
enough to denominate its language; so that, at length, I was enabled to converse with it
readily, and came to make it comprehend the ardent desire I had of seeing the world.
“‘Washish squashish squeak, Sinbad, hey-diddle diddle, grunt unt grumble, hiss, fiss, whiss,’ said he to
me, one day after dinner—but I beg a thousand pardons, I had forgotten that your
majesty is not conversant with the dialect of the Cockneighs (so the man-animals were
called; I presume because their language formed the connecting link between that of
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the horse and that of the rooster). With your permission, I will translate. ‘Washish squashish,’ and so forth:—that is to say, ‘I am happy to find, my dear Sinbad, that you are really
a very excellent fellow; we are now about doing a thing which is called circumnavigating the globe; and since you are so desirous of seeing the world, I will strain a point and
give you a free passage upon the back of the beast.’”
When the Lady Scheherazade had proceeded thus far, relates the “Isitsöornot,” the
king turned over from his left side to his right, and said:
“It is, in fact, very surprising, my dear queen, that you omitted, hitherto, these
latter adventures of Sinbad. Do you know I think them exceedingly entertaining
and strange?”
The king having thus expressed himself, we are told, the fair Scheherazade resumed
her history in the following words:
“Sinbad went on in this manner with his narrative—‘I thanked the man-animal for
its kindness, and soon found myself very much at home on the beast, which swam at a
prodigious rate through the ocean; although the surface of the latter is, in that part of
the world, by no means flat, but round like a pomegranate, so that we went—so to
say—either up hill or down hill all the time.’”
“That, I think, was very singular,” interrupted the king.
“Nevertheless, it is quite true,” replied Scheherazade.
“I have my doubts,” rejoined the king; “but, pray, be so good as to go on with the story.”
“I will,” said the queen. “‘The beast,’ continued Sinbad, ‘swam, as I have related, up
hill and down hill, until, at length, we arrived at an island, many hundreds of miles in
circumference, but which, nevertheless, had been built in the middle of the sea by a
colony of little things like caterpillars.’”
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘Leaving this island,’ said Sinbad—(for Scheherazade, it must be understood, took
no notice of her husband’s ill-mannered ejaculation)—‘leaving this island, we came to
another where the forests were of solid stone, and so hard that they shivered to pieces
the finest-tempered axes with which we endeavored to cut them down.’”
“Hum!” said the king, again; but Scheherazade, paying him no attention, continued
in the language of Sinbad.
“‘Passing beyond this last island, we reached a country where there was a cave that
ran to the distance of thirty or forty miles within the bowels of the earth, and that contained a greater number of far more spacious and more magnificent palaces than are to
be found in all Damascus and Bagdad. From the roofs of these palaces there hung myriads of gems, like diamonds, but larger than men; and in among the streets of towers and
pyramids and temples, there flowed immense rivers as black as ebony, and swarming
with fish that had no eyes.’”
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘We then swam into a region of the sea where we found a lofty mountain, down whose
sides there streamed torrents of melted metal, some of which were twelve miles wide and
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
115
sixty miles long; while from an abyss on the summit, issued so vast a quantity of ashes that
the sun was entirely blotted out from the heavens, and it became darker than the darkest
midnight; so that when we were even at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles from the
mountain, it was impossible to see the whitest object, however close we held it to our eyes.’”
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘After quitting this coast, the beast continued his voyage until we met with a land in
which the nature of things seemed reversed—for we here saw a great lake, at the bottom
of which, more than a hundred feet beneath the surface of the water, there flourished in
full leaf a forest of tall and luxuriant trees.’”
“Hoo!” said the king.
“‘Some hundred miles farther on brought us to a climate where the atmosphere was
so dense as to sustain iron or steel, just as our own does feather.’”
“Fiddle de dee,” said the king.
“‘Proceeding still in the same direction, we presently arrived at the most magnificent
region in the whole world. Through it there meandered a glorious river for several
thousands of miles. This river was of unspeakable depth, and of a transparency richer
than that of amber. It was from three to six miles in width; and its banks which arose on
either side to twelve hundred feet in perpendicular height, were crowned with everblossoming trees, and perpetual sweet-scented flowers, that made the whole territory
one gorgeous garden; but the name of this luxuriant land was the Kingdom of Horror,
and to enter it was inevitable death.’”
“Humph!” said the king.
“‘We left this kingdom in great haste, and, after some days, came to another, where we
were astonished to perceive myriads of monstrous animals with horns resembling scythes
upon their heads. These hideous beasts dig for themselves vast caverns in the soil, of a
funnel shape, and line the sides of them with rocks, so disposed one upon the other that
they fall instantly, when trodden upon by other animals, thus precipitating them into the
monster’s dens, where their blood is immediately sucked, and their carcasses afterwards
hurled contemptuously out to an immense distance from “the caverns of death.” ’”
“Pooh!” said the king.
“‘Continuing our progress, we perceived a district with vegetables that grew not
upon any soil, but in the air. There were others that sprang from the substance of other
vegetables; others that derived their substance from the bodies of living animals; and
then again, there were others that glowed all over with intense fire; others that moved
from place to place at pleasure, and what was still more wonderful, we discovered flowers that lived and breathed and moved their limbs at will, and had, moreover, the
detestable passion of mankind for enslaving other creatures, and confining them in horrid and solitary prisons until the fulfilment of appointed tasks.’”
“Pshaw!” said the king.
“‘Quitting this land, we soon arrived at another in which the bees and the birds are
mathematicians of such genius and erudition, that they give daily instructions in the
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
science of geometry to the wise men of the empire. The king of the place having offered
a reward for the solution of two very difficult problems, they were solved upon the
spot—the one by the bees, and the other by the birds; but the king keeping their solution
a secret, it was only after the most profound researches and labor, and the writing of an
infinity of big books, during a long series of years, that the men-mathematicians at
length arrived at the identical solutions which had been given upon the spot by the bees
and by the birds.’”
“Oh my!” said the king.
“‘We had scarcely lost sight of this empire when we found ourselves close upon
another, from whose shores there flew over our heads a flock of fowls a mile in breadth,
and two hundred and forty miles long; so that, although they flew a mile during every
minute, it required no less than four hours for the whole flock to pass over us—in
which there were several millions of millions of fowl.’”
“Oh fy!” said the king.
“‘No sooner had we got rid of these birds, which occasioned us great annoyance, than
we were terrified by the appearance of a fowl of another kind, and infinitely larger
than even the rocs which I met in my former voyages; for it was bigger than the biggest of
the domes on your seraglio, oh, most Munificent of Caliphs. This terrible fowl had no
head that we could perceive, but was fashioned entirely of belly, which was of a prodigious
fatness and roundness, of a soft-looking substance, smooth, shining and striped with
various colors. In its talons, the monster was bearing away to his eyrie in the heavens, a
house from which it had knocked off the roof, and in the interior of which we distinctly
saw human beings, who, beyond doubt, were in a state of frightful despair at the horrible
fate which awaited them. We shouted with all our might, in the hope of frightening the
bird into letting go of its prey; but it merely gave a snort or puff, as if of rage and then let
fall upon our heads a heavy sack which proved to be filled with sand!’”
“Stuff!” said the king.
“‘It was just after this adventure that we encountered a continent of immense extent
and prodigious solidity, but which, nevertheless, was supported entirely upon the back
of a sky-blue cow that had no fewer than four hundred horns.’”
“That, now, I believe,” said the king, “because I have read something of the kind
before, in a book.”
“‘We passed immediately beneath this continent, (swimming in between the legs of
the cow, and, after some hours, found ourselves in a wonderful country indeed, which,
I was informed by the man-animal, was his own native land, inhabited by things of his
own species. This elevated the man-animal very much in my esteem, and in fact, I now
began to feel ashamed of the contemptuous familiarity with which I had treated him; for
I found that the man-animals in general were a nation of the most powerful magicians,
who lived with worms in their brain, which, no doubt, served to stimulate them by their
painful writhings and wrigglings to the most miraculous efforts of imagination.’”
“Nonsense!” said the king.
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
117
“‘Among the magicians, were domesticated several animals of very singular kinds; for
example, there was a huge horse whose bones were iron and whose blood was boiling
water. In place of corn, he had black stones for his usual food; and yet, in spite of so hard
a diet, he was so strong and swift that he could drag a load more weighty than the grandest temple in this city, at a rate surpassing that of the flight of most birds.’”
“Twattle!” said the king.
“‘I saw, also, among these people a hen without feathers, but bigger than a camel;
instead of flesh and bone she had iron and brick; her blood, like that of the horse, (to
whom, in fact, she was nearly related,) was boiling water; and like him she ate nothing
but wood or black stones. This hen brought forth very frequently, a hundred chickens
in the day; and, after birth, they took up their residence for several weeks within the
stomach of their mother.’”
“Fal lal!” said the king.
“‘One of this nation of mighty conjurors created a man out of brass and wood, and
leather, and endowed him with such ingenuity that he would have beaten at chess, all
the race of mankind with the exception of the great Caliph, Haroun Alraschid. Another
of these magi constructed (of like material) a creature that put to shame even the genius of
him who made it; for so great were its reasoning powers that, in a second, it performed
calculations of so vast an extent that they would have required the united labor of fifty
thousand fleshy men for a year. But a still more wonderful conjuror fashioned for himself a mighty thing that was neither man nor beast, but which had brains of lead,
intermixed with a black matter like pitch, and fingers that employed with such incredible speed and dexterity that it would have had no trouble in writing out twenty thousand
copies of the Koran in an hour; and this with so exquisite a precision, that in all the copies there should not be found one to vary from another by the breadth of the finest hair.
This thing was of prodigious strength, so that it erected or overthrew the mightiest
empires at a breath; but its powers were exercised equally for evil and for good.’”
“Ridiculous!” said the king.
“‘Among this nation of necromancers there was also one who had in his veins the
blood of the salamanders; for he made no scruple of sitting down to smoke his chibouc
in a red-hot oven until his dinner was thoroughly roasted upon its floor. Another had
the faculty of converting the common metals into gold, without even looking at them
during the process. Another had such a delicacy of touch that he made a wire so fine as
to be invisible. Another had such quickness of perception that he counted all the separate motions of an elastic body, while it was springing backward and forward at the rate
of nine hundred millions of times in a second.’”
“Absurd!” said the king.
“‘Another of these magicians, by means of a fluid that nobody ever yet saw, could
make the corpses of his friends brandish their arms, kick out their legs, fight, or even get
up and dance at his will. Another had cultivated his voice to so great an extent that he
could have made himself heard from one end of the world to the other. Another had so
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long an arm that he could sit down in Damascus and indite a letter at Bagdad—or
indeed at any distance whatsoever. Another commanded the lightning to come down to
him out of the heavens, and it came at his call; and served him for a plaything when it
came. Another took two loud sounds and out of them made a silence. Another constructed a deep darkness out of two brilliant lights. Another made ice in a red-hot
furnace. Another directed the sun to paint his portrait, and the sun did. Another took
this luminary with the moon and the planets, and having first weighed them with scrupulous accuracy, probed into their depths and found out the solidity of the substance of
which they are made. But the whole nation is, indeed, of so surprising a necromantic
ability, that not even their infants, nor their commonest cats and dogs have any difficulty in seeing objects that do not exist at all, or that for twenty millions of years before
the birth of the nation itself had been blotted out from the face of creation.’”
“Preposterous!” said the king.
“‘The wives and daughters of these incomparably great and wise magi,’” continued
Scheherazade, without being in any manner disturbed by these frequent and most
ungentlemanly interruptions on the part of her husband—“‘the wives and daughters of
these eminent conjurers are every thing that is accomplished and refined; and would be
every thing that is interesting and beautiful, but for an unhappy fatality that besets
them, and from which not even the miraculous powers of their husbands and fathers
has, hitherto, been adequate to save. Some fatalities come in certain shapes, and some in
others—but this of which I speak has come in the shape of a crotchet.’”
“A what?” said the king.
“‘A crotchet,’” said Scheherazade. “‘One of the evil genii, who are perpetually upon
the watch to inflict ill, has put it into the heads of these accomplished ladies that the thing
which we describe as personal beauty consists altogether in the protuberance of the
region which lies not very far below the small of the back. Perfection of loveliness, they
say, is in the direct ratio of the extent of this lump. Having been long possessed of this idea,
and bolsters being cheap in that country, the days have long gone by since it was possible
to distinguish a woman from a dromedary—’”
“Stop!” said the king—“I can’t stand that, and I won’t. You have already given me a
dreadful headache with your lies. The day, too, I perceive, is beginning to break. How
long have we been married?——my conscience is getting to be troublesome again. And
then that dromedary touch—do you take me for a fool? Upon the whole, you might as
well get up and be throttled.”
These words, as I learn from the “Isitsöornot,” both grieved and astonished Scheherazade; but, as she knew the king to be a man of scrupulous integrity, and quite unlikely to
forfeit his word, she submitted to her fate with a good grace. She derived, however, great
consolation, (during the tightening of the bowstring,) from the reflection that much of the
history remained still untold, and that the petulance of her brute of a husband had reaped
for him a most righteous reward, in depriving him of many inconceivable adventures.
T H E M U RDE R S
IN THE
R UE M O R G UE
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 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, 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 analyze. A chess-player, 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 all the elaborate frivolty 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
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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 (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones)
by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been known 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 these 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 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 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 chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick
he judges whether the person taking it, can make another in the suit. He recognizes what
is played through feint, by the manner 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
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121
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 simple 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 the theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast
extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my 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
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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 massy shutters of our old building; lighted 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 and 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:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the Théâtre 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.
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“—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 charlatânerie 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:
“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,
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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 prima 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 roused 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 ceased, and every thing 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
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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 gray human hair,
also dabbled with 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 toward 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 person 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.
“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
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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
connections 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 Musèt, 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 nor 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 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
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127
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 4,000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a
clerk sent 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 4,000 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 by-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
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voice was that of an 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 daybreak.
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 eyeballs 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 further 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,
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129
and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le 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 mountaintops
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 firmament 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
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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, 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 upstairs 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
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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 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 aready 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 precludes the idea of selfdestruction. 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
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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 recognize 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 ceiling, 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
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133
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.
“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—a posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these
windows. This being so, they could not have re-fastened 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 knew, 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
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respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute
nullity (conclusive as 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.
“This 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.
“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 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.
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135
“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—as 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. 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
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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 mode 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 gray 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 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
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137
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 facsimile 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.”
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous
Ourang-Outang 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 the 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 recaptured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these
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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 troisième.”
“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 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 OurangOutang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang 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.
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
139
“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 daredevil 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 OurangOutang. 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?”
“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,
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
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 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 on the night, or rather in the morning, of
the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, 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 OurangOutang 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 his 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
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
141
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 Ourang-Outang 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 betwen 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.
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 phrensy.
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—
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
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 any thing to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the
chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking 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 Bon was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect
of Police. The 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.’”
THE MYSTERY
OF
MARIE ROGêT
A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE”
Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen.
Menschen und zufalle modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begenbenheit, so dass sie unvollkommen erscheint,
und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
Lutherthum hervor.
There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely
coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it
seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation;
instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism.
—Novalis, Moral Ansichten
There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not occasionally
been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences
of so seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been
unable to receive them. Such sentiments—for the half-credences of which I speak have
never the full force of thought—such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by
reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the
anomaly of the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of
the most intangible in speculation.
The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public, will be found
to form, as regards sequence of time, the primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible
coincidences, whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in the
late murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers, at New York.
When, in an article entitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” I endeavored, about a
year ago, to depict some very remarkable features in the mental character of my friend, the
Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject.
This depicting of character constituted my design; and this design was thoroughly fulfilled
143
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
in the wild train of circumstances brought to instance Dupin’s idiosyncrasy. I might have
adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more. Late events, however, in their
surprising development, have startled me into some further details, which will carry with
them the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard, it would be indeed
strange should I remain silent in regard to what I both heard and saw so long ago.
Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame L’Espanaye
and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at once from his attention, and
relapsed into his old habits of moody revery. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily
fell in with his humor; and continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg Saint
Germain, we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present,
weaving the dull world around us into dreams.
But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may readily be supposed that
the part played by my friend, in the drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its
impression upon the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name of Dupin
had grown into a household word. The simple character of those inductions by which
he had disentangled the mystery never having been explained even to the Prefect, or to
any other individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the affair was
regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired
for him the credit of intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every
inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all further agitation of a topic
whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the
cynosure of the policial eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt was made to
engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the most remarkable instances was that of
the murder of a young girl named Marie Rogêt.
This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie,
whose Christian and family name will at once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the unfortunate “cigar-girl,” was the only daughter of the widow
Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the child’s infancy, and from the period of
his death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which forms the
subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue
Pavée Saint Andrée; Madame there keeping a pension, assisted by Marie. Affairs went
on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second year, when her great beauty
attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement
of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate adventurers
infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc was not unaware of the advantages
to be derived from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of hesitation by Madame.
The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly grisette. She had been in his employ about a
year, when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
145
the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Rogêt
was distracted with anxiety and terror. The public papers immediately took up the
theme, and the police were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one
fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry,
except that of a private character, was of course, immediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc
professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that
the last week had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair
died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from the
impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her mother’s residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.
It was about five months after this return home, that her friends were alarmed by her
sudden disappearance for the second time. Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of
her. On the fourth her corpse was found floating in the Seine, near the shore which is
opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a point not very far distant from
the secluded neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule.
The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that murder had been committed), the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her previous notoriety,
conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can call
to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so intense an effect. For several
weeks, in the discussion of this one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the powers of the
whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to the utmost extent.
Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the murderer would
be able to elude, for more than a very brief period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary
to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs. In the
meantime the investigation proceeded with vigor, if not always with judgment, and
numerous individuals were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual
absence of all clew to the mystery, the popular excitement greatly increased. At the end
of the tenth day it was thought advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at
length, the second week having elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the
prejudice which always exists in Paris against the police having given vent to itself in
several serious émeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of twenty thousand francs “for the conviction of the assassin,” or, if more than one should prove to
have been implicated, “for the conviction of any one of the assassins.” In the proclamation setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should
come forward in evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever
it appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand francs,
in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The entire reward thus stood at
no less than thirty thousand francs, which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
when we consider the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in large
cities, of such atrocities as the one described.
No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be immediately brought
to light. But although, in one or two instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected; and they
were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear, the third week from the discovery
of the body had passed, and passed without any light being thrown upon the subject,
before even a rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind reached the
ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which had absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor,
or more than glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily papers. The first
intelligence of the murder was brought us by G——, in person. He called upon us early
in the afternoon of the thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us until late in the
night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to ferret out the assassins.
His reputation—so he said with a peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his honor
was concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was really no sacrifice
which he would not be willing to make for the development of the mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term
the tact of Dupin, and made him a direct and certainly a liberal proposition, the precise
nature of which I do not feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon
the proper subject of my narrative.
The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the proposition he
accepted at once, although its advantages were altogether provisional. This point
being settled, the Prefect broke forth at once into explanations of his own views, interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not
yet in possession. He discoursed much and, beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded
an occasional suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his
accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses
sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure
of the Prefect.
In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the evidence elicited,
and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every paper in which, from first to last,
had been published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all
that was positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus:
Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, about nine
o’clock in the morning of Sunday, June the twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave
notice to a Monsieur Jacques St. Eustache, and to him only, of her intention to spend the
day with an aunt, who resided in the Rue des Drômes. The Rue des Drômes is a short
and narrow but populous thoroughfare, not far from the banks of the river, and at a
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
147
distance of some two miles, in the most direct course possible, from the pension of
Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took
his meals, at the pension. He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have
escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain all night at her aunt’s (as she had done under similar
circumstances before), he did not think it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew
on, Madame Rogêt (who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age) was heard to
express a fear “that she should never see Marie again”; but this observation attracted
little attention at the time.
On Monday it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue des Drômes; and
when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy search was instituted at several
points in the city and its environs. It was not, however, until the fourth day from the
period of her disappearance that any thing satisfactory was ascertained respecting her.
On this day (Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June) a Monsieur Beauvais, who, with a
friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du Roule, on the shore of
the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had
just been towed ashore by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon
seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of the perfumerygirl. His friend recognized it more promptly.
The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the mouth. No
foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned. There was no discoloration in the
cellular tissue. About the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The right hand
was clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist were two circular excoriations,
apparently the effect of ropes, or of a rope in more than one volution. A part of the right
wrist, also, was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to the shore the fishermen had
attached to it a rope, but none of the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of
the neck was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which appeared the
effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden
from sight; it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which lay
just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to produce death. The medical
testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous character of the deceased. She had been
subjected, it said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when found, that
there could have been no difficulty in its recognition by friends.
The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slip,
about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not
torn off. It was wound three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the
back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip
eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely out—torn very evenly and with great care.
It was found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this
muslin slip and the slip of lace the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
appended. The knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened was not a lady’s
but a slip or sailor’s knot.
After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the Morgue (this
formality being superfluous), but hastily interred not far from the spot at which it was
brought ashore. Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously
hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion
resulted. A weekly paper, however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what has been
already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of
the deceased, and fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.
Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were arrested and
discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an
intelligible account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home.
Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G——, affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued,
a thousand contradictory rumors were circulated, and journalists busied themselves in
suggestions. Among these, the one which attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie
Rogêt still lived—that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which embody the
suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal translations from L’Etoile, a paper conducted, in general, with much ability.
“Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother’s house on Sunday morning, June the twentysecond, 18—, with the ostensible purpose of going to see her aunt, or some other
connection, in the Rue des Drômes. From that hour, nobody is proved to have seen her.
There is no trace or tidings of her at all. * * * There has no person, whatever, come forward, so far, who saw her at all, on that day, after she left her mother’s door. * * * Now,
though we have no evidence that Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine
o’clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that hour, she was
alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body was discovered afloat on the shore
of the Barrière du Roule. This was, even if we presume that Marie Rogêt was thrown into
the river within three hours after she left her mother’s house, only three days from the
time she left her home—three days to an hour. But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough
to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight. Those
who are guilty of such horrid crimes choose darkness rather than light. * * * Thus we see
that if the body found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it could only have been in the
water two and a half days, or three at the outside. All experience has shown that
drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence,
require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to
the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least
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149
five or six days’ immersion, it sinks again, if let alone. Now, we ask, what was there in the
case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature? * * * If the body had been
kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on
shore of the murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon
afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And, furthermore, it is
exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here
supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.”
The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in the water “not
three days merely, but, at least, five times three days,” because it was so far decomposed
that Beauvais had great difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was fully
disproved. I continue the translation:
“What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt the body
was that of Marie Rogêt? He ripped up the gown sleeve, and says he found marks which
satisfied him of the identity. The public generally supposed those marks to have consisted of some description of scars. He rubbed the arm and found hair upon it—something
as indefinite, we think, as can readily be imagined—as little conclusive as finding an arm
in the sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to Madame Rogêt, at
seven o’clock, on Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If we allow that Madame Rogêt, from her age and grief, could not go
over (which is allowing a great deal), there certainly must have been some one who
would have thought it worth while to go over and attend the investigation, if they
thought the body was that of Marie. Nobody went over. There was nothing said or heard
about the matter in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, that reached even the occupants of the
same building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and intended husband of Marie, who boarded
in her mother’s house, deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the body of his
intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his chamber and told
him of it. For an item of news like this, it strikes us it was very coolly received.”
In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an apathy on the part
of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with the supposition that these relatives believed
the corpse to be hers. Its insinuations amount to this: that Marie, with the connivance
of her friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving a charge against
her chastity; and that these friends upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress
the public with the belief of her death. But L’Etoile was again over-hasty. It was distinctly
proved that no apathy, such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was exceedingly
feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty; that St. Eustache, so far from
receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so frantically, that
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M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and relative to take charge of him, and prevent his
attending the examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated by
L’Etoile, that the corpse was re-interred at the public expense, that an advantageous offer
of private sepulture was absolutely declined by the family, and that no member of the
family attended the ceremonial;—although, I say, all this was asserted by L’Etoile in furtherance of the impression it designed to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily disproved.
In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion upon
Beauvais himself. The editor says:
“Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that, on one occasion,
while a Madame B—— was at Madame Roget’s house, M. Beauvais, who was going out,
told her that a gendarme was expected there, and that she, Madame B., must not say any
thing to the gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him. * * * In the present
posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up in his head.
A single step cannot be taken without M. Beauvais, for, go which way you will, you run
against him. * * * For some reason he determined that nobody shall have any thing to do
with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way,
according to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been
very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.”
By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior to the girl’s disappearance, and during the
absence of its occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and the name
“Marie” inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand.
The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from the newspapers,
seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a gang of desperadoes—that by these she
had been borne across the river, maltreated, and murdered. Le Commerciel, however, a
print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this popular idea. I quote a passage
or two from its columns:
“We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so far as it has been
directed to the Barrière du Roule. It is impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one
having seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered it, for she interested
all who knew her. It was when the streets were full of people, when she went out. * * *
It is impossible that she could have gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to the Rue des
Drômes, without being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one has come forward
who saw her outside her mother’s door, and there is no evidence, except the testimony
concerning her expressed intentions, that she did go out at all. Her gown was torn, bound
round her, and tied; and by that the body was carried as a bundle. If the murder had been
committed at the Barrière du Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such
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151
arrangement. The fact that the body was found floating near the Barrière, is no proof as
to where it was thrown into the water. * * * A piece of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats, two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin around
the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchief.”
A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some important information reached the police, whch seemed to overthrow, at least, the chief portion of Le
Commerciel’s argument. Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming among
the woods near the Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket, within
which were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back and footstool.
On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves,
and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The handkerchief bore the name
“Marie Rogêt.” Fragments of dress were discovered on the brambles around. The earth
was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle.
Between the thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground
bore evidence of some heavy burthen having been dragged along it.
A weekly paper, Le Soleil, had the following comments upon this discovery—
comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole Parisian press:
“The things had all evidently been there at least three or four weeks; they were all
mildewed down hard with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew. The
grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but
the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled
and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its being opened. * * * The pieces of
her frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One
part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended; the other piece was part of the
skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about
a foot from the ground. * * * There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of this
appalling outrage has been discovered.”
Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame Deluc testified
that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the bank of the river, opposite the Barrière du
Roule. The neighborhood is secluded—particularly so. It is the usual Sunday resort of
blackguards from the city, who cross the river in boats. About three o’clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young
man of dark complexion. The two remained here for some time. On their departure,
they took the road to some thick woods in the vicinity. Madame Deluc’s attention was
called to the dress worn by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one worn by a
deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed. Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank
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without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to
the inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in great haste.
It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame Deluc, as well as her
eldest son, heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn. The screams were
violent but brief. Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in the
thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse. An omnibus driver,
Valence, now also testified that he saw Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the
Sunday in question, in company with a young man of dark complexion. He, Valence,
knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity. The articles found in the thicket
were fully identified by the relatives of Marie.
The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself, from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only one more point—but this was a point
of seemingly vast consequence. It appears that, immediately after the discovery of the
clothes as above described, the lifeless or nearly lifeless body of St. Eustache, Marie’s
betrothed, was found in the vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage.
A phial labelled “laudanum,” and emptied, was found near him. His breath gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking. Upon his person was found a letter,
briefly stating his love for Marie, with his design of self-destruction.
“I need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, as he finished the perusal of my notes, “that this
is a far more intricate case than that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect. This is an ordinary, although an atrocious, instance of crime. There is nothing
peculiarly outré about it. You will observe that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered easy, when, for this reason, it should have been considered difficult, of solution. Thus,
at first, it was thought unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G—— were
able at once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have been committed. They
could picture to their imaginations a mode—many modes,—and a motive—many
motives; and because it was not impossible that either of these numerous modes
and motives could have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of
them must. But the ease with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very
plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the
difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have therefore observed
that it is by prominences above the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all,
in her search for the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is not so much
‘what has occurred?’ as ‘what has occurred that has never occurred before?’ In the investigations at the house of Madame L’Espanaye, the agents of G—— were discouraged and
confounded by that very unusualness which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have
afforded the surest omen of success; while this same intellect might have been plunged in
despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the case of the perfumery-girl,
and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture.
“In the case of Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been committed. The idea of
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suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all
supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barrière du Roule was found under
such circumstances as to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this important
point. But it has been suggested that the corpse discovered is not that of the Marie Rogêt
for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and respecting
whom, solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this
gentleman well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries from the body
found, and then tracing a murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other
individual than Marie; or if, starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her unassassinated—in either case we lose our labor; since it is Monsieur G—— with whom we
have to deal. For our own purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that our first step should be the determination of the identity of the corpse with
the Marie Rogêt who is missing.
“With the public the arguments of L’Etoile have had weight; and that the journal itself
is convinced of their importance would appear from the manner in which it commences
one of its essays upon the subject—‘Several of the morning papers of the day,’ it says,
‘speak of the conclusive article in Monday’s Etoile.’ To me, this article appears conclusive of
little beyond the zeal of its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the
object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation—to make a point—than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only pursued when it seems coincident with the
former. The print which merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded
this opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass of the people
regard as profound only him who suggests pungent contradictions of the general idea. In
ratiocination, not less than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most immediately
and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is of the lowest order of merit.
“What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and melodrame of the idea, that
Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested
it to L’Etoile, and secured it a favorable reception with the public. Let us examine the
heads of this journal’s argument; endeavoring to avoid the incoherence with which it is
originally set forth.
“The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the interval between
Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the floating corpse, that this corpse cannot be
that of Marie. The reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension, becomes
thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash pursuit of this object, he rushes
into mere assumption at the outset. ‘It is folly to suppose,’ he says, ‘that the murder, if
murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to
have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight.’ We
demand at once, and very naturally, why? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
committed within five minutes after the girl’s quitting her mother’s house? Why is it folly to
suppose that the murder was committed at any given period of the day? There have been
assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at any moment between
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nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday and a quarter before midnight, there would still
have been time enough ‘to throw the body into the river before midnight.’ This assumption, then, amounts precisely to this—that the murder was not committed on Sunday
at all—and, if we allow L’Etoile to assume this, we may permit it any liberties whatever.
The paragraph beginning ‘It is folly to suppose that the murder, etc.,’ however it appears
as printed in L’Etoile, may be imagined to have existed actually thus in the brain of its
inditer: ‘It is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the body,
could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the
body into the river before midnight; it is folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose
at the same time, (as we are resolved to suppose), that the body was not thrown in until
after midnight’—a sentence sufficiently inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the one printed.
“Were it my purpose,” continued Dupin, “merely to make out a case against this passage
of L’Etoile’s argument, I might safely leave it where it is. It is not, however, with L’Etoile
that we have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning,
as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated; but it is material that we go behind the
mere words, for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey. It was the design of the journalists to say that at whatever period of the day or night
of Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that the assassins would have
ventured to bear the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the
assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was committed at such
a position, and under such circumstances, that the bearing it to the river became necessary.
Now, the assassination might have taken place upon the river’s brink, or on the river
itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to at any
period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal.
You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or as coincident with my
own opinion. My design, so far, has no reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to
caution you against the whole tone of L’Etoile’s suggestion, by calling your attention to its
ex-parte character at the outset.
“Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions; having assumed
that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have been in the water but a very brief time,
the journal goes on to say:
“‘All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water
immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired over
a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’ immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’
“These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris, with the exception
of Le Moniteur. This latter print endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph which
has reference to ‘drowned bodies’ only, by citing some five or six instances in which the
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155
bodies of individuals known to be drowned were found floating after the lapse of less time
than is insisted upon by L’Etoile. But there is something excessively unphilosophical in the
attempt, on the part of Le Moniteur, to rebut the general assertion of L’Etoile, by a citation
of particular instances militating against that assertion. Had it been possible to adduce
fifty instead of five examples of bodies floating at the end of two or three days, these fifty
examples could still have been properly regarded only as exceptions to L’Etoile’s rule, until
such time as the rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the rule, (and this Le Moniteur
does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions,) the argument of L’Etoile is suffered to
remain in full force; for this argument does not pretend to involve more than a question
of the probability of the body having risen to the surface in less than three days; and this
probability will be in favor of L’Etoile’s position until the instances so childishly adduced
shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical rule.
“You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be urged, if at all,
against the rule itself; and for this end we must examine the rationale of the rule. Now the
human body, in general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water of the
Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human body, in its natural condition, is
about equal to the bulk of fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshly
persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter than those of the lean
and large-boned, and of men; and the specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat
influenced by the presence of the tide from the sea. But, leaving this tide out of question,
it may be said that very few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, of their own
accord. Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific
gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own—that is to say, if
he suffer his whole person to be immersed, with as little exception as possible. The
proper position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the walker on land,
with the head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus circumstanced, we shall find that we float without difficulty
and without exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of the body, and of the
bulk of water displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to
preponderate. An arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of its
support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look
about. Now, in the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably
thrown upward, while an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular
position. The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the lungs. Much is also
received into the stomach, and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference
between the weight of the air originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid
which now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general
rule; but is insufficient in the cases of individuals with small bones and an abnormal
quantity of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning.
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“The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there remain until, by
some means, its specific gravity again becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it
displaces. This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The result of
decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the cellular tissues and all the cavities,
and giving the puffed appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so far progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased without a corresponding
increase of mass or weight, its specific gravity becomes less than that of the water displaced,
and it forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified by
innumerable circumstances—is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies; for
example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the
water, by its depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the temperament of
the body, by its infection or freedom from disease before death. Thus it is evident that we
can assign no period, with any thing like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise through
decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would be brought about within an
hour; under others it might not take place at all. There are chemical infusions by which
the animal frame can be preserved forever from corruption; the bi-chloride of mercury is
one. But, apart from decomposition, there may be, and very usually is, a generation of gas
within the stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other
cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension which will bring the body to
the surface. The effect produced by the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This
may either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is imbedded, thus
permittng it to rise when other agencies have already prepared it for so doing; or it may
overcome the tenacity of some putrescent portions of the cellular tissue, allowing the
cavities to distend under the influence of the gas.
“Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can easily test by it
the assertions of L’Etoile. ‘All experence shows,’ says this paper, ‘that drowned bodies, or
bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to
ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water.
Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’
immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’
“The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of inconsequence and incoherence. All experience does not show that ‘drowned bodies’ require from six to ten days for
sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface. Both science and
experience show that the period of their rising is, and necessarily must be, indeterminate.
If, moreoever, a body has risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not ‘sink
again if let alone,’ until decomposition has so far progressed as to permit the escape of the
generated gas. But I wish to call your attention to the distinction which is made between
‘drowned bodies,’ and ‘bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence.’
Although the writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all in the same category.
I have shown how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically heavier than
its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at all, except for the struggle by which he
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157
elevates his arms above the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface—
gasps which supply by water the place of the original air in the lungs. But these struggles
and these gasps would not occur in the body ‘thrown into the water immediately after
death by violence.’ Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general rule, would not sink at all—a
fact of which L’Etoile is evidently ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded to a very
great extent—when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones—then, indeed, but
not till then, should we lose sight of the corpse.
“And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found could not be
that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman, she might never have sunk; or, having sunk, might
have re-appeared in twenty-four hours or less. But no one supposes her to have been
drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she might have been found
floating at any period afterward whatever.
“‘But,’ says L’Etoile, ‘if the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.’ Here it is at first difficult
to perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate what he imagines would
be an objection to his theory—viz.: that the body was kept on shore two days, suffering
rapid decomposition—more rapid than if immersed in water. He supposes that, had this
been the case, it might have appeared at the surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that only
under such circumstances it could have so appeared. He is accordingly in haste to show
that it was not kept on shore; for, if so, ‘some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.’ I presume you smile at the sequitur. You cannot be made to see how the mere duration of
the corpse on the shore could operate to multiply traces of the assassins. Nor can I.
“‘And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,’ continues our journal, ‘that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body
in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.’
Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought! No one—not even L’Etoile—disputes
the murder committed on the body found. The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our
reasoner’s object merely to show that this body is not Marie’s. He wishes to prove that Marie
is not assassinated—not that the corpse was not. Yet his observation proves only the latter
point. Here is a corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would not have
failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown in by murderers. This is all which is
proved, if anything is. The question of identity is not even approached, and L’Etoile has been
at great pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before. ‘We are
perfectly convinced,’ it says, ‘that the body found was that of a murdered female.’
“Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject, where our reasoner
unwittingly reasons against himself. His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as
much as possible, the interval between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the corpse.
Yet we find him urging the point that no person saw the girl from the moment of her leaving her mother’s house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, ‘that Marie Rogêt was in the land
of the living after nine o’clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second.’ As his argument is
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obviously an ex-parte one, he should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any
one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in question
would have been much reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the probability much
diminished of the corpse being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to observe that
L’Etoile insists upon its point in the full belief of its furthering its general argument.
“Re-peruse now that portion of this argument which has reference to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the hair upon the arm, L’Etoile has been
obviously disingenuous. M. Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged in identification of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm is without hair. The generality of the
expression of L’Etoile is a mere perversion of the witness’s phraseology. He must have
spoken of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity of color, of quantity,
of length, or of situation.
“‘Her foot,’ says the journal, ‘was small—so are thousands of feet. Her garter is no
proof whatever—nor is her shoe—for shoes and garters are sold in packages. The same
may be said of the flowers in her hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly insists
is, that the clasp on the garter found had been set back to take it in. This amounts
to nothing; for most women find it proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to
the size of the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in the store where they
purchase.’ Here it is difficult to suppose the reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his
search for the body of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and
appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted (without reference to the
question of habiliment at all) in forming an opinion that his search had been successful.
If, in addition to the point of general size and contour, he had found upon the arm a
peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed upon the living Marie, his opinion
might have been justly strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have
been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the hairy mark. If, the feet of Marie
being small, those of the corpse were also small, the increase of probability that the body
was that of Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely arithmetical, but in one
highly geometrical, or accumulative. Add to all this shoes such as she had been known
to wear upon the day of her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be ‘sold in
packages,’ you so far augment the probability as to verge upon the certain. What, of
itself, would be no evidence of identity, becomes through its corroborative position,
proof most sure. Give us, then, flowers in the hat corresponding to those worn by the
missing girl, and we seek for nothing further. If only one flower, we seek for nothing
further—what then if two or three, or more? Each successive one is multiple evidence—
proof not added to proof, but multiplied by hundreds or thousands. Let us now discover,
upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and it is almost folly to proceed. But
these garters are found to be tightened, by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner as her own had been tightened by Marie shortly previous to her leaving home. It is
now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What L’Etoile says in respect to this abbreviation of
the garters being an unusual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in
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error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is self-demonstration of the unusualness of the
abbreviation. What is made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign adjustment
but rarely. It must have been by an accident, in its strictest sense, that these garters of
Marie needed the tightening described. They alone would have amply established her
identity. But it is not that the corpse was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or
found to have her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a
peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance—it is that the corpse
had each, and all collectively. Could it be proved that the editor of L’Etoile really entertained
a doubt, under the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a commission
de lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious to echo the small talk of the lawyers, who,
for the most part, content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the
courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected as evidence by a court,
is the best of evidence to the intellect. For the court, guided itself by the general principles of evidence—the recognized and booked principles—is averse from swerving at
particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with rigorous disregard of
the conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in
any long sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is therefore philosophical; but it is not
the less certain that it engenders vast individual error.
“In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will be willing to dismiss
them in a breath. You have already fathomed the true character of this good gentleman.
He is a busybody, with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of real excitement, as to render himself liable to
suspicion on the part of the over-acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it appears
from your notes) had some personal interviews with the editor of L’Etoile, and offended
him by venturing an opinion that the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor,
was, in sober fact, that of Marie. ‘He persists,’ says the paper, ‘in asserting the corpse to be
that of Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon, to make others believe.’ Now, without re-adverting to the fact that
stronger evidence ‘to make others believe,’ could never have been adduced, it may be
remarked that a man may very well be understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to advance a single reason for the belief of a second party. Nothing is more
vague than impressions of individual identity. Each man recognizes his neighbor, yet
there are few instances in which any one is prepared to give a reason for his recognition. The
editor of L’Etoile had no right to be offended at M. Beauvais’ unreasoning belief.
“The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found to tally much better
with my hypothesis of romantic busy-bodyism, than with the reasoner’s suggestion of guilt.
Once adopting the more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the ‘Marie’ upon the slate; the ‘elbowing the male
relatives out of the way’; the ‘aversion to permitting them to see the body’; the caution
given to Madame B——, that she must hold no conversation with the gendarme until his
(Beauvais’) return; and, lastly, his apparent determination ‘that nobody should have any
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
thing to do with the proceedings except himself.’ It seems to me unquestionable that
Beauvais was a suitor of Marie’s; that she coquetted with him; and that he was ambitious
of being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more
upon this point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of L’Etoile, touching the
matter of apathy on the part of the mother and other relatives—an apathy inconsistent
with the supposition of their believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery girl—we
shall now proceed as if the question of identity were settled to our perfect satisfaction.”
“And what,” I here demanded, “do you think of the opinions of Le Commerciel?”
“That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from the premises are philosophical and
acute; but the premises, in two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation. Le
Commerciel wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang of low ruffians not far
from her mother’s door. ‘It is impossible,’ it urges, ‘that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one having
seen her.’ This is the idea of a man long resident in Paris—a public man—and one whose
walks to and fro in the city have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public offices. He
is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own bureau, without being
recognized and accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety with that of the perfumery girl,
finds no great difference between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her
walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This could only be the
case were her walks of the same unvarying, methodical character, and within the same
species of limited region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular intervals, within a
confined periphery, abounding in individuals who are led to observation of his person
through interest in the kindred nature of his occupation with their own. But the walks of
Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular instance, it will be understood as most probable, that she proceeded upon a route of more than average diversity
from her accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of
Le Commerciel would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals traversing the
whole city. In this case, granting the personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances would
be also equal that an equal number of personal rencontres would be made. For my own
part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as far more than probable, that Marie might
have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many routes between her own
residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by
whom she was known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we must hold
steadily in mind the great disproportion between the personal acquaintances of even the
most noted individual in Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself.
“But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion of Le Commerciel, will
be much diminished when we take into consideration the hour at which the girl went
abroad. ‘It was when the streets were full of people,’ says Le Commerciel, ‘that she went out.’
But not so. It was at nine o’clock in the morning. Now at nine o’clock of every morning
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
161
in the week, with the exception of Sunday, the streets of the city are, it is true, thronged with
people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are chiefly within doors preparing for church. No
observing person can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town, from
about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath. Between ten and eleven the
streets are thronged, but not at so early a period as that designated.
“There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of observation on the part
of Le Commerciel. ‘A piece,’ it says, ‘of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats, two feet
long, and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back
of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.’ Whether this idea is or is not well founded, we will endeavor
to see hereafter; but by ‘fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs,’ the editor intends
the lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very description of people who will
always be found to have handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have
had occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years, to the thorough
blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.”
“And what are we to think,” I asked, “of the article in Le Soleil?”
“That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in which case he would have
been the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has merely repeated the individual items
of the already published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this
paper and from that. ‘The things had all evidently been there,’ he says, ‘at least three or
four weeks, and there can be no doubt that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.’ The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, are very far indeed from removing my own
doubts upon this subject, and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connection with another division of the theme.
“At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations. You cannot fail to
have remarked the extreme laxity of the examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other points
to be ascertained. Had the body been in any respect despoiled? Had the deceased any articles
of jewelry about her person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found? These
are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and there are others of
equal moment, which have met with no attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have no
suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically. We will ascertain beyond a
doubt the validity of the affidavits in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits
of this character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there be nothing
wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from our investigations. His suicide,
however, corroborative of suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is,
without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need
cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary analysis.
“In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this tragedy, and
concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least usual error in investigations
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such as this is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the malpractice of the courts to confine evidence
and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a
true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises
from the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely
through its letter, that modern science has resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen. But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history of human knowledge has so
uninterruptedly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are
indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has at length
become necessary, in prospective view of improvement, to make not only large, but the
largest, allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the range of
ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to base upon what has been a vision
of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a
matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlooked for and the unimagined to the
mathematical formulæ of the schools.
“I repeat that it is no more than fact that the larger portion of all truth has sprung
from the collateral; and it is but in accordance with the spirit of the principle involved
in this fact that I would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself to the contemporary circumstances which
surround it. While you ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will examine the newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far, we have only reconnoitred the
field of investigation; but it will be strange, indeed, if a comprehensive survey, such as I
propose, of the public prints will not afford us some minute points which shall establish
a direction for inquiry.”
In pursuance of Dupin’s suggestion, I made scrupulous examination of the affair of
the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction of their validity, and of the consequent
innocence of St. Eustache. In the meantime my friend occupied himself, with what
seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper
files. At the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts:
“About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the present was
caused by the disappearance of this same Marie Rogêt from the parfumerie of Monsieur
Le Blanc, in the Palais Royal. At the end of a week, however, she re-appeared at her
customary comptoir, as well as ever, with the exception of a slight paleness not altogether
usual. It was given out by Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother that she had merely been
on a vist to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily hushed up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the same nature, and that, at the expiration
of a week or, perhaps, of a month, we shall have her among us again.”—Evening Paper,
Monday, June 23.
“An evening journal of yesterday refers to a former mysterious disappearance of
Mademoiselle Rogêt. It is well known that, during the week of her absence from Le
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163
Blanc’s parfumerie, she was in the company of a young naval officer much noted for his
debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially led to her return home. We have
the name of the Lothario in question, who is at present stationed in Paris, but for obvious
reasons forbear to make it public.”—Le Mercurie, Tuesday Morning, June 24.
“An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near this city the day
before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife and daughter, engaged, about dusk, the
services of six young men, who were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the
Seine, to convey him across the river. Upon reaching the opposite shore the three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far as to be beyond the view of the boat, when
the daughter discovered that she had left in it her parasol. She returned for it, was seized
by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged, brutally treated, and finally taken to
the shore at a point not far from that at which she had originally entered the boat with
her parents. The villains have escaped for the time, but the police are upon their trail,
and some of them will soon be taken.”—Morning Paper, June 25.
“We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to fasten the
crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais; but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated
by a legal inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more
zealous than profound, we do not think it advisable to make them public.”—Morning
Paper, June 28.
“We have received several forcibly written communications, apparently from various
sources, and which go far to render it a matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie
Rogêt has become a victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest the
vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is decidedly in favor of this supposition.
We shall endeavor to make room for some of these arguments hereafter.”—Evening Paper—
Tuesday, June 31.
“On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service saw an empty
boat floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman
towed it under the barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence without the
knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office.”—Le Diligence,
Thursday, June 26.
Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I
could perceive no mode in which any one of them could be brought to bear upon the
matter in hand. I waited for some explanation from Dupin.
“It is not my present design,” he said, “to dwell upon the first and second of these
extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show you the extreme remissness of the police,
who, as far as I can understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any
respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet it is mere folly to say
that between the first and second disappearance of Marie there is no supposable connection. Let us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel between the lovers,
and the return home of the betrayed. We are now prepared to view a second elopement (if
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we know that an elopement has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the betrayer’s
advances, rather than as the result of new proposals by a second individual—we are
prepared to regard it as a ‘making up’ of the old amour, rather than as the commencement
of a new one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped with Marie
would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual, should have them made to her by another. And
here let me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the first ascertained and the second supposed elopement is a few months more than the general
period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villainy by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first moment of his
return to renew the base designs not yet altogether accomplished—or not yet altogether accomplished by him? Of all these things we know nothing.
“You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was no elopement as imagined. Certainly not—but are we prepared to say that there was not the frustrated design?
Beyond St. Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no honorable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there any thing said. Who, then, is the secret lover,
of whom the relatives (at least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon
the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that she hesitates not to
remain with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the
Barrière du Roule? Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most of the relatives
know nothing? And what means the singular prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie’s departure?—‘I fear that I shall never see Marie again.’
“But if we cannot imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of elopement, may we
not at least suppose this design entertained by the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it
to be understood that she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes, and St.
Eustache was requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first glance, this fact strongly
militates against my suggestion;—but let us reflect. That she did meet some companion,
and proceed with him across the river, reaching the Barrière du Roule at so late an hour
as three o’clock in the afternoon, is known. But in consenting so to accompany this
individual, (for whatever purpose—to her mother known or unknown,) she must have thought of her
expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise and suspicion aroused in the
bosom of her affianced suitor, St. Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed,
in the Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and when, moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming intelligence, he should become
aware of her continued absence from home. She must have thought of these things, I
say. She must have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of all. She could
not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion; but the suspicion becomes a point
of trivial importance to her, if we suppose her not intending to return.
“We may imagine her thinking thus—‘I am to meet a certain person for the purpose of
elopement, or for certain other purposes known only to myself. It is necessary that there
be no chance of interruption—there must be sufficient time given us to elude pursuit—
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165
I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and spend the day with my aunt at the Rue
des Drômes—I will tell St. Eustache not to call for me until dark—in this way, my absence
from home for the longest possible period, without causing suspicion or anxiety, will be
accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache
call for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but if I wholly neglect to bid him call,
my time for escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier, and
my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to return at all—if I
had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question—it would not be my
policy to bid St. Eustache call; for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain that I have played him
false—a fact of which I might keep him forever in ignorance, by leaving home without
notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I had
been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my design never to return—or not
for some weeks—or not until certain concealments are effected—the gaining of time is
the only point about which I need give myself any concern.’
“You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in relation to this
sad affair is, and was from the first, that the girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, the popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded.
When arising of itself—when manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous manner—we
should look upon it as analogous with that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by its
decision. But it is important that we find no palpable traces of suggestion. The opinion
must be rigorously the public’s own; and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to
perceive and to maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that this ‘public opinion,’ in respect to a gang, has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed
in the third of my extracts. All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl
young, beautiful, and notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and
floating in the river. But it is now made known that, at the very period, or about the very
period, in which it is supposed that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature
to that endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was perpetrated, by a gang of
young ruffians, upon the person of a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one
known atrocity should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other unknown?
This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to
afford it! Marie, too, was found in the river; and upon this very river was this known
outrage committed. The connection of the two events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder would have been a failure of the populace to appreciate and
to seize it. But, in fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing, evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so committed. It
would have been a miracle indeed, if, while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a
given locality, a most unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang,
in a similar locality, in the same city, under the same circumstances, with the same
means and appliances, engaged in a wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
same period of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of coincidence, does the
accidentally suggested opinion of the populace call upon us to believe?
“Before proceeding further, let us consider the supposed scene of the assassination,
in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule. This thicket, although dense, was in the close
vicinity of a public road. Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat
with a back and a footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a white petticoat; on the
second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found.
The handkerchief bore the name ‘Marie Roget.’ Fragments of dress were seen on the
branches around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every
evidence of a violent struggle.
“Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket was
received by the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to indicate the
precise scene of the outrage, it must be admitted that there was some very good reason
for doubt. That it was the scene, I may or I may not believe—but there was excellent
reason for doubt. Had the true scene been, as Le Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood
of the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still resident
in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror at the public attention thus
acutely directed into the proper channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would
have arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to redivert this attention.
And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du Roule having been already suspected, the idea
of placing the articles where they were found, might have been naturally entertained.
There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so supposes, that the articles discovered had
been more than a very few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof
that they could not have remained there, without attracting attention, during the
twenty days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were
found by the boys. ‘They were all mildewed down hard,’ says Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of its predecessors, ‘with the action of the rain and stuck together from mildew. The
grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but
the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled
and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being opened.’ In respect to the grass
having ‘grown around and over some of them,’ it is obvious that the fact could only have
been ascertained from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for
these boys removed the articles and took them home before they had been seen by a
third party. But the grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather (such as was
that of the period of the murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed
from sight by the upspringing grass. And touching that mildew upon which the editor of
Le Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs the word no less than three times in the
brief paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he to be
told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which the most ordinary feature is its
upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours?
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167
“Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in support
of the idea that the articles had been ‘for at least three or four weeks’ in the thicket, is
most absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the thicket specified
for a longer period than a single week—for a longer period than from one Sunday to the
next. Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the extreme difficulty of
finding seclusion, unless at a great distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored
or even an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to
be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained by duty
to the dust and heat of this great metropolis—let any such one attempt, even during the
week-days, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which
immediately surround us. At every second step, he will find the growing charm dispelled
by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards.
He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain. Here are the very nooks where
the unwashed most abound—here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the
heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less
incongruous sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now especially that,
released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the customary opportunities of crime,
the town blackguard seeks the precincts of the town, not through love of the rural,
which in his heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities of society. He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the utter license of
the country. Here, at the road-side inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he indulges
unchecked by any eye except those of his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a
counterfeit hilarity—the joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than
what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the circumstance of the articles in question having remained undiscovered, for a longer period than
from one Sunday to another, in any thicket in the immediate neighborhood of Paris, is to
be looked upon as little less than miraculous.
“But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the articles were
placed in the thicket with the view of diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And, first, let me direct your notice to the date of the discovery of the articles. Collate
this with the date of the fifth extract made by myself from the newspapers. You will find
that the discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications sent to the
evening paper. These communications, although various, and apparently from various
sources, tended all to the same point—viz., the directing of attention to a gang as the perpetrators of the outrage, and to the neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule as its scene.
Now, here, of course, the situation is not that, in conseqence of these communications,
or of the public attention by them directed, the articles were found by the boys; but
the suspicion might and may well have been, that the articles were not before found by the
boys, for the reason that the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
deposited there only at so late a period as at the date, or shortly prior to the date of the
communications, by the guilty authors of these communications themselves.
“This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one. It was unusually dense.
Within its naturally walled enclosure were three extraordinary stones, forming a seat wth a
back and a footstool. And this thicket, so full of art, was in the immediate vicinity, within a few
rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely examining
the shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a rash
wager—a wager of one thousand to one—that a day never passed over the heads of these
boys without finding at least one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and
enthroned upon its natural throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have
either never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature. I repeat—it is
exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained in this thicket
undiscovered, for a longer period than one or two days; and that thus there is good
ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of Le Soleil, that they were, at a
comparatively late date, deposited where found.
“But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so deposited, than
any which I have as yet urged. And, now, let me beg your notice to the highly artificial
arrangement of the articles. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk
scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the
name ‘Marie Rogêt.’ Here is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by
a not-over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But it is by no means a
really natural arrangement. I should rather have looked to see the things all lying on the
ground and trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would have been
scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the
stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. ‘There
was evidence,’ it is said, ‘of a struggle; and the earth was trampled, the bushes were broken,’—but the petticoat and the scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. ‘The pieces
of the frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long.
One part was the hem of the frock and it had been mended. They looked like strips torn off.’
Here, inadvertently, Le Soleil has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces,
as described, do indeed ‘look like strips torn off’; but purposely and by hand. It is one of
the rarest of accidents that a piece is ‘torn off,’ from any garment such as is now in question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or nail
becoming tangled in them, tears them rectangularly—divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn
enters—but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece ‘torn off.’ I never so knew it, nor
did you. To tear a piece off from such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions,
will be, in almost every case, required. If there be two edges to the fabric—if, for example,
it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only,
will the one force serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is of a dress,
presenting but one edge. To tear a piece from the interior, where no edge is presented,
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
169
could only be effected by a miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could
accomplish it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary, operating, the one in two distinct directions, and the other in one. And this in the supposition
that the edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question. We
thus see the numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces being ‘torn off’ through
the simple agency of ‘thorns’; yet we are required to believe not only that one piece but
that many have been so torn. ‘And one part,’ too, ‘was the hem of the frock’! Another piece
was ‘part of the skirt, not the hem,’—that is to say, was torn completely out, through the
agency of thorns, from the unedged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things which
one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps,
less of reasonable ground for suspicion, than the one startling circumstance of the articles having been left in this thicket at all, by any murderers who had enough precaution to
think of removing the corpse. You will not have apprehended me rightly, however, if
you suppose it my design to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might
have been a wrong here, or, more possibly, an accident at Madame Deluc’s. But, in fact,
this is a point of minor importance. We are not engaged in an attempt to discover the
scene, but to produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness with which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to
show the folly of the positive and headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and
chiefly, to bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation of the doubt
whether this assassination has, or has not, been the work of a gang.
“We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting details of the surgeon
examined at the inquest. It is only necessary to say that his published inferences, in regard
to the number of the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally baseless,
by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not that the matter might not have been as inferred,
but that there was no ground for the inference:—was there not much for another?
“Let us reflect now upon ‘the traces of a struggle’; and let me ask what these traces
have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang. But do they not rather demonstrate the
absence of a gang? What struggle could have taken place—what struggle so violent and so
enduring as to have left its ‘traces’ in all directions—between a weak and defenceless girl
and the gang of ruffians imagined? The silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would
have been over. The victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You will here
bear in mind that the arguments urged against the thicket as the scene, are applicable, in
chief part, only against it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the
struggle of so violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the ‘traces’ apparent.
“And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by the fact that the
articles in question were suffered to remain at all in the thicket where discovered. It
seems almost impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been accidentally left
where found. There was sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed) to remove the
corpse; and yet a more positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
have been quickly obliterated by decay), is allowed to lie conspicuously in the scene of
the outrage—I allude to the handkerchief with the name of the deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident of a gang. We can imagine it only the accident of an individual.
Let us see. An individual has committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the
departed. He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of his passion is
over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the natural awe of the deed. His is none
of that confidence which the presence of numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the
dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing of the corpse.
He bears it to the river, and leaves behind him the other evidences of his guilt; for it is
difficult, if not impossible to carry all the burthen at once, and it will be easy to return
for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to the water his fears redouble within him.
The sounds of life encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies he hears the
step of an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him. Yet, in time, and by
long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the river’s brink, and disposes of his
ghastly charge—perhaps through the medium of a boat. But now what treasure does the
world hold—what threat of vengeance could it hold out—which would have power to
urge the return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the
thicket and its blood-chilling recollections? He returns not, let the consequences be what
they may. He could not return if he would. His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns
his back forever upon those dreadful shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come.
“But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired them with confidence; if,
indeed, confidence is ever wanting in the breast of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant
blackguards alone are the supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I say, would
have prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this
oversight would have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind
them; for their number would have enabled them to carry all at once. There would have
been no need of return.
“Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of the corpse when
found, ‘a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the
waist, wound three times round the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.’
This was done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to carry the body.
But would any number of men have dreamed of resorting to such an expedient? To three
or four, the limbs of the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the best
possible, hold. The device is that of a single individual; and this brings us to the fact that
‘between the thicket and the river the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the
ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden being dragged along it!’ But would a
number of men have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for
the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have lifted over any fence
in an instant? Would a number of men have so dragged a corpse at all as to have left evident
traces of the dragging?
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
171
“And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel; an observation upon
which I have already, in some measure, commented. ‘A piece,’ says this journal, ‘of one
of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the
back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.’
“I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pockethandkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I now especially advert. That it was not
through want of a handkerchief for the purpose imagined by Le Commerciel, that this bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief left in the thicket; and
that the object was not ‘to prevent screams’ appears, also, from the bandage having been
employed in preference to what would so much better have answered the purpose. But
the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in question as ‘found around the neck,
fitting loosely, and secured with a hard-knot.’ These words are sufficiently vague, but
differ materially from those of Le Commerciel. The slip was eighteen inches wide, and
therefore, although of muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally. And thus rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary
murderer, having borne the corpse for some distance (whether from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched around its middle, found the weight, in this mode
of procedure, too much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burthen—the evidence
goes to show that it was dragged. With this object in view, it became necessary to attach
something like a rope to one of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck,
where the head would prevent its slipping off. And now the murderer bethought him,
unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins. He would have used this, but for its
volution about the corpse, the hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had
not been ‘torn off’ from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip from the petticoat.
He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the brink of the river.
That this ‘bandage,’ only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose—that this bandage was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity
for its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when the handkerchief was no longer attainable—that is to say, arising, as we have imagined, after quitting
the thicket (if the thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the river.
“But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc(!) points especially to the presence
of a gang in the vicinity of the thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I
doubt if there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc, in and about
the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule at or about the period of this tragedy. But the gang
which has drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the somewhat tardy
and very suspicious evidence, of Madam Deluc, is the only gang which is represented by
that honest and scrupulous old lady as having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy,
without putting themselves to the trouble of making her payment. Et hinc illœ irœ?
“But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? ‘A gang of miscreants made
their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
in the route of the young man and the girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and re-crossed
the river as if in great haste.’
“Now this ‘great haste’ very possibly seemed greater haste in the eyes of Madame Deluc,
since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly upon her violated cakes and ale,—cakes and
ale for which she might still have entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why, otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she make a point of the haste? It is no cause for wonder,
surely, that even a gang of blackguards should make haste to get home when a wide river
is to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night approaches.
“I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was only about dusk that the indecent haste
of these ‘miscreants’ offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was
upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, ‘heard the screams of
a female in the vicinity of the inn.’ And in what words does Madame Deluc designate the
period of the evening at which these screams were heard? ‘It was soon after dark,’ she says. But
‘soon after dark’ is, at least, dark; and ‘about dusk’ is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly
clear that the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule prior to the screams overheard (?) by
Madame Deluc. And although, in all the many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have employed them in this
conversation with yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been
taken by any of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police.
“I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but this one has, to my own
understanding at least, a weight altogether irresistible. Under the circumstances of large
reward offered, and full pardon to any king’s evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a
moment, that some member of a gang of low ruffians, or of any body of men, would not
long ago have betrayed his accomplices. Each one of a gang, so placed, is not so much
greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He betrays eagerly and early
that he may not himself be betrayed. That the secret has not been divulged is the very best of
proof that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are known only to one, or
two, living human beings, and to God.
“Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long analysis. We have
attained the idea either of a fatal accident under the roof of Madam Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by an
intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate is of swarthy complexion.
This complexion, the ‘hitch’ in the bandage, and the ‘sailor’s knot’ with which the bonnetribbon is tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased—a gay but not
an abject young girl—designates him as above the grade of the common sailor. Here the
well-written and urgent communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned by Le Mercurie, tends
to blend the idea of this seaman with that of the ‘naval officer’ who is first known to have
led the unfortunate into crime.
“And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued absence of him of
the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe that the complexion of this man is dark
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
173
and swarthy; it was no common swarthiness which constituted the sole point of
remembrance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is this man
absent? Was he murdered by the gang? If so, why are there only traces of the assassinated
girl? The scene of the two outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is
his corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the same way.
But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from making himself known,
through dread of being charged with the murder. This consideration might be supposed to operate upon him now—at this late period—since it has been given in
evidence that he was seen with Marie, but it would have had no force at the period of
the deed. The first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the
outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This policy would have suggested. He had
been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in an open ferry-boat. The
denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole
means of relieving himself from suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the night of
the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed.
Yet only under such circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed,
if alive, in the denouncement of the assassins.
“And what means are ours of attaining the truth? We shall find these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to the bottom this affair
of the first elopement. Let us know the full history of ‘the officer,’ with his present
circumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period of the murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the various communications sent to the evening paper,
in which the object was to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to the morning paper, at a
previous period, and insisting so vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this
done, let us again compare these various communications with the known MSS. of
the officer. Let us endeavour to ascertain, by repeated questionings of Madame Deluc
and her boys, as well as of the omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance and bearing of the ‘man of dark complexion.’ Queries, skilfully
directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information on this particular point (or upon others)—information which the parties themselves may not
even be aware of possessing. And let us now trace the boat picked up by the bargeman
on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June, and which was removed from the
barge-office, without the cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder,
at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can the bargeman who picked
it up identify it, but the rudder is at hand. The rudder of a sail boat would not have been
abandoned, without inquiry, by one altogether at ease in heart. And here let me pause
to insinuate a question. There was no advertisement of the picking up of this boat. It was
silently taken to the barge-office, and as silently removed. But its owner or employer—
how happened he, at so early a period as Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
agency of advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we
imagine some connection with the navy—some personal permanent connection leading to cognizance of its minute interests—its petty local news?
“In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore, I have already
suggested the probability of his availing himself of a boat. Now we are to understand that
Marie Rogêt was precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the case. The
corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow waters of the shore. The peculiar
marks on the back and shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That
the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If thrown from the
shore a weight would have been attached. We can only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it
before pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to the water, he would unquestionably have noticed his oversight; but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any
risk would have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself of
his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the city. There, at some
obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land. But the boat—would he have secured it?
He would have been in too great haste for such things as securing a boat. Moreover, in
fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing evidence against himself. His
natural thought would have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held
connection with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but he would
not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.—In the morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at
finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a locality which he is in the daily
habit of frequenting—at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent.
The next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes it. Now where is that rudderless
boat? Let it be one of our first purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it,
the dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which will
surprise even ourselves, to him who employed it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath.
Corroboration will rise upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced.”
[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omitting, from the MSS. placed in our hands, such
portion as details the following up of the apparently slight clew obtained by Dupin. We feel
it advisable only to state, in brief, that the result desired was brought to pass; and that the
Prefect fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his compact with
the Chevalier. Mr. Poe’s article concludes with the following words.—Eds.]
It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more. What I have said above
upon this topic must suffice. In my own heart there dwells no faith in præternature.
That Nature and its God are two, no man who thinks will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also unquestionable. I say “at will”;
for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not
that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
175
necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all
contingencies which could lie in the Future. With God all is Now.
I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences. And further: in
what I relate it will be seen that between the fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so
far as that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a certain epoch in her
history, there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude
the reason becomes embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a moment
be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of Marie from the epoch just
mentioned, and in tracing to its dénouement the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my
covert design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures
adopted in Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any
similar ratiocination, would produce any similar result.
For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be considered that
the most trifling variation in the facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of events; very much as,
in arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be inappreciable, produces,
at length, by dint of multiplication at all points of the process, a result enormously at
variance with truth. And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in
view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have referred, forbids all idea of the
extension of the parallel,—forbids it with a positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel has already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those
anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether apart from
the mathematical, is yet one which only the mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the
fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player at dice, is sufficient cause
for betting the largest odds that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A suggeston to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does not appear that the
two throws which have been completed, and which lie now absolutely in the Past, can
have influence upon the throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time—that is to say, subject only
to the influence of the various other throws which may be made by the dice. And this is
a reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert it are
received more frequently with a derisive smile than with any thing like respectful attention. The error here involved—a gross error redolent of mischief—I cannot pretend to
expose within the limits assigned me at present; and with the philosophical it needs no
exposure. It may be sufficient here to say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes
which arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail.
T H E F AL L
O F T HE
H O US E
OF
USHER
Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’ on le touche il résonne.
—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
176
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
177
before—upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly
tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows.
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 recognizable 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
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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 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.
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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 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 confirmation 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 hollowsounding 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 their 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
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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 restated—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 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 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.
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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 surrounding me, there arose out of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived
to throw upon his canvas, 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
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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.
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,
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183
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 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
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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.
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 Dela 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 Œgipans,
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 Vigiliœ Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiœ Maguntinœ.
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 copper. The door, of massive
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185
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, hearkened—I know not why, except that an
instinctive spirit prompted me—to certain low and indefinite sounds which came,
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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.
I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase
arrested my attention. I presently recognized 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, shuddering, 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
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187
judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or
apparently hearkened, 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 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 alarumed 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,
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound—the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up from 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 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 tarried not for his full coming, but fell down at his 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—tonight—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
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
189
hurrying to upbraid me for 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 panels 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, 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.”
T H E P U R L O I NE D L E T T E R
Nil sapientiæ 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 troisième, 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 the 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 toward him
a comfortable chair.
“And what is the difficulty now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the assassination way
I hope?”
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THE PURLOINED LETTER
191
“Oh, no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I
make no doubt that we 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 visitor, 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 non-appearance 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.
“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—”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“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 endeavour 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, recognizes 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.”
“It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the letter is still in the 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.”
“Oh, 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
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193
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 rigidly 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 is a poet, which I take to be only one
remove from a fool.”
“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 everywhere. 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.”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“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 knitting-needle, 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 gluing—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 bedclothes, 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.”
“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?”
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195
“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?”
“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 afterward 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.’”
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“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.”
“In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a checkbook, “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 mode 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 school-boy 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 school-boy 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
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197
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 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 school-boy,
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 school-boy 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 illadmeasurement, 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
any thing 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
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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 political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,—the qualities in
question have never been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere 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 a 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 parier,’” 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 honorable men.”
“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
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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,’ 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 knew 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.”
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“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, 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 normal 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.
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201
“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 the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree 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 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, was 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 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 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 wndows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a
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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 afterward 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?”
“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 card-rack.”
“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 clew. 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 Crébillon’s ‘Atrée.’”
THE TELL-TALE HEART
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 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! One of his eyes resembled that 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 for ever.
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, so 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 had passed the night. So you
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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 the 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.
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 single dim ray, like the
thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and 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 now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness
of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a
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205
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 eye. 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 neighbor! 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.
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 neighbor 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.
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The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They
sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted 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 definitiveness—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 observation 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 any thing was better than this agony! Any thing 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!—
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—
here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
T HE B L A C K C A T
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 tomorrow I die, and
today I would unburden 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, goldfish, 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
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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 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 fiber of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a penknife, 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 stupid action, for no other
reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the
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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 cold 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 were 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 most 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.
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 freshlyspread 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,
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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 stupefied, 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 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 disgusted and annoyed me. 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, the 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.
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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 chimeras 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
woe! 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 breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast
weight—an incarnate nightmare 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
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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 merchandise, 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 fire-place, that had been filled
up and made to resemble the rest 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 crowbar 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 relaid 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 brick-work. 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 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 for ever! 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
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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.
The walls—are you going, gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put together”; and here,
through the mere frenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily with a cane which I held in my
hand, upon that very portion of the brickwork 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 damned 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 on the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror
and 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.
T H E I MP
O F T HE
PERVERSE
In the consideration of the faculties and impulses—of the prima mobilia of the human soul,
the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously
existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the
moralists who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely through want of
belief—of faith;—whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it
has never occurred to us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the
impulse—for the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We could not understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the notion of this primum mobile
ever obtruded itself;—we could not have understood in what manner it might be made
to further the objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that
phrenology and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori. The
intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man, set himself
to imagine designs—to dictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems
of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally enough,
that it was the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned to man an organ
of alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man, willI nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be God’s will that man should continue
his species, we discovered an organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness,
with ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,—so, in short, with every organ,
whether representing a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect.
And in these arrangements of the principia of human action, the Spurzheimites, whether
right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but followed, in principle, the footsteps
of their predecessors; deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his Creator.
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if classify we must)
upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally
doing, rather than upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him
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215
to do. If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable
thoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in his objective
creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?
Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as an innate and
primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something, which we may call perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile
without motive, a motive not motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far
modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that
we should not. In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable; but, in fact, there is none
more strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or
error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone
impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the
wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a
primitive impulse—elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts
because we feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that
which ordinarily springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will show the
fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of
self-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; and
thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its development. It follows, that
the desire to be well must be excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be
merely a modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I term
perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but a strongly antagonistical
sentiment exists.
An appeal to one’s own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed.
No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed
to deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than distinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not been tormented,
for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker
is aware that he displeases; he has every intention to please; he is usually curt, precise,
and clear; the most laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his
tongue; it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow; he dreads
and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, that
by certain involutions and parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single
thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an
uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the
speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged.
We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be
ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for
immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence
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the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It
must, it shall be undertaken today, and yet we put it off until tomorrow; and why? There
is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the
principle. Tomorrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but
with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because
unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The
last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us,—of
the definite with the indefinite—of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest
have proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails,—we struggle in vain. The clock
strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer-note to the
ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies—it disappears—we are free. The old energy
returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late!
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and
dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By
slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of
unnamable feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape,
as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights.
But out of this our cloud upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape,
far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought,
although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the
fierceness of the delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this
rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and
loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which
have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the
most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so
demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice,
thus meditates a plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be
inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate
ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.
Examine these and similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from
the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not.
Beyond or behind this there is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, deem this
perverseness a direct instigation of the arch-fiend, were it not occasionally known to
operate in furtherance of good.
I have said this much, that in some measure I may answer your question—that I may
explain to you why I am here—that I may assign to you something that shall have at least
the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell
of the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me
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217
altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that
I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse.
It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected a
thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance of detection. At
length, in reading some French memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that
occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The
idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim’s habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that
his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent
details. I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room
candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there found. The next
morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the coroner’s verdict was—“Death by
the visitation of God.”
Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection
never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or even to
suspect, me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in
my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was
accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere
worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from
which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting
and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an
instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or
rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive
snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or
the opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low under-tone, the phrase, “I am safe.”
One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus;
“I am safe—I am safe—yes—if I be not fool enough to make open confession!”
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had
had some experience in these fits of perversity (whose nature I have been at some trouble
to explain), and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully resisted their
attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion, that I might possibly be fool enough to
confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him
whom I had murdered—and beckoned me on to death.
At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously—faster—still faster—at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud.
Every succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too
well, understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my pace. I
bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace
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took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I have
torn out my tongue, I would have done it—but a rough voice resounded in my ears—a
rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I turned—I gasped for breath. For a moment
I experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and then
some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The longimprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.
They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and
passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief but pregnant
sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell.
Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate
in a swoon.
But why shall I say more? Today I wear these chains, and am here! Tomorrow I shall
be fetterless!—but where?
T H E P R E M A T UR E B UR I A L
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely
horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew,
if he do not wish to offend, or to disgust. They are with propriety handled only when
the severity and majesty of truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the
most intense of “pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of
the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew,
or of the stifling of the hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta.
But, in these accounts, it is the fact—it is the reality—it is the history which excites. As
inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence.
I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities on record;
but in these it is the extent, not less than the character of the calamity, which so vividly
impresses the fancy. I need not remind the reader that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have selected many individual instances more replete
with essential suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true wretchedness, indeed,—the ultimate woe,—is particular, not diffuse. That the ghastly extremes
of agony are endured by man the unit, and never by man the mass—for this let us thank
a merciful God!
To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these extremes which
has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has frequently, very frequently, so
fallen will scarcely be denied by those who think. The boundaries which divide Life from
Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where
the other begins? We know that there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the
apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations are merely suspensions,
properly so called. They are only temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism.
A certain period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle again sets in motion
the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver cord was not for ever loosed, nor the
golden bowl irreparably broken. But where, meantime, was the soul?
Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, a priori that such causes must produce such effects,—that the well-known occurrence of such cases of suspended
219
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
animation must naturally give rise, now and then, to premature interments,—apart
from this consideration, we have the direct testimony of medical and ordinary experience to prove that a vast number of such interments have actually taken place. I might
refer at once, if necessary, to a hundred well-authenticated instances. One of very
remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of
some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore,
where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely-extended excitement. The wife of one
of the most respectable citizens—a lawyer of eminence and a member of Congress—was
seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness, which completely baffled the skill of her
physicians. After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die. No one suspected,
indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was not actually dead. She presented all the
ordinary appearances of death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline.
The lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless. There was no warmth.
Pulsation had ceased. For three days the body was preserved unburied, during which it
had acquired a stony rigidity. The funeral, in short, was hastened, on account of the
rapid advance of what was supposed to be decomposition.
The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three subsequent years, was
undisturbed. At the expiration of this term it was opened for the reception of a sarcophagus;—but, alas! how fearful a shock awaited the husband, who, personally, threw
open the door! As its portals swung outwardly back, some white-apparelled object fell
rattling within his arms. It was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.
A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within two days after
her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge,
or shelf, to the floor, where it was so broken as to permit her escape. A lamp which had
been accidentally left, full of oil, within the tomb, was found empty; it might have been
exhausted, however, by evaporation. On the uppermost of the steps which led down into
the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which, it seemed, that she had
endeavored to arrest attention by striking the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in falling, her shroud became
entangled in some iron-work which projected interiorly. Thus she remained and thus
she rotted, erect.
In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France, attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion that truth is, indeed, stranger than
fiction. The heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl
of illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty. Among her numerous
suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur, or journalist, of Paris. His talents and general amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by whom he seems
to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth decided her, finally, to reject him, and to
wed a Monsieur Renelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence. After marriage,
however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated her.
Having passed with him some wretched years, she died—at least her condition so closely
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221
resembled death as to deceive every one who saw her. She was buried—not in a vault,
but in an ordinary grave in the village of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still
inflamed by the memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the capital
to the remote province in which the village lies, with the romantic purpose of disinterring the corpse, and possessing himself of its luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At
midnight he unearths the coffin, opens it, and is in the act of detaching the hair, when
he is arrested by the unclosing of the beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried alive.
Vitality had not altogether departed, and she was aroused by the caresses of her lover
from the lethargy which had been mistaken for death. He bore her frantically to his
lodgings in the village. He employed certan powerful restoratives suggested by no little
medical learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her preserver. She remained with
him until, by slow degrees, she fully recovered her original health. Her woman’s heart
was not adamant, and this last lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She bestowed it upon
Bossuet. She returned no more to her husband, but, concealing from him her resurrection, fled with her lover to America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to
France, in the persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady’s appearance that her
friends would be unable to recognize her. They were mistaken, however; for, at the first
meeting, Monsieur Renelle did actually recognize and make claim to his wife. This claim
she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her resistance, deciding that the
peculiar circumstances, with the long lapse of years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but legally, the authority of the husband.
The Chirurgical Journal of Leipsic, a periodical of high authority and merit, which some
American book-seller would do well to translate and republish, records in a late number
a very distressing event of the character in question.
An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust health, being thrown
from an unmanageable horse, received a very severe contusion upon the head, which
rendered him insensible at once; the skull was slightly fractured, but no immediate danger was apprehended. Trepanning was accomplished successfully. He was bled, and
many other of the ordinary means of relief were adopted. Gradually, however, he fell
into a more and more hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he died.
The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in one of the public
cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday. On the Sunday following, the grounds
of the cemetery were, as usual, much thronged with visitors, and about noon an intense
excitement was created by the declaration of a peasant that, while sitting upon the grave
of the officer, he had distinctly felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned by some
one struggling beneath. At first little attention was paid to the man’s asseveration; but
his evident terror, and the dogged obstinacy with which he persisted in his story, had at
length their natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly procured, and the
grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a few minutes so far thrown open that
the head of its occupant appeared. He was then seemingly dead; but he sat nearly erect
within his coffin, the lid of which, in his furious struggles, he had partially uplifted.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there pronounced to be still
living, although in an asphytic condition. After some hours he revived, recognized individuals of his acquaintance, and, in broken sentences spoke of his agonies in the grave.
From what he related, it was clear that he must have been conscious of life for more
than an hour, while inhumed, before lapsing into insensibility. The grave was carelessly
and loosely filled with an exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was necessarily
admitted. He heard the footsteps of the crowd overhead, and endeavored to make himself heard in turn. It was the tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he said, which
appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he awake than he became
fully aware of the awful horrors of his position.
This patient, it is recorded, was doing well, and seemed to be in a fair way of ultimate
recovery, but fell a victim to the quackeries of medical experiment. The galvanic battery
was applied, and he suddenly expired in one of those ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.
The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory a wellknown and very extraordinary case in point, where its action proved the means of
restoring to animation a young attorney of London, who had been interred for two days.
This occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very profound sensation wherever it
was made the subject of converse.
The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently, of typhus fever, accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity of his medical
attendants. Upon his seeming decease, his friends were requested to sanction a post-mortem
examination, but declined to permit it. As often happens, when such refusals are made,
the practitioners resolved to disinter the body and dissect it at leisure, in private.
Arrangements were easily effected with some of the numerous corps of body-snatchers
with which London abounds; and, upon the third night after the funeral, the supposed
corpse was unearthed from a grave eight feet deep, and deposited in the operating chamber of one of the private hospitals.
An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen, when the fresh
and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested an application of the battery. One
experiment succeeded another, and the customary effects supervened, with nothing to
characterize them in any respect, except, upon one or two occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the convulsive action.
It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought expedient, at length, to
proceed at once to the dissection. A student, however, was especially desirous of testing
a theory of his own, and insisted upon applying the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. A rough gash was made, and a wire hastily brought in contact; when the patient,
with a hurried but quite unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped into the
middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds, and then—spoke. What
he said was unintelligible; but words were uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell heavily to the floor.
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For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of the case soon
restored them their presence of mind. It was seen that Mr. Stapleton was alive, although
in a swoon. Upon exhibition of ether he revived and was rapidly restored to health, and
to the society of his friends—from whom, however, all knowledge of his resuscitation
was withheld, until a relapse was no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder—their
rapturous astonishment—may be conceived.
The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is involved in what Mr. S.
himself asserts. He declares that at no period was he altogether insensible—that, dully and
confusedly, he was aware of everything which happened to him, from the moment in
which he was pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in which he fell swooning to the
floor of the hospital. “I am alive,” were the uncomprehended words which, upon recognizing the locality of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his extremity, to utter.
It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I forbear—for, indeed,
we have no need of such to establish the fact that premature interments occur. When we
reflect how very rarely, from the nature of the case, we have it in our power to detect
them, we must admit that they may frequently occur without our cognizance. Scarcely, in
truth, is a graveyard ever encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent, that
skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the most fearful of suspicions.
Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well adapted to inspire the supremeness of
bodily and of mental distress, as is burial before death. The unendurable oppression
of the lungs—the stifling fumes of the damp earth—the clinging to the death garments—
the rigid embrace of the narrow house—the blackness of the absolute Night—the
silence like a sea that overwhelms—the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror
Worm—these things, with the thoughts of the air and grass above, with memory of dear
friends who would fly to save us if but informed of our fate, and with consciousness that
of this fate they can never be informed—that our hopeless portion is that of the really
dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the heart, which still palpitates, a degree of
appalling and intolerable horror from which the most daring imagination must recoil.
We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell. And thus all narratives upon this topic have
an interest profound; an interest, nevertheless, which, through the sacred awe of the
topic itself, very properly and very peculiarly depends upon our conviction of the truth of
the matter narrated. What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my
own positive and personal experience.
For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more definitive title. Although both
the immediate and the predisposing causes, and even the actual diagnosis, of this disease
are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent character is sufficiently well understood. Its
variations seem to be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only, or even
for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and externally
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motionless; but the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of
warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of cheek; and, upon application
of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating action of the
lungs. Then again the duration of the trance is for weeks—even for months; while
the closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous medical tests, fail to establish any material
distinction between the state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death.
Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely by the knowledge of his
friends that he has been previously subject to catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion
excited, and, above all, by the non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are,
luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are unequivocal. The fits
grow successively more and more distinctive, and endure each for a longer term than
the preceding. In this lies the principal security from inhumation. The unfortunate
whose first attack should be of the extreme character which is occasionally seen, would
almost inevitably be consigned alive to the tomb.
My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in medical
books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by little, into a condition of
semi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition, without pain, without ability to stir,
or, strictly speaking, to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the
presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the crisis of the disease
restored me, suddenly, to perfect sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once.
Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and silent, and Nothing became the universe.
Total annihilation could be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with
a gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure. Just as the day dawns to
the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the streets throughout the long desolate
winter night—just so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of
the Soul to me.
Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared to be good;
nor could I perceive that it was at all affected by the one prevalent malady—unless, indeed,
an idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked upon as superinduced. Upon awaking
from slumber, I could never gain, at once, thorough possession of my senses, and always
remained, for many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity—the mental faculties
in general, but the memory in especial, being in a condition of absolute abeyance.
In all that I endured there was no physical suffering, but of moral distress an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel. I talked “of worms, of tombs, and epitaphs.” I was lost in
reveries of death, and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my brain.
The ghastly Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day and night. In the former, the
torture of meditation was excessive; in the latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness
overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I shook—shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature could endure wakefulness no longer, it was
with a struggle that I consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking,
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I might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I sank into slumber, it was
only to rush at once into a world of phantasms, above which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wings, hovered, predominant, the one sepulchral Idea.
From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in dreams, I select
for record but a solitary vison. Methought I was immersed in a cataleptic trance of more
than usual duration and profundity. Suddenly there came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering voice whispered the word “Arise!” within my ear.
I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him who had aroused
me. I could call to mind neither the period at which I had fallen into the trance, nor the
locality in which I then lay. While I remained motionless, and busied in endeavors to
collect my thoughts, the cold hand grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering voice said again:
“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?”
“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?”
“I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,” replied the voice, mournfully: “I was
mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless, but am pitiful. Thou dost feel that I shudder. My
teeth chatter as I speak, yet it is not with the chilliness of the night—of the night without end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How canst thou tranquilly sleep? I cannot
rest for the cry of these great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get thee up!
Come with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to thee the graves. Is not this a
spectacle of woe?—Behold!”
I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, had caused to be
thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see into the innermost recesses, and there view the
shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. But alas! the real
sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there
was a feeble struggling; and there was a general and sad unrest; and from out the depths
of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried.
And of those who seemed tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in
a greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which they had originally been
entombed. And the voice again said to me as I gazed:
“Is it not—oh! is it not a pitiful sight?” But, before I could find words to reply, the
figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the phosphoric lights expired, and the graves were
closed with a sudden violence, while from out them arose a tumult of despairing cries,
saying again: “Is it not—O, God! is it not a very pitiful sight?”
Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a prey
to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to indulge in any exercise that
would carry me from home. In fact, I no longer dared trust myself out of the immediate
presence of those who were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one of
my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition could be ascertained. I doubted
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the care, the fidelity of my dearest friends. I dreaded that, in some trance of more than
customary duration, they might be prevailed upon to regard me as irrecoverable. I even
went so far as to fear that, as I occasioned much trouble, they might be glad to consider
any very protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid of me altogether. It was in
vain they endeavored to reassure me by the most solemn promises. I exacted the most
sacred oaths, that under no circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had
so materially advanced as to render further preservation impossible. And, even then, my
mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no consolation. I entered into
a series of elaborate precautions. Among other things, I had the family vault so remodelled as to admit of being readily opened from within. The slightest pressure upon a long
lever that extended far into the tomb would cause the iron portals to fly back. There
were arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of the coffin intended for my reception.
This coffin was warmly and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon
the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so contrived that the feeblest
movement of the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there was
suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of which, it was designed,
should extend through a hole in the coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the
corpse. But, alas! what avails the vigilance against the Destiny of man? Not even these
well-contrived securities sufficed to save from the uttermost agonies of living inhumation, a wretch to these agonies foredoomed!
There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which I found myself
emerging from total unconsciousness into the first feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise gradation—approached the faint gray dawn of the
psychal day. A torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No care—no
hope—no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the ears; then, after a lapse still
longer, a prickling or tingling sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal
period of pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening feelings are struggling
into thought; then a brief re-sinking into nonentity; then a sudden recovery. At length
the slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in torrents from the temples to the
heart. And now the first positive effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember. And now a partial and evanescent success. And now the memory has so far regained
its dominion, that, in some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not
awaking from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to catalepsy. And now,
at least, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit is overwhelmed by the one
grim Danger—by the one spectral and ever-prevalent idea.
For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without motion. And
why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not make the effort which was to
satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was something at my heart which whispered me it
was sure. Despair—such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair
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227
alone urged me, after long irresolution, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted
them. It was dark—all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the crisis of my
disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now fully recovered the use of my visual
faculties—and yet it was dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night
that endureth for evermore.
I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved convulsively
together in an attempt—but no voice issued from the cavernous lungs, which, oppressed
as if by the weight of some incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart,
at every elaborate and struggling inspiration.
The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that they were
bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon some hard substance; and
by something similar my sides were, also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured
to stir any of my limbs—but now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying
at length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance, which extended
above my person at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I could no
longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.
And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub Hope—for I
thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic exertions to force open the
lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now
the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could
not help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and
then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth.
The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault. I had fallen into a trance while
absent from home—while among strangers—when, or how, I could not remember—
and it was they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up in some common coffin—and
thrust, deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.
As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers of my soul,
I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I succeeded. A long,
wild, and continuous shriek, or yell, of agony, resounded through the realms of the
subterranean Night.
“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply.
“What the devil’s the matter now!” said a second.
“Get out o’ that!” said a third.
“What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a catty-mount?” said a
fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken without ceremony, for several minutes, by
a junto of very rough-looking individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber—
for I was wide-awake when I screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of
my memory.
This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a friend, I had
proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the banks of the James River.
Night approached, and we were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying
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at anchor in the stream, and laden with garden mould, afforded us the only available
shelter. We made the best of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the only
two berths in the vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or seventy tons need scarcely
be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of any kind. Its extreme width was
eighteen inches. The distance of its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the
same. I found it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I slept
soundly; and the whole of my vision—for it was no dream, and no nightmare—arose
naturally from the circumstances of my position—from my ordinary bias of thought—
and from the difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially
of regaining my memory, for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who
shook me were the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the
load itself came the earthy smell. The bandage about the jaws was a silk handkerchief in
which I had bound up my head, in default of my customary nightcap.
The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal, for the time, to those
of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they were inconceivably hideous; but out of
Evil proceeded Good; for their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion.
My soul acquired tone—acquired temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I
breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than Death. I discarded
my medical books. “Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night Thoughts”—no fustian about
church-yards—no bugaboo tales—such as this. In short I became a new man, and lived a
man’s life. From that memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions,
and with them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been less
the consequence than the cause.
There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad
Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination of man is no
Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepulchral
terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful—but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour
us—they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish.
T H E I S L A ND
OF THE
FAY
Nullus enim locus sine genio est.
—Servius
“La musique,” says Marmontel, in those “Contes Moraux” which, in all our translations,
we have insisted upon calling “Moral Tales,” as if in mockery of their spirit—“la musique
est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui même; tous les autres veulent des temoins.” He here confounds
the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more
than any other talent, is that for music susceptible for complete enjoyment, where there
is no second party to appreciate its exercise. And it is only in common with other talents
that it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in its expression to his national
love of point, is, doubtless, the very tenable one that the higher order of music is the most
thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition, in this form, will
be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake, and for its spiritual uses.
But there is one pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality—and perhaps only
one—which owes even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I
mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the
man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that
glory. To me, at least, the presence—not of human life only, but of life in any other
form than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless—is a stain
upon the landscape—is at war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the
dark valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forests that
sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon
all,—I love to regard these not as themselves but the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole—a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect
and most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the moon, whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
thought is that of a God; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost
in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the
229
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
animalculæ which infest the brain—a being which we, in consequence, regard as purely
inanimate and material, much in the same manner as these animalculæ must regard us.
Our telescopes, and our mathematical investigations assure us on every hand—
notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood—that space, and
therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles
in which the stars move are those best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the
greatest possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such as, within
a given surface, to include the greatest possible amount of matter;—while the surfaces
themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk
being an object with God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to
fill it. And since we see clearly that the endowment of matter with vitality is a principle—
indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the operations of Deity,—it
is scarcely logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace
it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find cycle within cycle without end,—
yet all revolving around one far-distant centre which is the Godhead, may we not
analogically suppose in the same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring, through self-esteem, in believing
man, in either his temporal or future destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than
that vast “clod of the valley” which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul
for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation.
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations among the
mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge of what the everyday
world would not fail to term fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes have been
many, and far-searching, and often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed
through many a dim, deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and gazed
alone. What flippant Frenchman was it who said in allusion to the well-known work of
Zimmerman, that, “la solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu’ un pour vous dire que la solitude
est une belle chose?” The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity is a thing that does
not exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far-distant region of mountain
locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns writhing or sleeping
within all—that I chanced upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the branches of an
unknown odorous shrub, that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus
only should I look upon it—such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
On all sides—save to the west, where the sun was about sinking—arose the verdant
walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply in its course, and was thus
immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by
the deep-green foliage of the trees of the east—while in the opposite quarter (so it
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY
231
appeared to me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
and continuously into the valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfall from the sunset
fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one small circular
island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the stream.
So blended bank and shadow there
That each seemed pendulous in air—
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to say at what point upon
the slope of the emerald turf its crystal dominion began.
My position enabled me to include in a single view both the eastern and western
extremities of the islet, and I observed a singularly marked difference in their aspects. The
latter was all one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, springy, sweetscented, and asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect—bright, slender,
and graceful—of Eastern figure and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored.
There seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out
the heavens, yet every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.
The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade. A sombre, yet
beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. The trees were dark in color, and
mournful in form and attitude, wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral
shapes that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep
tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither
among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that
had the aspect of graves, but were not; although over and all about them the rue and the
rosemary clambered. The shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to
bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied that
each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the
trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream; while other shadows
issued momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus entombed.
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I lost myself
forthwith in revery. “If ever island were enchanted,” said I to myself, “this is it. This is
the haunt of the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are these
green tombs theirs?—or do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their
own? In dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little
by little, their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their
substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the water that imbibes its shade,
growing thus blacker by what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death
which engulfs it?”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and eddying
currents careered round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling,
white flakes of the bark of the sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform positions
upon the water, a quick imagination might have converted into any thing it pleased,—
while I thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays about
whom I had been pondering made its way slowly into the darkness from out the light at
the western end of the island. She stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it
with the mere phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams,
her attitude seemed indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it as she passed within the
shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered the region
of light. “The revolution which has just been made by the Fay,” continued I, musingly,
“is the cycle of the brief year of her life. She has floated through her winter and through
her summer. She is a year nearer unto death; for I did not fail to see that, as she came
into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the dark water, making its blackness more black.”
And again the boat appeared, and the Fay; but about the attitude of the latter there
was more of care and uncertainty, and less of elastic joy. She floated again from out the
light, and into the gloom (which deepened momently), and again her shadow fell from
her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she
made the circuit of the island, (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each
issuing into the light, there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler, and
far fainter, and more indistinct; and at each passage into the gloom, there fell from her a
darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the
sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood—and that she issued thence at all
I cannot say, for darkness fell over all things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
THE CASK
OF
A M O NT I L L A D O
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 today! 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.”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“Amontillado!”
“I have my doubts.”
“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.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white webwork which gleams from these
cavern walls.”
He turned toward 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.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
235
“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.”
“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 upward 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.”
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“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.”
“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 within 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
depth 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.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
237
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the 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. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the
trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, and 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,
and 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 recognizing 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, Montresor!”
“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!
THE PIT
A ND T H E
P E ND UL UM
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
—Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected
upon the site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris
I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me,
and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence—the dread
sentence of death—was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After
that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate
hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of revolution—perhaps from its association in fancy
with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period, for presently I heard no more.
Yet, for a while, I saw—but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the blackrobed judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon which I trace
these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their expression
of firmness—of immovable resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that
the decrees of what to me was Fate were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe
with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered
because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft
and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the
apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first
they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me; but
then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in
my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms
became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there would
be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of
what sweet rest must be in the grave. The thought came gently and stealthily, and it
seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length
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THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
239
properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if magically, from
before me; the tall candles sank into nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing
descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness was lost. What of it there
remained I will not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—no! In death—no! even in the grave all
is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound of
slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail
may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In the return to life
from the swoon there are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon reaching the
second stage, we could recall the impressions of the first, we should find these impressions
eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we
distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb? But if the impressions of what I have
termed the first stage are not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come
unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never swooned, is not he who
finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds
floating in mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who ponders
over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the
meaning of some musical cadence which has never before arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles to
regather some token of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul had lapsed,
there have been moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief, very
brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid reason of a later
epoch assures me could have had reference only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore
me in silence down—down—still down—till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the
mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my
heart, on account of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden
motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!) had
outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness
of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness—the
madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.
Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the tumultuous
motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating. Then a pause in which all
is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my
frame. Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought—a condition which
lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to
comprehend my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now a full memory of the trial,
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
of the judges, of the sable draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then
entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later day and much earnestness of
endeavor have enabled me vaguely to recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back, unbound. I reached
out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and hard. There I suffered it to
remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I longed,
yet dared not, to employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was
not that I feared to look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My
worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me.
I struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me. The
atmosphere was intolerably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason.
I brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from that point to deduce
my real condition. The sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.
Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent
with real existence;—but where and in what state was I? The condemned to death, I
knew, perished usually at the auto-da-fes, and one of these had been held on the very night
of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice,
which would not take place for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims
had been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all the condemned
cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart, and for a
brief period I once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to
my feet, trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and around
me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded
by the walls of a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big beads
upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable, and I cautiously
moved forward, with my arms extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets in the
hope of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces; but still all was
blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, at
least, the most hideous of fates.
And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there came thronging upon
my recollection a thousand vague rumors of the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there
had been strange things narrated—fables I had always deemed them,—but yet strange, and
too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to perish of starvation in this subterranean
world of darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result
would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and the hour were all that occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid obstruction. It was a wall,
seemingly of stone masonry—very smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed it up; stepping
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with all the careful distrust with which certain antique narratives had inspired me. This
process, however, afforded me no means of ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon,
as I might make its circuit and return to the point whence I set out without being aware
of the fact, so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought the knife which had
been in my pocket when led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes
had been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade in
some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless was but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at
first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and placed the fragment at full
length, and at right angles to the wall. In groping my way around the prison, I could not
fail to encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I had
not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness. The ground
was moist and slippery. I staggered onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My
excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon overtook me as I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a loaf and a pitcher
with water. I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and
drank with avidity. Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and with
much toil, came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the period when I fell, I
had counted fifty-two paces, and, upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight
more—when I arrived at the rag. There were in all, a hundred paces; and, admitting two
paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the
vault, for vault I could not help supposing it to be.
I had little object—certainly no hope—in these researches; but a vague curiosity
prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first, I proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly of solid
material, was treacherous with slime. At length, however, I took courage, and did not
hesitate to step firmly—endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had advanced
some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the remnant of the torn hem of my robe
became entangled between my legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on my face.
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately apprehend a somewhat
startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the prison,
but my lips, and the upper portion of my head, although seemingly at a less elevation
than the chin, touched nothing. At the same time, my forehead seemed bathed in a
clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put
forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular
pit, whose extent, of course, I had no means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping
about the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small fragment,
and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it
dashed against the sides of the chasm in its descent; at length, there was a sullen plunge
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into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment, there came a sound resembling the quick opening and as rapid closing of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of
light flashed suddenly through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and congratulated myself
upon the timely accident by which I had escaped. Another step before my fall, and the
world had seen me no more. And the death just avoided was of that very character which
I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, there was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or death
with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved for the latter. By long suffering
my nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my own voice, and had
become in every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which awaited me.
Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall—resolving there to perish
rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of which my imagination now pictured many
in various positions about the dungeon. In other conditions of mind, I might have had
courage to end my misery at once, by a plunge into one of these abysses; but now I was
the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what I had read of these pits—that the
sudden extinction of life formed no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at length I again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A
burning thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been
drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell
upon me—a sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, of course I know not; but when,
once again, I unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the origin of what I could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the
extent and aspect of the prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its walls did not exceed
twenty-five yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned me a world of vain trouble; vain
indeed—for what could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances which
environed me, than the mere dimensions of my dungeon? But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in endeavors to account for the error I had committed
in my measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my first attempt at exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the period when I fell: I must then have been
within a pace or two of the fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the circuit
of the vault. I then slept—and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon my steps—
thus supposing the circuit nearly double what it actually was. My confusion of mind
prevented me from observing that I began my tour with the wall to the left, and ended
it with the wall to the right.
I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. In feeling my way I
had found many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great irregularity; so potent is the
effect of total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The angles were simply
those of a few slight depressions, or niches, at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison
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was square. What I had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other metal, in
huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression. The entire surface of this
metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which the
charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures of fiends in aspects of menace,
with skeleton forms, and other more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the
walls. I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that
the colors seemed faded and blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now
noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit from
whose jaws I had escaped, but it was the only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort—for my personal condition had been
greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at full length, on a species
of low framework of wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a
surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and body, leaving at liberty
only my head, and my left arm to such extent, that I could, by dint of much exertion,
supply myself with food from an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I saw,
to my horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I say to my horror—for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be the design of my persecutors
to stimulate—for the food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some thirty or forty feet
overhead, and constructed much as the side walls. In one of its panels a very singular
figure riveted my whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is commonly
represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held what, at a casual glance, I supposed to
be the pictured image of a huge pendulum, such as we see on antique clocks. There was
something, however, in the appearance of this machine which caused me to regard it
more attentively. While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was immediately
over my own) I fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was
confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes somewhat in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull movement,
I turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I saw several enormous rats
traversing it. They had issued from the well which lay just within view to my right. Even
then, while I gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the
scent of the meat. From this it required much effort and attention to scare them away.
It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour (for I could take but imperfect
note of time), before I again cast my eyes upward. What I then saw confounded and
amazed me. The sweep of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. As a
natural consequence its velocity was also much greater. But what mainly disturbed me
was the idea that it had perceptibly descended. I now observed—with what horror it is
needless to say—that its nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel,
about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and the under edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering
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from the edge into a solid and broad structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod
of brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air.
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish ingenuity in torture.
My cognizance of the pit had become known to the inquisitorial agents—the pit, whose
horrors had been destined for so bold a recusant as myself—the pit, typical of hell and
regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their punishments. The plunge into this
pit I had avoided by the merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, or entrapment into
torment, formed an important portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths.
Having failed to fall, it was no part of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss, and thus
(there being no alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I
half smiled in my agony as I thought of such application of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal, during which
I counted the rushing oscillations of the steel! Inch by inch—line by line—with a descent
only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages—down and still down it came! Days passed—
it might have been that many days passed—ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with
its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I wearied
heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to
force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm,
and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing
into life, there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it might have been
long—for I knew there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have
arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt very—oh! inexpressibly—sick and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period,
the human nature craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as
my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared
me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a halfformed thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had I with hope? It was, as I say, a
half-formed thought—man has many such, which are never completed. I felt that it was
of joy—of hope; but I felt also that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to
perfect—to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of
mind. I was an imbecile—an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the serge of my robe—it
would return and repeat its operations—again—and again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more), and the hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient
to sunder these very walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that, for several minutes, it would accomplish. And at this thought I paused. I dared not go further
than this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of attention—as if, in so dwelling,
I could arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder upon the sound of
the crescent as it should pass across the garment—upon the peculiar thrilling sensation
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which the friction of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this frivolity
until my teeth were on edge.
Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the right—to the left—far and wide—with the shriek
of a damned spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed
and howled, as the one or the other idea grew predominant.
Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three inches of my bosom! I
struggled violently—furiously—to free my left arm. This was free only from the elbow
to the hand. I could reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with
great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings above the elbow, I would
have seized and attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as well have attempted to
arrest an avalanche!
Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down! I gasped and struggled at each
vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed its outward or
upward whirls with the eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves spasmodically at the descent, although death would have been a relief, oh, how
unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that prompted
the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was hope—the hope that triumphs on the
rack—that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in actual contact with
my robe—and with this observation there suddenly came over my spirit all the keen,
collected calmness of despair. For the first time during many hours—or perhaps days—
I thought. It now occurred to me, that the bandage, or surcingle, which enveloped me, was
unique. I was tied by no separate cord. The first stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart
any portion of the band would so detach it that it might be unwound from my person
by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the steel! The
result of the slightest struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of
the torturer had not foreseen and provided for this possibility? Was it probable that the
bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum? Dreading to find my faint and,
as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view
of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions—save in
the path of the destroying crescent.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position, when there flashed
upon my mind what I cannot better describe than as the unformed half of that idea of
deliverance to which I have previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated indeterminately through my brain when I raised food to my burning lips. The whole
thought was now present—feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but still entire. I
proceeded at once, with the nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon which I lay had
been literally swarming with rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous—their red eyes glaring
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upon me as if they waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey. “To
what food,” I thought, “have they been accustomed in the well?”
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them, all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual see-saw or wave of the
hand about the platter; and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement
deprived it of effect. In their voracity, the vermin frequently fastened their sharp fangs
in my fingers. With the particles of the oily and spicy viand which now remained, I
thoroughly rubbed the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from
the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first, the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the change—at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought the well. But this was
only for a moment. I had not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I
remained without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the framework, and
smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal for a general rush. Forth from the well
they hurried in fresh troops. They clung to the wood—they over-ran it, and leaped in
hundreds upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum disturbed them
not at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied themselves with the anointed bandage. They
pressed—they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my
throat; their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their thronging pressure;
disgust, for which the world has no name, swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a heavy
clamminess, my heart. Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over. Plainly
I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in more than one place it must be
already severed. With a more than human resolution I lay still.
Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I endured in vain. I at length felt that I
was free. The surcingle hung in ribands from my body. But the stroke of the pendulum
already pressed upon my bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had cut through
the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot through every
nerve. But the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously away. With a steady movement—cautious, sidelong, shrinking, and
slow—I slid from the embrace of the bandage and beyond the reach of the scimitar. For
the moment, at least, I was free.
Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped from my wooden
bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when the motion of the hellish
machine ceased, and I beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling.
This was a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was undoubtedly
watched. Free!—I had but escaped death in one form of agony, to be delivered unto
worse than death in some other. With that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around
on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual—some change which,
at first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain,
unconnected conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first time, of the
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247
origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It proceeded from a fissure,
about half an inch in width, extending entirely around the prison at the base of the walls,
which thus appeared, and were completely separated from the floor. I endeavored, but
of course in vain, to look through the aperture.
As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the chamber broke at
once upon my understanding. I have observed that, although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and
indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were momentarily assuming, a startling
and most intense brilliancy, that gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect
that might have thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild and
ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been visible
before, and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination
to regard as unreal.
Unreal!—Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the breath of the vapor of
heated iron! A suffocating odor pervaded the prison! A deeper glow settled each moment
in the eyes that glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself over the
pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of
the design of my tormentors—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I
shrank from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery
destruction that impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came over my soul like
balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from the
enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse
to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its way into
my soul—it burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to speak!—oh!
horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried
my face in my hands—weeping bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the
ague. There had been a second change in the cell—and now the change was obviously
in the form. As before, it was in vain that I at first endeavored to appreciate or understand
what was taking place. But not long was I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had
been hurried by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King
of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now
acute—two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased with a low
rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that
of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here—I neither hoped nor desired it to stop.
I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. “Death,” I
said, “any death but that of the pit!” Fool! might I not have known that into the pit it was
the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I resist its glow? or if even that, could I
withstand its pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that
left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and of course its greatest width, came just
over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly
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onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found
vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink—
I averted my eyes—
There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many
trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed
back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that
of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the
hands of its enemies.
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
The château into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than
permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one
of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among
the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it
had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of
the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the
building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with
tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an
unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces,
but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the château rendered necessary—in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep
interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room—since it was already
night,—to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed,
and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the
bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which
had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.
Long, long I read—and devoutly, devoutly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours
flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me,
and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I
placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.
But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had
hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in vivid light a
picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was
not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut,
I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement
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to gain time for thought—to make sure that my vision had not deceived me—to calm
and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I
again looked fixedly at the painting.
That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the
candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing
over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.
The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and
shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the
favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair
melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of
the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art
nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither
the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so
suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy,
shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at
once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have
instantly dispelled such idea—must have prevented even its momentary entertainment.
Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half
reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true
secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an
absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued,
and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former
position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the
volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow:
“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil
was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious,
austere, and having already a bride in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not
more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the
pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of
his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat
meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon
the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which
went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and
moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which
fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who
pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she
saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his
task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
251
more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the
painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at
length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the
turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes
from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see
that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who
sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save
one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and
then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the
work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and
very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed life itself!’ turned
suddenly to regard his beloved:—She was dead!”
T H E M ASQ UE
O F T HE
RED DEATH
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 nor
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
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THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH
253
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
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 projected 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 revery 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.
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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 movable embellishments of the seven chambers,
upon occasion of this great fête; 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 were much of the beautiful,
much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the 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.
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255
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 rôle, stalked to and fro among the
waltzers) he was seen 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
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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 afterward, 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.
T HE A S S I G NA T I O N
Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
—Exequy on the death of his wife,
by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester
Ill-fated and mysterious man!—bewildered in the brilliancy of thine own imagination,
and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more
thy form hath risen before me!—not—oh! not as thou art—in the cold valley and
shadow—but as thou shouldst be—squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in
that city of dim visions, thine own Venice—which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea,
and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter
meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I repeat it—as thou shouldst be.
There are surely other worlds than this—other thoughts than the thoughts of the
multitude—other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall
call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce
those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of thine
everlasting energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di Sospiri, that I
met, for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember—ah!
how should I forget?—the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and
the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded the fifth
hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and
the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the
Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of
the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in
one wild, hysterical, and long-continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my
feet; while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond
257
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
a chance of recovery, and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current
which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sablefeathered condor, we were slowly drifting down toward the Bridge of Sighs, when a
thousand flambeaux flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal
Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and preternatural day.
A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an upper window
of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly
over their victim; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a
stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure
which was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which
none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite—the
adoration of all Venice—the gayest of the gay—the most lovely where all were beautiful—but still the young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that
fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep beneath the murky water, was thinking
in bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to
call upon her name.
She stood alone. Her small, bare and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of
marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from its
ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her classical
head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery
seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delicate form; but the mid-summer and
midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form itself,
stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy
marble hangs around the Niobe. Yet—strange to say!—her large lustrous eyes were not
turned downward upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried—but riveted
in a widely different direction! The prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest
building in all Venice—but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath
her lay stifling her own child? Yon dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her
chamber window—what, then, could there be in its shadows—in its architecture—in its
ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices—that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at
a thousand times before? Nonsense!—Who does not remember that, at such a time as
this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in
innumerable far-off places, the woe which is close at hand?
Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the water-gate, stood, in full
dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed ennuyé to the very death, as at intervals he gave directions for
the recovery of his child. Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to move from the
upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have presented
to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among them in that funeral gondola.
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All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search were relaxing their
exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child;
(how much less than for the mother!) but now, from the interior of that dark niche
which has been already mentioned as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as
fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach
of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterward, he stood with the still living and breathing
child within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak,
heavy with the drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet,
discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very young man,
with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing.
No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive her child—she will
press it to her heart—she will cling to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas!
another’s arms have taken it from the stranger—another’s arms have taken it away, and borne
it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa! Her lip—her beautiful lip trembles;
tears are gathering in her eyes—those eyes which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are “soft and almost
liquid.” Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes—and see! the entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the
swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly
flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder quivers about her
delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies in the grass.
Why should that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer—except that, having
left, in the eager haste and terror of the mother’s heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she
has neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over
her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason could
there have been for her so blushing?—for the glance of those wild appealing eyes?—for
the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?—for the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand?—that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon
the hand of the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low—the singularly
low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him
adieu? “Thou hast conquered,” she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived me; “thou
hast conquered—one hour after sunrise—we shall meet—so let it be!”
***
The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace, and the stranger,
whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags. He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glanced around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer him
the service of my own; and he accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the watergate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession,
and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality.
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There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The person of
the stranger—let me call him by this title, who to all the world was still a stranger—the
person of the stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been below rather
than above the medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when his
frame actually expanded and belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his
figure promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than
of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort, upon
occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity—singular,
wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant
jet—and a profusion of curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth
gleamed forth at intervals all light and ivory—his were features than which I have seen
none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some
period of their lives, and have never afterward seen again. It had no peculiar, it had no
settled predominant expression to be fastened upon the memory; a countenance seen
and instantly forgotten, but forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling
it to mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own
distinct image upon the mirror of that face—but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained
no vestige of the passion, when the passion had departed.
Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in what I thought
an urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I
found myself accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy yet
fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the
Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics, into an apartment whose
unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door with an actual glare, making me
blind and dizzy with luxuriousness.
I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his possession in terms
which I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about
me, I could not bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could
have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around.
Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly lighted up. I
judged from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion in the countenance
of my friend, that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In
the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had been to
dazzle and astound. Little attention had been paid to the decora of what is technically
called keeping, or to the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to
object, and rested upon none—neither the grotesques of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies
in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose
origin was not to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by mingled and conflicting
perfumes, reeking up from strange convolute censers, together with multitudinous
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261
flaring and flickering tongues of emerald and violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun
poured in upon the whole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of crimsontinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections, from curtains which rolled
from their cornices like cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at
length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued masses upon a carpet
of rich, liquid-looking cloth of Chili gold.
“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!”—laughed the proprietor, motioning me to a seat as I entered
the room, and throwing himself back at full-length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he,
perceiving that I could not immediately reconcile myself to the bienséance of so singular a
welcome,—“I see you are astonished at my apartment—at my statues—my pictures—my
originality of conception in architecture and upholstery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir; (here his tone of voice dropped to the very spirit of
cordiality,) pardon me for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so utterly astonished.
Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man must laugh, or die. To die
laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More—a very fine
man was Sir Thomas More—Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in the
‘Absurdities’ of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characters who came to the same
magnificent end. Do you know, however,” continued he, musingly, “that at Sparta (which
is now Palæochori), at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among a chaos of scarcely
visible ruins, is a kind of socle, upon which are still legible the letters ΛΑΞΜ. They are
undoubtedly part of ΓΕΛΑΞΜΑ. Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines to
a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should
have survived all the others! But in the present instance,” he resumed, with a singular
alteration of voice and manner, “I have no right to be merry at your expense. You might
well have been amazed. Europe cannot produce any thing so fine as this, my little regal
cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of the same order—mere ultras of fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion—is it not? Yet this has but to be seen to become
the rage—that is, with those who could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony. I
have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With one exception, you are the
only human being, besides myself and my valet, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see!”
I bowed in acknowledgement—for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume
and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, my appreciation of what I might have construed
into a compliment.
“Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around the apartment, “here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the
present hour. Many are chosen, as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu.
They are all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, are some
chef-d’œuvres of the unknown great; and here, unfinished designs by men, celebrated in
their day, whose very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to silence and to
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me. What think you,” said he, turning abruptly as he spoke,—“what think you of this
Madonna della Pieta?”
“It is Guido’s own!” I said, with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I had been poring
intently over its surpassing loveliness. “It is Guido’s own!—how could you have obtained
it? she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture.”
“Ha!” said he, thoughtfully, “the Venus?—the beautiful Venus?—the Venus of the
Medici?—she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair? Part of the left arm [here his
voice dropped so as to be heard with difficulty], and all the right, are restorations, and
in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give
me the Canova! The Apollo, too, is a copy—there can be no doubt of it—blind fool that
I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help—pity
me!—I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the
statuary found his statue in the block of marble? The Michæl Angelo was by no means
original in his couplet—
‘Non ha l’ ottimo artista alcun concetto
Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.’”
It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true gentleman, we are
always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar, without being at once precisely
able to determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in
its full force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can I better
define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apart from all
other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual thought, pervading
even his most trivial actions—intruding upon his moments of dalliance—and interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment—like adders which writhe from out the eyes
of the grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.
I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity
and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little importance, a
certain air of trepidation—a degree of nervous unction in action and in speech—an
unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at all times unaccountable, and
upon some occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle
of a sentence whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of a visitor, or to
sounds which must have had existence in his imagination alone.
It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning
over a page of the poet and scholar Politian’s beautiful tragedy, “The Orfeo” (the first
native Italian tragedy), which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage
underlined in pencil. It was a passage toward the end of the third act—a passage of the
most heart-stirring excitement—a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no
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263
man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion—no woman without a sigh. The whole
page was blotted with fresh tears; and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following
English lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my
acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognizing it as his own:
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“Onward!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute—motionless—aghast!
For alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er
“No more—no more—no more,”
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Now all my hours are trances;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o’er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!—
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
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That these lines were written in English—a language with which I had not believed
their author acquainted—afforded me little matter for surprise. I was too well aware of
the extent of his acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them
from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must
confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally London, and afterward
carefully overscored—not, however, so effectually as to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a
former conversation with my friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time met in
London the Marchesa di Mentoni (who for some years previous to her marriage had
resided in that city), when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he
had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here mention, that I
have more than once heard, (without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so
many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only by birth, but in
education, an Englishman.
***
“There is one painting,” said he, without being aware of my notice of the tragedy,—
“there is still one painting which you have not seen.” And throwing aside a drapery, he
discovered a full-length portrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman beauty.
The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding night upon the steps of the
Ducal Palace, stood before me once again. But in the expression of the countenance,
which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!)
that fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection
of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom. With her left she pointed
downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely
touched the earth; and, scarcely discernible in the billiant atmosphere which seemed to
encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings.
My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of
Chapman’s Bussy D’ Ambois, quivered instinctively upon my lips:
“He is up
There like a Roman statue! He will stand
Till death hath made him marble!”
“Come,” he said at length, turning toward a table of richly enamelled and massive
silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically stained, together with two large
Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the foreground
of the portrait, and filled with what I supposed to be Johannisberger. “Come,” he said,
abruptly, “let us drink! It is early—but let us drink. It is indeed early,” he continued,
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265
musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the apartment ring with the
first hour after sunrise: “it is indeed early—but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour
out an offering to yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to
subdue!” And having made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.
“To dream,” he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory conversation, as he
held up to the rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases—“to dream has been
the business of my life, I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams.
In the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You behold around you, it is true, a
medley of architectural embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian
devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect
is incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the
bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was
myself a decorist; but that sublimation of folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now
the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and the
delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams
whither I am now rapidly departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent his head to his
bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At length, erecting
his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the lines of the Bishop of Chichester:
“Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.”
In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw himself at full length
upon an ottoman.
A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly
succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni’s
household burst into the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the
incoherent words, “My mistress!—my mistress!—Poisoned!—poisoned! Oh, beautiful—oh, beautiful Aphrodite!”
Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the sleeper to a sense of
the startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid—his lips were livid—his lately beaming eyes were riveted in death. I staggered back toward the table—my hand fell upon a
cracked and blackened goblet—and a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth
flashed suddenly over my soul.
T H E S Y STE M O F D O C T O R T A R R
AN D P R O F E S S O R F E T HE R
During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme southern provinces of
France, my route led me within a few miles of a certain Maison de Santé or private madhouse, about which I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had never
visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too good to be lost; and so proposed
to my travelling companion (a gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a
few days before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste, in the first place, and, in the second, a very
usual horror at the sight of a lunatic. He begged of me, however, not to let any mere
courtesy toward himself interfere with the gratification of my curiosity, and said that he
would ride on leisurely, so that I might overtake him during the day, or, at all events,
during the next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and mentioned my fears on this point. He
replied that, in fact, unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur
Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty might be found to exist, as
the regulations of these private mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital
laws. For himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the acquaintance of Maillard,
and would so far assist me as to ride up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.
I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a grass-grown by-path,
which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the Maison de
Santé came in view. It was a fantastic château, much dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,
checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however, grew ashamed of my
weakness, and proceeded.
As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and the visage of a
man peering through. In an instant afterward, this man came forth, accosted my
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THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
267
companion by name, shook him cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was
Monsieur Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the old school,
with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity, dignity, and authority which was
very impressive.
My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect the establishment,
and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance that he would show me all attention, now
took leave, and I saw him no more.
When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and exceedingly
neat parlor, containing, among other indications of refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth.
At a piano, singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful woman, who,
at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me with graceful courtesy. Her voice
was low, and her whole manner subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of
sorrow in her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited in my bosom a feeling of
mingled respect, interest, and admiration.
I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard was managed upon
what is vulgarly termed the “system of soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—
that even confinement was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,
were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were permitted to roam about
the house and grounds in the ordinary apparel of persons in right mind.
Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said before the young
lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a certain restless
brilliancy about her eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my
remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought would not be displeasing
or exciting even to a lunatic. She replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said;
and even her original observations were marked with the soundest good sense; but a
long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had taught me to put no faith in such
evidence of sanity, and I continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution
with which I commenced it.
Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit, wine, and other
refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon afterward leaving the room. As she
departed I turned my eyes in an inquiring manner toward my host.
“No,” he said, “oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most accomplished
woman.”
“I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of course you will know
how to excuse me. The excellent administration of your affairs here is well understood
in Paris, and I thought it just possible, you know—”
“Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find so much of forethought in
young men; and, more than once, some unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence
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of thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former system was in operation,
and my patients were permitted the privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were
often aroused to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to inspect the
house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system of exclusion; and none obtained
access to the premises upon whose discretion I could not rely.”
“While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing system’ of which I have heard so much is no
longer in force?”
“It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded to renounce it forever.”
“Indeed! you astonish me!”
“We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary to return to the old
usages. The danger of the soothing system was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages
have been much overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a fair trial, if
ever in any. We did everything that rational humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you
could not have paid us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing practice—with its details.”
“Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth hand.”
“I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which the patients were
menagés—humored. We contradicted no fancies which entered the brains of the mad. On
the contrary, we not only indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so touches the feeble
reason of the madman as the reductio ad absurdum. We have had men, for example, who
fancied themselves chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to accuse
the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it to be a fact—and thus to refuse
him any other diet for a week than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this
manner a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”
“But was this species of acquiescence all?”
“By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind, such as music,
dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards, certain classes of books, and so forth. We
affected to treat each individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the word
‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each lunatic to guard the actions
of all the others. To repose confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman,
is to gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense with an expensive
body of keepers.”
“And you had no punishments of any kind?”
“None.”
“And you never confined your patients?”
“Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect
the rest, and there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to the public hospitals.”
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
269
“And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?”
“Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its dangers. It is now, happily,
exploded throughout all the Maisons de Santé of France.”
“I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I made sure that, at this
moment, no other method of treatment for mania existed in any portion of the country.”
“You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time will arrive when you
will learn to judge for yourself of what is going on in the world, without trusting to the
gossip of others. Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. Now about
our Maisons de Santé, it is clear that some ignoramus has misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy
to take you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my opinion, and
in that of every one who has witnessed its operation, is incomparably the most effectual
as yet devised.”
“Your own?” I inquired—“one of your own invention?”
“I am proud,” he replied, “to acknowledge that it is—at least in some measure.”
In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or two, during which
he showed me the gardens and conservatories of the place.
“I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To a sensitive mind there
is always more or less of the shocking in such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil
your appetite for dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal à la Menehoult, with cauliflowers in velouté sauce—after that a glass of Clos de Vougeôt—then your nerves will be
sufficiently steadied.”
At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a large salle à manger,
where a very numerous company were assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They
were, apparently, people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking somewhat too much of the
ostentatious finery of the ville cour. I noticed that at least two thirds of these guests were
ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many females, for example, whose age could not have
been less than seventy, were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings, bracelets,
and ear-rings, and wore their bosoms and arms shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very
few of the dresses were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the wearers.
In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and
farthingale, with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much too large for
her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive expression. When I had first seen her,
she was attired, most becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in short,
about the dress of the whole party, which, at first, caused me to recur to my original idea
of the “soothing system,” and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive
me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable feelings during the
repast, at finding myself dining with lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in
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Paris, that the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people, with a vast
number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon conversing with several members of
the company, my apprehensions were immediately and fully dispelled.
The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted;
in France, however, a carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely fastened with iron bars, applied
diagonally, after the fashion of our shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in
itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three sides of the parallelogram,
the door being at the other. There were no less than ten windows in all.
The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and more than loaded with
delicacies. The profusion was absolutely barbaric. There were meats enough to have
feasted the Anakim. Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little taste, however, in the
arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were deposited
upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was possible to find a place. There
were several active servants in attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of
the apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes, trombones, and a
drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises, which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford
much entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.
Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of the bizarre about
everything I saw—but then the world is made up of all kinds of persons, with all modes
of thought, and all sorts of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be
quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly at the right hand of my
host, and, having an excellent appetite, did justice to the good cheer set before me.
The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The ladies, as usual,
talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly all the company were well educated; and my
host was a world of good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to
speak of his position as superintendent of a Maison de Santé; and, indeed, the topic of
lunacy was, much to my surprise, a favorite one with all present. A great many amusing
stories were told, having reference to the whims of the patients.
“We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat at my right,—“a
fellow that fancied himself a teapot; and by the way, is it not especially singular how
often this particular crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely an
insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human teapot. Our gentleman was a
Britannia-ware teapot, and was careful to polish himself every morning with buckskin
and whiting.”
“And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long ago, a person who
had taken it into his head that he was a donkey—which, allegorically speaking, you will
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
271
say, was quite true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep him
within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but thistles; but of this idea we
soon cured him by insisting upon his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his heels—so—so—”
“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here interrupted an old lady,
who sat next to the speaker. “Please keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my
brocade! Is it necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style? Our friend
here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon my word, you are nearly as
great a donkey as the poor unfortunate imagined himself. Your acting is very natural,
as I live.”
“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus addressed—“a thousand
pardons! I had no intention of offending. Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will
do himself the honor of taking wine with you.”
Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much ceremony, and took
wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.
“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing myself, “allow me to
send you a morsel of this veal à la St. Menehoult—you will find it particularly fine.”
At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in depositing safely upon the
table an enormous dish, or trencher, containing what I supposed to be the “monstrum, horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.” A closer scrutiny assured me, however, that it was
only a small calf roasted whole, and set upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is
the English fashion of dressing a hare.
“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not particularly partial to veal à la
St.—what is it?—for I do not find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my
plate, however, and try some of the rabbit.”
There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious morceau, which I can recommend.
“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and give him a side-piece of
this rabbit au-chat.”
“This what?” said I.
“This rabbit au-chat.”
“Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself to some of
the ham.”
There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the tables of these
people of the province. I will have none of their rabbit au-chat—and, for the matter of
that, none of their cat-au-rabbit either.
“And then,” said a cadaverous-looking personage, near the foot of the table, taking
up the thread of the conversation where it had been broken off,—“and then, among
other oddities, we had a patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained
himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in his hand, soliciting his
friends to try a small slice from the middle of his leg.”
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“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but not to be compared
with a certain individual whom we all know, with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off
with a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”
Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb in his left cheek,
withdrew it with a sound resembling the popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous
movement of the tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which
lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of champagne. This behavior, I
saw plainly, was not very pleasing to Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.
“And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself for a frog; which,
by the way, he resembled in no little degree. I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here
the speaker addressed myself,—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural
airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only observe that it is a pity he
was not. His croak thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B
flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking a glass or two of
wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled up his eyes, thus, and winked them
with excessive rapidity, thus, why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that
you would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”
“I have no doubt of it,” I said.
“And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard, who thought himself
a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed because he could not take himself between his
own finger and thumb.”
“And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular genius, indeed,
and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin. He persecuted the cook to make
him up into pies—a thing which the cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I
am by no means sure that a pumpkin pie à la Desoulières would not have been very
capital eating indeed!”
“You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur Maillard.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu!
hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished, mon ami; our friend here is a wit—a
drôle—you must not understand him to the letter.”
“And then,” said some other one of the party,”—“then there was Bouffon Le
Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He grew deranged through love,
and fancied himself possessed of two heads. One of these he maintained to be the head
of Cicero; the other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the top of
the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the mouth to the chin. It is not
impossible that he was wrong; but he would have convinced you of his being in the
right; for he was a man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory, and
could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap upon the dinner-table
thus, and—and—”
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273
Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his shoulder and whispered
a few words in his ear: upon which he ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank
back within his chair.
“And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was Boullard, the tee-totum.
I call him the tee-totum because, in fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether
irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a tee-totum. You would have
roared with laughter to see him spin. He would turn round upon one heel by the hour,
in this manner—so—”
Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper, performed an exactly
similar office for himself.
“But then,” cried an old lady, at the top of her voice, “your Monsieur Boullard was a
madman, and a very silly madman at best; for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of
a human tee-totum? The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person, as
you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common sense, and gave pleasure
to all who had the honor of her acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that,
by some accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such, she behaved with
propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious effect—so—so—so—and, as for her
crow, it was delicious! Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-dedoo-doo-dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”
“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here interrupted our host,
very angrily. “You can either conduct yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the
table forthwith—take your choice.”
The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame Joyeuse, after
the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and
seemed exceedingly abashed at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was my beautiful girl
of the little parlor.
“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was really much sound
sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and
wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of inside of her clothes. It is a
thing very easily done, after all. You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and
then so—so—so—and then—”
“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at once. “What are you
about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see, very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!”
and several persons were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean Venus, when the point was
very effectually and suddenly accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from
some portion of the main body of the château.
My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells: but the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in
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my life. They all grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their seats, sat
quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for a repetition of the sound. It came
again—louder and seemingly nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth
time with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of the noise, the
spirits of the company were immediately regained, and all was life and anecdote as
before. I now ventured to inquire the cause of the disturbance.
“A mere bagatelle,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to these things, and care
really very little about them. The lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert;
one starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at night. It occasionally
happens, however, that the concerto yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose; when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”
“And how many have you in charge?”
“At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”
“Principally females, I presume?”
“Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell you.”
“Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics were of the
gentler sex.”
“It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were about twenty-seven
patients here; and, of that number, no less than eighteen were women; but, lately,
matters have changed very much, as you see.”
“Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the gentleman who
had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.
“Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole company at once.
“Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great rage. Whereupon
the whole company maintained a dead silence for nearly a minute. As for one lady,
she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which
was an excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands, until the end
of the entertainment.
“And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending over and addressing
him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just spoken, and who gives us the cock-adoodle-de-doo—she, I presume, is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”
“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what can you mean?”
“Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for granted that she is
not particularly—not dangerously affected, eh?”
“Mon Dieu! what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old friend, Madame
Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has her little eccentricities, to be sure—but
then, you know, all old women—all very old women—are more or less eccentric!”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure—and then the rest of these ladies and gentlemen—”
“Are my friends and keepers,” interrupted Monsieur Maillard, drawing himself up
with hauteur,—“my very good friends and assistants.”
“What! all of them?” I asked,—“the women and all?”
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
275
“Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women; they are the best
lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of their own, you know; their bright eyes
have a marvellous effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd, eh?—they are a little queer,
eh?—don’t you think so?”
“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very prudish, to be sure,
here in the South—do pretty much as we please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing,
you know—”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”
“And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeôt is a little heady, you know—a little strong—
you understand, eh?”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the by, Monsieur, did I understand you to say
that the system you have adopted, in place of the celebrated soothing system, was one of
very rigorous severity?”
“By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the treatment—the medical
treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to the patients than otherwise.”
“And the new system is one of your own invention?”
“Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor Tarr, of whom you
have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are modifications in my plan which I am
happy to acknowledge as belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I
mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”
“I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never even heard the names
of either gentleman before.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair abruptly, and uplifting
his hands. “I surely do not hear you aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had
never heard either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor Fether?”
“I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the truth should be held
inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted
with the works of these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their writings
forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care. Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I
must confess it—you have really—made me ashamed of myself!”
And this was the fact.
“Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my hand,—“join me
now in a glass of Sauterne.”
We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They chatted—they
jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand absurdities—the fiddles
shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the trombones bellowed like so many brazen
bulls of Phalaris—and the whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the
wines gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some bottles of Sauterne and Vougeôt
between us, continued our conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an
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ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice of a fish from the
bottom of Niagara Falls.
“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned something before dinner
about the danger incurred in the old system of soothing. How is that?”
“Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger indeed. There is no
accounting for the caprices of madmen; and, in my opinion, as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and
Professor Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large unattended. A lunatic may be
‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous.
His cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in view, he conceals his design
with a marvellous wisdom; and the dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to
the meta-physician, one of the most singular problems in the study of mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straitjacket.”
“But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking—in your own experience—
during your control of this house—have you had practical reason to think liberty
hazardous in the case of a lunatic?”
“Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no very long
while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this very house. The ‘soothing system,’
you know, was then in operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved remarkably well—especially so,—any one of sense might have known that some devilish
scheme was brewing from that particular fact, that the fellows behaved so remarkably well.
And, sure enough, one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and
foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if they were the lunatics, by
the lunatics themselves, who had usurped the offices of the keepers.”
“You don’t tell me so! I never heard of anything so absurd in my life!”
“Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a lunatic—who, by some
means, had taken it into his head that he had invented a better system of government
than any ever heard of before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his
invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the patients to join him in a
conspiracy for the overthrow of the reigning powers.”
“And he really succeeded?”
“No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange places. Not that
exactly either, for the madmen had been free, but the keepers were shut up in cells
forthwith, and treated, I am sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”
“But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This condition of things
could not have long existed. The country people in the neighborhood—visitors coming
to see the establishment—would have given the alarm.”
“There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He admitted no visitors
at all—with the exception, one day, of a very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom
he had no reason to be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of variety,—to
have a little fun with him. As soon as he had gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out,
and sent him about his business.”
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
277
“And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”
“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly season of it—that you may swear.
They doffed their own shabby clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these madmen are just the
devils that know how to drink it. They lived well, I can tell you.”
“And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment which the leader
of the rebels put into operation?”
“Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have already observed; and
it is my honest opinion that his treatment was a much better treatment than that
which it superseded. It was a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at
all—in fact it was delicious—it was—”
Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of yells, of the same
character as those which had previously disconcerted us. This time, however, they
seemed to proceed from persons rapidly approaching.
“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most undoubtedly broken loose.”
“I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now becoming excessively pale.
He had scarcely finished the sentence, before loud shouts and imprecations were heard
beneath the windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some persons
outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room. The door was beaten with
what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and the shutters were wrenched and shaken
with prodigious violence.
A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard, to my excessive
astonishment, threw himself under the sideboard. I had expected more resolution at his
hands. The members of the orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their feet and to their
instruments, and, scrambling upon their table, broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy
superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.
Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and glasses, leaped the
gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been restrained from leaping there before. As
soon as he fairly settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a very
capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same moment, the man with the
tee-totum predilection, set himself to spinning around the apartment, with immense
energy, and with arms outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all the
air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that happened to get in his way.
And now, too, hearing an incredible popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at
length, that it proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that delicate
drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man croaked away as if the salvation of
his soul depended upon every note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the
continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old friend, Madame Joyeuse, I
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really could have wept for the poor lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did,
however, was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out incessantly at the top
of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”
And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no resistance, beyond
whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was offered to the encroachments of the
party without, the ten windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken
in. But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with which I gazed,
when, leaping through these windows, and down among us pêle-mêle, fighting, stamping,
scratching, and howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be chimpanzees,
ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of Good Hope.
I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa and lay still. After
lying there some fifteen minutes, however, during which time I listened with all my
ears to what was going on in the room, I came to some satisfactory dénounement of this
tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account of the lunatic who
had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been merely relating his own exploits. This
gentleman had, indeed, some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the
establishment; but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient. This fact was unknown
to the travelling companion who introduced me. The keepers, ten in number, having
been suddenly overpowered, were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then
shut up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more than a month,
during which period Monsieur Maillard had generously allowed them not only the tar
and feathers (which constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.
The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping through a sewer, gave
freedom to all the rest.
The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been resumed at the château; yet I cannot help agreeing with Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a
very capital one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and gave no
trouble at all—not the least.”
I have only to add that, although I have searched every library in Europe for the
works of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether, I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in
my endeavors to procure a copy.
MYSTIFICATION
Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none of them.
—Ned Knowles
The Baron Ritzner Von Jung was of a noble Hungarian family, every member of which (at
least as far back into antiquity as any certain records extend) was more or less remarkable
for talent of some description—the majority for that species of grotesquerie in conception of
which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a vivid, although by no means the most vivid
exemplification. My acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau
Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made public, threw me during the
summer months of the year 18—. Here it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and
here, with somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental conformation. In
later days this insight grew more clear, as the intimacy which had at first permitted it
became more close; and when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all
that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron Ritzner Von Jung.
I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I remember still more distinctly, that
while he was pronounced by all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the
world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion. That he was unique
appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity
consisted. But, letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe that, from
the first moment of his setting foot within the limits of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners, persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community
which surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet at the same
time the most indefinite and altogether unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his
residence at the university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by all classes of
people appertaining to it or its dependencies as “that very extraordinary epoch forming
the domination of the Baron Ritzner Von Jung.”
Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He was then of no
particular age, by which I mean that it was impossible to form a guess respecting his age
279
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
by any data personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was twenty-one
years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome man—perhaps the reverse.
The contour of his face was somewhat angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very
fair; his nose a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy and meaningless. About the mouth there
was more to be observed. The lips were gently protruded, and rested the one upon the
other, after such fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most complex,
combination of features, conveying so entirely, and so singly, the idea of unmitigated
gravity, solemnity and repose.
It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said, that the Baron was one
of those human anomalies now and then to be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind gave
him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance afforded him unusual facilities
for carrying his projects into effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during
that renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron Ritzner Von
Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which overshadowed his character. I truly
think that no person at the university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him
to be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at the garden-gate would
sooner have been accused,—the ghost of Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology. This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and unpardonable
of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and buffooneries were brought about, if not
directly by him, at least plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The
beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that consummate ability (resulting
from an almost intuitive knowledge of human nature, and a most wonderful selfpossession,) by means of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he
was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and partly in consequence of
the laudable efforts he was making for their prevention, and for the preservation of the
good order and dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming mortification, which upon each such failure of his praiseworthy endeavors, would suffuse
every lineament of his countenance, left not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity
in the bosoms of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was no less
worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the sense of the grotesque from the
creator to the created—from his own person to the absurdities to which he had given
rise. In no instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual mystific
escape the natural consequence of his manœuvres—an attachment of the ludicrous to
his own character and person. Continually developed in an atmosphere of whim, my
friend appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even his own household
have for a moment associated other ideas than those of the rigid and august with the
memory of the Baron Ritzner Von Jung.
During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that the demon of the
dolce far niente lay like an incubus upon the university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond
eating and drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were converted
MYSTIFICATION
281
into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of them all more famous or more
frequented than that of the Baron. Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and
long, and never unfruitful of events.
Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly daybreak, and an
unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high
connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an exaggerated sense of honor. They
abounded in the most ultra German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic
notions some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four desperate and fatal
rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and impulse; and thus the conversation,
during the greater part of the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the
times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in the earlier portion
of the evening, at length seemed to be aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in
the discourse, and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the beauties, of the
received code of etiquette in passages of arms with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm from his
hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even myself, who well knew him to be at
heart a ridiculer of those very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the
entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign contempt which it deserves.
Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of which my readers
may gather some faint idea when I say that it bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting,
monotonous, yet musical, sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of
even more than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party. This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in every respect—except, perhaps, in
the single particular that he was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among
a particular set at the university, a reputation for deep metaphysical thinking, and, I
believe, for some logical talent. As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at
G——n. I forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands; but they
were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most
especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he rode to the death. To
Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time
past afforded food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware; although, in the
present instance, I saw clearly that something of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis
with my friend, and that Hermann was its especial object.
As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I perceived the
excitement of the latter momently increasing. At length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron
replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of sentiment) and concluding,
in what I thought very bad taste, with a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann
now took the bit in his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting farrago of
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his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember. “Your opinions, allow me to say,
Baron Von Jung, although in the main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to
yourself and to the university of which you are a member. In a few respects they are even
unworthy of serious refutation. I would say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear
of giving you offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman.”
As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were turned upon the
Baron. He became pale, then excessively red; then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief,
stooped to recover it, when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be seen
by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the quizzical expression which was its
natural character, but which I had never seen it assume except when we were alone
together, and when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood erect,
confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of countenance in so short a period I
certainly never saw before. For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him,
and that he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion, and his face was
cadaverously white. For a short time he remained silent, apparently striving to master
his emotion. Having at length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood
near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you have thought proper
to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing yourself to me, is objectionable in so many
particulars, that I have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,
however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is an observation so
directly offensive as to allow me but one line of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is
due to the presence of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest. You
will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I deviate slightly from the general
usage among gentlemen in similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the
moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to consider, for an
instant, the reflection of your person in yonder mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann
himself. This being done, there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this
decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil all the spirit, if not the
exact letter, of resentment for your insult, while the necessity of physical violence to
your real person will be obviated.”
With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against the mirror which
hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the reflection of his person with great precision, and of course shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once
started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and Ritzner, took their departure.
As Hermann went out, the Baron whispered me that I should follow him and make an
offer of my services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of so ridiculous a piece of business.
The duelist accepted my aid with his stiff and ultra recherché air, and, taking my arm,
led me to his apartment. I could hardly forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded
to discuss, with the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar character”
MYSTIFICATION
283
of the insult he had received. After a tiresome harangue in his ordinary style, he took
down from his book shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello, and
entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading aloud, and commenting
earnestly as he read. I can just remember the titles of some of the works. There were the
“Ordonnance of Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by Favyn, and
a treatise “On the Permisson of Duels,” by Andiguier. He displayed, also, with much
pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of
Elzevir—a precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and bound by
Derôme. But he requested my attention particularly, and with an air of mysterious
sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and
having the quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this he read me one of the
drollest chapters in the world concerning “Injuriæ per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”
about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his own “refinedly peculiar”
case, although not one syllable of the whole matter could I understand for the life of me.
Having finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling,
and would abide by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and sat
down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:
“Sir,—My friend, M. P——, will hand you this note. I find it incumbent upon me to
request, at your earliest convenience, an explanation of this evening’s occurrences at
your chambers. In the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to
arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps preliminary to a meeting.
“With sentiments of perfect respect,
“Your most humble servant,
“Johan Hermann.”
“To the Baron Ritzner Von Jung,
August 18th 18—.”
Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this epistle. He bowed as
I presented it; then, with a grave countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused
the cartel he wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.
“Sir,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the propriety of the explanation you suggest.
This being admitted, I still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar nature of
our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered on my part,) in so wording what I
have to say by way of apology, as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable
shadows of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to the rules of etiquette, for which you have been
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
so long and so pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore, of being
comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any sentiments of my own, to refer you to
the opinions of the Sieur Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of
“Injuriæ per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,” in his “Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque.” The
nicety of your discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient, I am assured,
to convince you that the mere circumstance of me referring you to this admirable passage, ought to
satisfy your request, as a man of honor, for explanation.
‘With sentiments of profound respect,
“Your most obedient servant,
“Von Jung.”
“The Herr Johan Hermann,
August 18th 18—.”
Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl, which, however, was
converted into a smile of the most ludicrous self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriæ per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished reading, he
begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles, to be seated, while he made reference
to the treatise in question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great care to
himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron Von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behaviour,
and, in that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of the fullest, the
most honorable, and the most unequivocally satisfactory nature.
Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He seemed to receive
Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “Duelli Lex
scripta, et non; aliterque.” He handed me the volume and asked me to look over some portion
of it. I did so, but to little purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning. He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my surprise, what
he read proved to be a most horribly absurd account of a duel between two baboons. He
now explained the mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared prima facie, was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas; that is to say, the language was
ingeniously framed so as to present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and
even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning existed. The key to the whole
was found in leaving out every second and third word alternately, when there appeared
a series of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern times.
The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the
general tenor of his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest attention, and
firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit. Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann
would have died a thousand deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand
anything and everything in the universe that had ever been written about the duello.
H OW
TO
W RITE
A
B LACKWOOD A RTICLE
“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—Cry of Turkish fig-peddler
I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche Zenobia. This I
know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been
assured that Suky is but a vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means
“the soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,” which latter meaning
undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue
Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of orangecolored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should look at me would be instantly
aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report
through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about “blood out of a
turnip,” etc.? [Mem: put her in mind of it the first opportunity.] [Mem again—pull her
nose.] Where was I? Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny, always calls me the Queen
of Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was
“a Greek,” and that consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia,
and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky Snobbs. I am
the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very Signora Psyche Zenobia,
so justly celebrated as corresponding secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea,
Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big
like an empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.) We all
sign the initials of the society after our names, in the fashion of the R.S.A., Royal Society of Arts—the S.D.U.K., Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, etc., etc. Dr.
Moneypenny says that S stands for stale, and that D.U.K. spells duck, (but it don’t,) and
that S.D.U.K. stands for Stale Duck, and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then
285
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
Dr. Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me the
truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H.—
that is to say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres,
Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize, Humanity—one
letter for each word, which is a decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I can’t see
what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous exertions of the
association to get itself into notice, it met with no very great success until I joined it.
The truth is, the members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers read
every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than buffoonery. They were all
whipped syllabub. There was no investigation of first causes, first principles. There was
no investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to that great point, the
“fitness of things.” In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No
profundity, no reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call spirituality,
and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant”
with a capital K—but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a better style of thinking
and writing, and all the world knows how well I have succeeded. We get up as good
papers now in the P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H. as any to be found even in Blackwood.
I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the finest writing, upon every subject,
is to be discovered in the pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice accordingly. And, after all, it’s
not so very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if
one only goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr. Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood
has a pair of tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for orders. One
hands him the Times, another the Examiner and a third a “Gulley’s New Compendium of
Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
Examiner, “Slang-Whang,” and Times—then Times, “Slang-Whang,” and Examiner—and
then Times, Examiner, and “Slang-Whang.”
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous articles; and the best of
these come under the head of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may
mean) and what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of writing which I have
long known how to appreciate, although it is only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood
(deputed by the society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of composition.
This method is very simple, but not so much so as the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.’s,
and making known to him the wishes of the society, he received me with great civility,
took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation of the whole process.
“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic appearance, for I had
on the crimson satin, with the green agraffas, and orange-colored auriculas, “My dear
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
287
madam,” said he, “sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer of
intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with a very blunt nib. And,
mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he continued, after a pause, with the most expressive
energy and solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never—be mended! Herein,
madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius ever wrote with a good pen,—understand me,—a good
article. You may take it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is never worth
reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to which if you cannot readily assent,
our conference is at an end.”
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the conference, I assented
to a proposition so very obvious, and one, too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.
“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to an article, or
set of articles, in the way of model or study; yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was out of his body—
full of taste, terror, sentiment, metaphysics, and erudition. You would have sworn
that the writer had been born and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
philosophy—acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good spicing of the
decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of flummery, and went down the throats
of the people delightfully. They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but
not so. It was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands and
water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have believed had it been anybody
but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and indifferent Greek—both of them taking
things with the public. And then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by,
Miss Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention. It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the clapper of a church bell, and is
awakened by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly,
pulling out his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are the great
things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your
sensations—they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”
“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.
“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart. But I must put you au
fait to the details necessary in composing what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
consider the best for all purposes.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape as no one ever got into
before. The oven, for instance,—that was a good hit. But if you have no oven, or big bell,
at hand, and if you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed up in
an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will have to be contented with simply
imagining some similar misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the
actual fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’ you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides
being more to the purpose.”
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would go and hang
myself forthwith.
“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat hackneyed. Perhaps
you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s pills, and then give us your sensations.
However, my instructions will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over by an omnibus, or
bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter. But to proceed.
“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic, the tone enthusiastic, the tone
natural—all commonplace enough. But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which
has lately come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus: Can’t be
too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop. And never a paragraph.
“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional. Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and
make a noise very similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This is the
best of all possible styles where the writer is in too great a hurry to think.
“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big words this is your
chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmæon. Say something about objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man
named Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let slip any thing a
little too absurd, you need not be at the trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the ‘Kritik der
reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenschaft.’ This will look erudite and—and—and frank.
“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall mention only two
more—the tone transcendental and the tone heterogeneous. In the former the merit
consists in seeing into the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody else.
This second sight is very efficient when properly managed. A little reading of the Dial will
carry you a great way. Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible, and
write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote what he says about a
‘fat little man with a delusive show of Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo. Hint
everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say ‘bread and butter,’ do not by any
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
289
means say it outright. You may say anything and everything approaching to ‘bread and
butter.’ You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to insinuate oatmeal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss
Psyche, not on any account to say ‘bread and butter!’”
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I lived. He kissed me
and continued:
“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture, in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is consequently made up of everything
deep, great, odd, piquant, pertinent, and pretty.
“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and tone. The most
important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole business, is yet to be attended to,—I
allude to the filling up. It is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
leading the life of a book-worm. And yet above all things it is necessary that your article
have an air of erudition, or at least afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll
put you in the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down some three or
four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at random). “By casting your eye
down almost any page of any book in the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host
of little scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism, which are the very thing for the spicing of
a Blackwood article. You might as well note down a few while I read them to you. I shall
make two divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes; and second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may require. Write now!—” and I wrote as he dictated.
“Piquant Facts for Similes. ‘There were originally but three Muses—Melete,
Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You may make a good deal of that
little fact if properly worked. You see it is not generally known, and looks recherché. You
must be careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.
“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged without injury to
the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that, to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished
up, will look quite as fresh as ever.
“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some persons to possess a
sweet and very powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and
very delicate! Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have something else in
the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so well, especially with the help of a little
Latin Write!
“‘The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful flower, and will live when pulled
up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance
for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for the Piquant Expressions.
“Piquant Expressions. ‘The Venerable Chinese novel Fu-Kiao-Li.’ Good! By introducing
these few words with dexterity you will evince your intimate acquaintance with the
language and literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may possibly get along
without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
specimen of each. Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own
ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!
“‘Aussi tendre que Zaire’—as tender as Zaire—French. Alludes to the frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced,
will show not only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and wit.
You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating (write an article about being
choked to death by a chicken-bone) was not altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
‘Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.’
That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death! but be sure and
don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I shall feel at your appearance should
unfortunately bring me back again to life.’ This you may slip in quite à propos when you
are struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.’
That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great hero, in the heat of
combat, not perceiving that he had been fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead
as he was. The application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss Psyche,
that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour and a half after you have been
choked to death by that chicken-bone. Please to write!
‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn
Durch sie—durch sie!’
That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for thee—for thee!’ Here it is
clear that you are apostrophizing the cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what
gentleman (or lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a well fattened
capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with capers and mushrooms, and served up in
a salad-bowl, with orange-jellies en mosäiques. Write! (You can get them that way at Tortoni’s,)—Write, if you please!
“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be too recherché or brief in
one’s Latin, it’s getting so common),—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your proposition, but not the
idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor fellow whom you address while choking
with that chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what you were
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
291
talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth, and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are
mere anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great brilliancy, has no
smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries
of Jupiter—a phrase which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do nothing but roll over
and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for example.
Aνερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugon kai palin makesetai.] There is a
tolerably good translation of it in Hudibras—
‘For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain.’
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your Greek. The very letters have
an air of profundity about them. Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon!
That Phi ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow than that
Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing like Greek for a genuine sensationpaper. In the present case your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap
out the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the good-for-nothing
dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand your plain English in relation to the
chicken-bone. He’ll take the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the topic in question,
but I felt they would be entirely sufficient. I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a
proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as he could offer me only
fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so
paltry a sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman showed his
consideration for me in all other respects, and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall always
remember them with gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his eyes, “is there any thing
else I can do to promote the success of your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is
just possible that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get yourself
drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay!
Now I think me of it, there are a couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine
fellows, I assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your money—
they’ll have you eaten up, auriculas and all, in less than five minutes (here’s my
watch!)—and then only think of the sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you
villain!—let out those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my departure, and accordingly
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
took leave at once—somewhat more abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have
otherwise allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into some immediate
difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this view I spent the greater part of the day in
wandering about Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate to
the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast character of the article I intended
to write. In this excursion I was attended by one negro-servant, Pompey, and my little
lap-dog Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not, however,
until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which the following Blackwood article, in the tone
heterogeneous, is the substance and result.
A P R E D I C A M E NT
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?
—Comus
It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina.
The confusion and bustle in the streets were terrible. Men were talking. Women
were screaming. Children were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls
they bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they
danced. Danced! Could it then be possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are
over! Thus it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius
doomed to the everlasting, and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the—
continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be
allowed the expression, the very disturbing influence of the serene, and god-like, and
heavenly, and exalting, and elevated, and purifying effect of what may be rightly
termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful,
the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold an
expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but I am always led away by
my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle!
The dogs danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed aloud.
Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the recollection of the classical
reader that exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in
the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable Chinese
novel the Fo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through the city I had two humble but faithful companions.
Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and
a blue riband tied fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in
height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off
exceedingly close, gave an air of injured innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite with all.
293
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I had taken
Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be particular) and about seventy, or
perhaps eighty, years of age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not
be called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large full
eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him with no neck, and had placed his
ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet. He was clad
with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a
nearly-new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and
illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well cut. It was well made. The
coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person was myself. I am the Signora Psyche
Zenobia. I am not Suky Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian
mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of
the orange colored auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the poodle.
There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus it is said there were originally
but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a respectable distance
by Diana, I proceeded down one of the populous and very pleasant streets of the now
deserted Edina. On a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered into the sky. What madness
now possessed me? Why did I rush upon my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable
desire to ascend the giddy pinnacle, and thence survey the immense extent of the city.
The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny prevailed. I entered the
ominous archway. Where then was my guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be.
If! Distressing monosyllable! what a world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and
uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the ominous archway! I
entered; and, without injury to my orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river Alfred passed,
unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.
I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they went round and up,
and round and up and round and up, until I could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early
affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the continuous spiral ladder
had been accidentally, or perhaps designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the
meantime, an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and also in a
metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without notice. It appeared to me—indeed
I was quite confident of the fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some
moments, carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say that I could
not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called Pompey’s attention to the subject, and
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295
he—he agreed with me. There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The
rat had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the intense excitement
of the moment? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was somewhere. Diana smelled
the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and
very powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three or four more
upward steps intervening between us and the summit. We still ascended, and now only
one step remained. One step! One little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends! I thought
of myself, then of Pompey, and then of the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which
surrounded us. I thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many
false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I resolved to be more cautious,
more reserved. I abandoned the arm of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted
the one remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone remained behind. I stood at the head of the
staircase, and encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold upon the overcoat. Will the
gods never cease their persecution? The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet,
Pompey stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He stumbled and
fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon
the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my revenge was sure, sudden, and
complete. Seizing him furiously by the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity
of black, and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every manifestation
of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry and remained. Pompey arose, and said no
word. But he regarded me piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that
sigh! It sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached that wool I
would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of regret. But alas! it was now far
beyond my grasp. As it dangled among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied
that it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happydandy Flos Aeirs of Java, bears, it is
said, a beautiful flower, which will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend
it by a cord from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an aperture
through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there were none. The sole light
admitted into the gloomy chamber proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in
diameter, at a height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the energy of true
genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to it; and
through the hole there passed an iron rod from the machinery. Between the wheels
and the wall where the hole lay there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
“You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it. You will stand here just
beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon
it—thus. Now, the other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your shoulders.”
He did everything I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I could easily pass my
head and neck through the aperture. The prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more
magnificent. I merely paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey
that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon his shoulders. I told him
I would be tender of his feelings—ossi tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my
faithful friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the enjoyment of the
scene which so obligingly spread itself out before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not describe the city of
Edinburgh. Everyone has been to the city of Edinburgh. Everyone has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I will confine myself to the momentous details of my own
lamentable adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in regard to the
extent, situation, and general appearance of the city, I had leisure to survey the church
in which I was, and the delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the aperture
through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the dial-plate of a gigantic clock,
and must have appeared, from the street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face
of the French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of an attendant,
to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of these hands, the longest of which could not have been less
than ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in breadth. They were
of solid steel apparently, and their edges appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below, and
soon became absorbed in contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of Pompey, who declared
that he could stand it no longer, and requested that I would be so kind as to come down.
This was unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He replied but with
an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon the subject. I accordingly grew angry,
and told him in plain words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus eclench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his words little better than an
ennemywerrybor’em. With this he appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I was deeply absorbed
in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was startled by something very cold which pressed
with a gentle pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I felt inexpressibly
alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my feet, and that Diana was sitting, according
to my explicit directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the room. What
could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror, that the huge, glittering, scimitar-like minute-hand of
the clock had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my neck. There was, I
knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back at once—but it was too late. There was no
A PREDICAMENT
297
chance of forcing my head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so
fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a rapidity too horrible to be
conceived. The agony of that moment is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and
endeavored, with all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might as
well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down it came, closer and yet
closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling
him “an ignorant old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said “bow-wow-wow,”
and that I had told her “on no account to stir from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to
expect from my associates.
Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now discovered the literal
import of that classical phrase) had not stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career.
Down and still down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch in my flesh,
and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr. Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood
receiving his invaluble instructions. And then again the sweet recollection of better and
earlier times came over me, and I thought of that happy period when the world was not
all a desert, and Pompey not altogether cruel.
The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my sensations now
bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal click-clack, click-clack, click-clack of the clock was the most melodious of
music in my ears, and occasionally even put me in mind of the graceful sermonic
harangues of Dr. Ollapod. Then there were the great figures upon the dial-plate—how
intelligent, how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to dancing the
Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who performed the most to my satisfaction. She
was evidently a lady of breeding. None of your swaggerers, and nothing at all indelicate
in her motions. She did the pirouette to admiration—whirling round upon her apex. I
made an endeavor to hand her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her exertions—and it was not until then that I fully perceived my lamentable situation.
Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a
sense of exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the moment, could not
help repeating those exquisite verses of the poet Miguel De Cervantes:
Vanny Buren, tan escondida
Query no te senty venny
Pork and pleasure, delly morry
Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!
But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient to startle the strongest
nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the machine, were absolutely starting from
their sockets. While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them, one
actually tumbled out of my head, and, rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
in the rain gutter which ran along the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was
not so much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which it regarded
me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just under my nose, and the airs it gave itself
would have been ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a winking and blinking
were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my eye in the gutter was not only
irritating on account of its manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was also
exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always exists between two
eyes of the same head, however far apart. I was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink,
whether I would or not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just under
my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping out of the other eye. In falling it took the same direction (possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of
the gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.
The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there was only a little
bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were those of entire happiness, for I felt that
in a few minutes, at farthest, I should be relieved from my disagreeable situation. And in
this expectation I was not at all deceived. At twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge minute-hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible
revolution to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not sorry to see the head
which had occasioned me so much embarrassment at length make a final separation
from my body. It first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodged, for a few seconds,
in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge, into the middle of the street.
I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most singular—nay, of the
most mysterious, the most perplexing and incomprehensible character. My senses were
here and there at one and the same moment. With my head I imagined, at one time, that
I the head, was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia—at another I felt convinced that myself,
the body, was the proper identity. To clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for
my snuff-box, but, upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch of its grateful contents in the ordinary manner, I became immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency,
and threw the box at once down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction, and
smiled me an acknowledgment in return. Shortly afterward it made me a speech, which
I could hear but indistinctly without ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it
was astonished at my wishing to remain alive under such circumstances. In the concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto—
Il pover hommy che non sera corty
And have a combat tenty erry morty;
thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the combat, not perceiving that he
was dead, continued to contest the battle with inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that
Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet been able to find out.
A PREDICAMENT
299
The fellow opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were
endeavoring to crack nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he made
one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after the scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes—
Andrew O’Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly.
and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the shaggy-haired Diana.
Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole?
Are these the picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured by the monster? Ye Gods! and what do I behold—is that the departed spirit, the shade, the ghost of
my beloved puppy, which I perceive sitting with a grace so melancholy, in the corner?
Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of Schiller—
“Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun
Duk she! duk she!”
Alas! and are not her words too true?
And if I died at least I died
For thee—for thee.
Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf. Dogless, niggerless, headless,
what now remains for the unhappy Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas—nothing! I have done.
T HE L ITERARY L IFE
OF
T HINGUM B OB , E SQ .
LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.” BY HIMSELF
I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons
are deceased—it is not impossible that I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore,
that I may as well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels. But I am
ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary sceptre by some important
bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an
account of my earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so constantly
before the public eye, that I am not only willing to admit the naturalness of the interest
which it has everywhere excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has
inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who achieves greatness to leave
behind him, in his ascent, such landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose,
therefore, in the present paper (which I had some idea of calling “Memoranda to Serve
for the Literary History of America”) to give a detail of those important, yet feeble and
tottering, first steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the pinnacle of
human renown.
Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My father, Thomas Bob,
Esq., stood for many years at the summit of his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal
people of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which inspires all about
it with profound veneration and awe. For my own part, I regarded them as gods, and
drank in with avidity the rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their
august mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first moment of positive
inspiration must be dated from that ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the Gad-Fly, in the intervals of the important process just mentioned, recited
aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices, an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only
Genuine Oil-of-Bob” (so called from its talented inventor, my father), and for which
effusion the editor of the Fly was remunerated with a regal liberality by the firm of
Thomas Bob & Company, merchant-barbers.
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THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
301
The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into me, I say, the divine
afflatus. I resolved at once to become a great man, and to commence by becoming a great
poet. That very evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.
“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It is my firm intention
to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the
‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon me and aid me to be great!”
“My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened Thingum after a
wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,” he said, raising me from my knees
by the ears—“Thingum, my boy, you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a
soul. You have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains. This I have
long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a lawyer. The business, however,
has grown ungenteel, and that of politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge
wisely;—the trade of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as most
of the editors are, by the by,—why, you will kill two birds with one stone. To encourage
you in the beginning of things, I will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming
dictionary; and a copy of the Gad-Fly. I suppose you would scarcely demand any more.”
“I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with enthusiasm. “Your generosity
is boundless. I will repay it by making you the father of a genius.”
Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately upon its termination I betook myself with zeal to my poetical labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my
hopes of ultimate elevation to the editorial chair.
In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The Oil-of-Bob” rather
a drawback than otherwise. Their splendor more dazzled than enlightened me. The
contemplation of their excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison
with my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At length there came
into my head one of those exquisitely original ideas which now and then will permeate
the brain of a man of genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into execution.
From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very remote corner of the town, I got together
several antique and altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold
them to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a translation of one
Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable neatness a long passage about a man named
Ugolino, who had a parcel of brats. From another, which contained a good many old
plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same manner, and with the
same care, a great number of lines about “angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and
“goblins damned,” and more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains
of remembering every trifle exactly,—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’
wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I recollect was also the
work of a blind man, I selected a page or two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and,
although a blind man has no business to write about light, still the verses were sufficiently good in their way.
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of them “Oppodeldoc”
(a fine sonorous name), and, doing each up nicely in a separate envelope, I dispatched
one to each of the four principal magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and
prompt pay. The result of this well-conceived plan, however, (the success of which
would have saved me much trouble in after-life,) served to convince me that some
editors are not to be bamboozled, and gave the coup-de-grace (as they say in France) to my
nascent hopes (as they say in the city of the transcendentals).
The fact is, that each and every one of the magazines in question gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the “Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The Hum-Drum
gave him a dressing after this fashion:
“‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has sent us a long tirade concerning a bedlamite whom
he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great many children that should have been all whipped
and sent to bed without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not to
say flat. ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) is entirely devoid of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart.
‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has the audacity to demand of us, for his twattle, a
‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert nor purchase any stuff of the
sort. There can be no doubt, however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all
the balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the Rowdy-Dow, the Lollipop,
or the Goosetherumfoodle.”
All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon “Oppodeldoc,”—but the
unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in small caps. In those five pre-eminent
letters what a world of bitterness is there not involved!
But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the Rowdy-Dow, which
spoke thus:
“We have received a most singular and insolent communication from a person (whoever he is) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’—thus desecrating the greatness of the
illustrious Roman emperor so named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about ‘angels and
ministers of grace,’—rant such as no madman short of a Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc’
could possibly perpetrate. And for this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay
promptly.’ No sir—no! We pay for nothing of that sort. Apply to the Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, or the Goosetherumfoodle. These periodicals will undoubtedly accept any literary offal
you may send them—and as undoubtedly promise to pay for it.”
This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this instance, the weight of
the satire falls upon the Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, and the Goosetherumfoodle, who are pungently
styled “periodicals”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them to the heart.
Scarcely less savage was the Lollipop, which thus discoursed:
THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
303
“Some individual, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (to what low uses are
the names of the illustrious dead too often applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty
verses commencing after this fashion:
‘Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.’
“‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) is respectfully informed that there is not a printer’s devil
in our office who is not in the daily habit of composing better lines. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’ will not scan. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to count. But why he should have conceived
the idea that we (of all others, we!) would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense is utterly beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good enough
for the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, the Goosetherumfoodle,—things that are in the practice
of publishing ‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever
he is) has even the assurance to demand pay for this drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he
is) know—is he aware that we could not be paid to insert it?”
As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and smaller, and when I
came to the point at which the editor sneered at the poem as “verses,” there was little
more than an ounce of me left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience compassion for
the poor fellow. But the Goosetherumfoodle showed, if possible, less mercy than the Lollipop.
It was the Goosetherumfoodle that said—
“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly enough to fancy that
we will print and pay for a medley of incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he
has transmitted to us, and which commences with the following most intelligible line:
‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven, first born.’
“We say, ‘most intelligible.’ ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) will be kind enough to tell us,
perhaps, how ‘hail’ can be ‘holy light.’ We always regarded it as frozen rain. Will he inform
us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same time, both ‘holy light’ (whatever
that is) and an ‘offspring’?—which latter term (if we understand anything about English) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small babies of about six weeks
old. But it is preposterous to descant upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc’
(whoever he is) has the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only ‘insert’
his ignorant rantings, but (absolutely) pay for them!
“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish this young scribbler
for his egotism by really publishing his effusion verbatim et literatim, as he has written it. We
could inflict no punishment so severe, and we would inflict it, but for the boredom which
we should cause our readers in so doing.
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“Let ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) send any future composition of like character to the
Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, or the Rowdy-Dow. They will ‘insert’ it. They ‘insert’ every month just
such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with impunity.”
This made an end of me; and as for the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Lollipop. I never
could comprehend how they survived it. The putting them in the smallest possible minion,
(that was the rub—thereby insinuating their lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood
looking down upon them in gigantic capitals!—oh it was too bitter!—it was wormwood—it was gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared no pains to
have the Goosetherumfoodle prosecuted. It might have been done under the Act for the
“Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.” As for Oppodeldoc (whoever he was) I had by this
time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him no longer. He was a
fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got not a kick more than he deserved.
The result of my experiment with the old books convinced me, in the first place, that
“honesty is the best policy,” and, in the second, that if I could not write better than Mr.
Dante, and the two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least, be a difficult
matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore, and determined to prosecute the “entirely
original” (as they say on the covers of the magazines), at whatever cost of study and
pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob”
by the editor of the Gad-Fly and resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme,
in rivalry of what had already been done.
With my first line I had no material difficulty. It ran thus:
“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’”
Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes to “Bob,” I found it
impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had recourse to paternal aid; and, after some
hours of mature thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:
“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
Is all sorts of a job.
(Signed)
snob.”
To be sure, this composition was of no very great length,—but I “have yet to learn,”
as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the mere extent of a literary work has anything
to do with its merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is impossible to
see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I was satisfied with the success of my
maiden attempt, and now the only question regarded the disposal I should make of it.
My father suggested that I should send it to the Gad-Fly,—but there were two reasons
which operated to prevent me from so doing. I dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and
I had ascertained that he did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due
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305
deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages of the Lollipop and awaited
the event in anxiety, but with resignation.
In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of seeing my poem
printed at length, as the leading article, with the following significant words, prefixed in
italics and between brackets:
[We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob.” We need
say nothing of their sublimity, or of their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them without tears. Those who have
been nauseated with a sad dose on the same august topic from the goose-quill of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,”
will do well to compare the two compositions.
P.S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.”
May we hope for a personal interview?]
All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess, rather more than I had
expected:—I acknowledged this, be it observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country
and of mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of the Lollipop and had
the good fortune to find this gentleman at home. He saluted me with an air of profound
respect, slightly blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in him, no
doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he
entered at once upon the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to
repeat the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies of Mr. Crab
(such was the editor’s name) were, however, by no means fulsomely indiscriminate. He
analyzed my composition with much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point
out a few trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my esteem. The
Gad-Fly was, of course brought upon the tapis, and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that
unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of the Gad-Fly as something
superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as
the personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated the rival editor), in its
true light. He, the Fly, was very little better than he should be. He had written infamous
things. He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a farce which deluged the universe in
tears. Besides all this, he had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon
himself (Mr. Crab), and the temerity to style him “an ass.” Should I at any time wish to
express my opinion of Mr. Fly, the pages of the Lollipop Mr. Crab assured me, were at my
unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that I would be attacked in the
Fly for my attempt at composing a rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab) would
take it upon himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal interests. If I were
not made a man of at once, it should not be the fault of himself (Mr. Crab).
Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse (the latter portion of which I found it
impossible to comprehend), I ventured to suggest something about the remuneration
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which I had been taught to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of
the Lollipop, declaring that it (the Lollipop) “insisted upon being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted contributions,—frequently expending more money for a
single brief poem than the whole annual cost of the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the
Goosetherumfoodle combined.”
As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his eyes, and then
his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent, causing his personal appearance to resemble
that of a highly agitated elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he
remained (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his forehead, as if in a state of
desperate bewilderment) until I had nearly made an end of what I had to say.
Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much overcome, letting his
arms fall lifelessly by his side, but keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behaviour so alarming,
he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the bell-rope; but just as he reached
this, he appeared to have altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a table
and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in the act of uplifting (for what
purpose I am at a loss to imagine), when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his
features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.
“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending myself,) “Mr. Bob, you
are a young man, I presume—very?”
I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum.
“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more! Touching this matter of
compensation, what you observe is very just,—in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—
the first contribution—the first, I say—it is never the magazine custom to pay for,—you
comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the recipients in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled
blandly as he emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are paid for the
insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, the
magazine rule is never to disburse what we term in France the argent comptant:—I have no
doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of the article—or in a year
or two—we make no objection to giving our note at nine months; provided, always,
that we can so arrange our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I really do
hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab
concluded, and the tears stood in his eyes.
Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing
my perfect coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of the delicacy
of his position. Having done all this in a neat speech, I took leave.
One fine morning, very shortly afterward, “I awoke and found myself famous.” The
extent of my renown will be best estimated by reference to the editorial opinions of the
day. These opinions, it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number of
the Lollipop containing my poem, and are perfectly satisfactory, conclusive, and clear with
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307
the exception, perhaps, of the hieroglyphical marks, “Sep. 15—1 t,” appended to each
of the critiques.
The Owl, a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the deliberate gravity of
its literary decisions—the Owl, I say, spoke as follows:
“The Lollipop! The October number of this delicious magazine surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In the beauty of its typography and paper—in the
number and excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit of its contributions—the Lollipop compares with its slow-paced rivals as Hyperion with Satyr. The
Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle, excel, it is true, in braggadocio, but in
all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated journal can sustain its evidently
tremendous expenses, is more that we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of
100,000, and its subscription list has increased one fourth during the last month; but, on
the other hand, the sums it disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It
is reported that Mr. Slyass received no less that thirty-seven and a half cents for his
inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as editor, and with such names upon the list
of contributors as snob and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the Lollipop. Go
and subscribe. Sep. 15—1 t.”
I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from a paper so respectable
as the Owl. The placing my name—that is to say, my nom de guerre—in priority of station
to that of the great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be deserved.
My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the Toad—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness and independence—from its entire freedom from
sycophancy and subservience to the givers of dinners:
“The Lollipop for October is out in advance of all its contemporaries, and infinitely
surpasses them, of course, in the splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness
of its contents. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle excel, we admit, in
braggadocio, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop. How this celebrated magazine
can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses is more than we can understand. To be
sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and its subscription list has increased one third during
the last fortnight, but, on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly, for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr. Mumblethumb received no less than fifty
cents for his late ‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’
“Among the original contributors to the present number we notice (besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab), such men as Snob, Slyass, and Mumblethumb. Apart from the
editorial matter, the most valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by
Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob,’—but our readers must not suppose from the title of this
incomparable bijou, that it bears any similitude to some balderdash on the same subject
by a certain contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears polite. The
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present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to
the owner of the evident pseudonym, ‘Snob,’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it in
our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr. Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum (after whom he is named), and otherwise connected with
the most illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq., is an opulent
merchant in Smug. Sep. 15—1 t.”
This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so proverbially pure as the Toad. The word
“balderdash,” as applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly pungent
and appropriate. The words “gem” and “bijou,” however, used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some degree, feeble. They seemed to me to be deficient
in force. They were not sufficiently prononcés (as we have it in France).
I had hardly finished reading the Toad, when a friend placed in my hands a copy of the
Mole, a daily, enjoying high reputation for the keeness of its perception about matters in
general, and for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The Mole spoke of
the Lollipop as follows:
“We have just received the Lollipop for October, and must say that never before have we
perused any single number of any periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme.
We speak advisedly. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle must look
well to their laurels. These prints, no doubt, surpass everything in loudness of pretension, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated magazine can
sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure,
it has a circulation of 300,000; and its subscription list has increased one half within the
last week, but then the sum it disburses, monthly, for contributions, is astonishingly
enormous. We have it upon good authority that Mr. Fatquack received no less than
sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the ‘Dish-Clout.’
“The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab (the eminent editor), Snob,
Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but, after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who writes
over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict will one day extinguish the
radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn, is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy
merchant of this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the distinguished Mr.
Thingum. The title of Mr. B.’s admirable poem is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny
press has already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the same topic.
There will be no danger, however, of confounding the compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”
The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the Mole penetrated my
soul with delight. The only objection which occurred to me was, that the terms
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309
“contemptible vagabond” might have been better written “odious and contemptible
wretch, villain, and vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully, I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted, of sufficient intensity to express
what the Mole evidently thought of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”
On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the Owl, the Toad, and the Mole,
I happened to meet with a copy of the Daddy-Long-Legs, a periodical proverbial for the
extreme extent of its understanding. And it was the Daddy-Long-Legs which spoke thus:
“The Lollipop!! This gorgeous magazine is already before the public for October. The
question of pre-eminence is forever put to rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, or the Goosetherumfoodle to make any further
spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may excel the Lollipop in outcry, but,
in all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure it has a circulation of
precisely half a million, and its subscription list has increased seventy-five per cent,
within the last couple of days, but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle
received no less than eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill Katy-Didn’t.’
“The most able papers in the present number are, of course, those furnished by the
editor (the eminent Mr. Crab), but there are numerous magnificent contributions from
such names as Snob, Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The world may well be challenged
to produce so rich a galaxy of genius.
“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting universal commendation,
and, we are constrained to say, deserves, if possible, even more applause than it has
received. The ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and art. One or two
of our readers may have a very faint, although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem
(?) similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cutthroat, connected in the capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is, we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high
genius, and a scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a nom de guerre. Sep. 15—1 t.”
I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the concluding portions of
this diatribe. It was clear to me that the yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness,—
the positive forbearance—with which the Daddy-Long-Legs spoke of that pig, the editor
of the Gad-Fly,—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness of speech could proceed
from nothing else than a partiality for the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of
the Daddy-Long-Legs to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any one, indeed, might
perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real design of the Daddy been what it wished to
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appear, it (the Daddy) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more pungent,
and altogether more to the purpose. The words “penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to
be worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst stanzas ever penned
by one of the human race. We all know what is meant by “damning with faint praise,”
and, on the other hand, who could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the
Daddy,—that of glorifying with feeble abuse?
What the Daddy chose to say to the Fly, however, was no business of mine. What it said
of myself was. After the noble manner in which the Owl, the Toad, the Mole, had expressed
themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be coolly spoken of by a
thing like the Daddy-Long-Legs, as merely “a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.”
Gentleman indeed! I made up my mind at once either to get a written apology from the
Daddy-Long-Legs, or to call it out.
Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I could entrust with a
message to his Daddyship, and as the editor of the Lollipop had given me marked tokens of
regard, I at length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.
I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory to my own understanding, for the very peculiar countenance and demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me,
as I unfolded to him my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he really intended to quack.
His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational
way. He declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me from sending it at
all; but was candid enough to admit that the Daddy-Long-Legs had been disgracefully in the
wrong—more especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and scholar.”
Toward the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really appeared to take a paternal
interest in my welfare, he suggested to me that I might turn an honest penny, and at the
same time, advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for the Lollipop.
I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how it was expected
that I should play him.
Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes” (as we say in Germany), but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of astonishment, he assured me that he employed the
words “Thomas Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing tomahawk” he
referred to scalping, browbeating, and otherwise using up the herd of poor-devil authors.
I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly resigned to the task of playing
Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab desired me to use up the editor of the Gad-Fly forthwith, in the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a specimen of my powers.
This I did, upon the spot, in a review of the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six
pages of the Lollipop. I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less onerous occupation
than poetizing; for I went upon system altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing
thoroughly well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of “Lord
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311
Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New Slang-Syllabus,” the
“Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s Billingsgate” (folio edition), and “Lewis G. Clarke
on Tongue.” These works I cut up thoroughly with a curry-comb, and then, throwing
the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that might be thought decent (a mere trifle); reserving the hard phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through without material
injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I
anointed a sheet of foolscap with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing
to be reviewed as I had previously shredded the books—only with more care, so as to get
every word separate—I threw the latter shreds in with the former, screwed on the lid of
the castor, gave it a shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap; where
it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was captivating. Indeed, the reviews I
brought to pass by this simple expedient have never been approached, and were the
wonder of the world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I was a
little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of the bizarre (as we say in France),
worn by the composition as a whole. All the phrases did not fit (as we say in the AngloSaxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were upside-down; and there were none of
them which were not, in some measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species
of accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis Clarke’s paragraphs,
which were so vigorous and altogether stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory, whether
on their heads, or on their heels.
What became of the editor of the Gad-Fly after the publication of my criticism on his
“Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to determine. The most reasonable conclusion is,
that he wept himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously from the face
of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of him since.
This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies appeased, I grew at
once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas Hawk of the Lollipop, and, as for the present, he could afford me
no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.
“My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect your abilities and
love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When I die I will bequeath you the Lollipop. In the
meantime I will make a man of you—I will—provided always that you follow my counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”
“Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—aper? (as we say in Latin)—who?—where?”
“Your father,” said he.
“Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”
“You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and that governor of
yours is a millstone about your neck. We must cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife].
“We must cut him,” continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he won’t.
Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane him, or something of that kind.”
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“What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in the first instance,
caning him afterward, and winding up by tweaking his nose?”
Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then answered:
“I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer sufficiently well—indeed
remarkably well—that is to say, as far as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut,
and I think, upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the operations
you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with your fists, both his eyes, very carefully
and thoroughly, to prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades. After
doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any more. However—it might be just
as well to roll him once or twice in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police.
Any time the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an assault.”
I was much affected by the kindness of feeling toward me personally, which was
evinced in this excellent advice of Mr. Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The
result was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was, for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort;
but at length, by carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters went
just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to be brought about. I say
“thing”—be it observed—for they tell me the Latin for it is rem. By the way, talking of
Latin, can any one tell me the meaning of quocunque—or what is the meaning of modo?
My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth of the SnappingTurtle:—that was all. The thing was done, and I put money in my purse. There were
some trivial arrangements afterward, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the
plan. They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink, and paper,
and put them into furious activity. Having thus completed a Magazine article, I gave it,
for appellation, “Fol Lol, by the Author of The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it to the Goosetherumfoodle. That journal, however, having pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly
Notices to Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by Thingum Bob,
Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ and Editor of the Snapping-Turtle.” With this
amendment, I re-enclosed it to the Goosetherumfoodle, and, while I awaited a reply, published daily, in the Turtle, six columns of what may be termed philosophical and
analytical investigation of the literary merits of the Goosetherumfoodle, as well as of the
personal character of the editor of the Goosetherumfoodle. At the end of a week the Goosetherumfoodle discovered that it had, by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article,
headed “Hey-Diddle-Diddle,” and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with a gem
of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated
author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’” The Goosetherumfoodle deeply “regretted this very natural accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the genuine “Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the
very next number of the Magazine.
The fact is, I thought—I really thought—I thought at the time—I thought then—and have
no reason for thinking otherwise now—that the Goosetherumfoodle did make a mistake. With
the best intentions in the world, I never knew anything that made as many singular
THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
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mistakes as the Goosetherumfoodle. From that day I took a liking to the Goosetherumfoodle, and the
result was I soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not fail to expatiate
upon them, in the Turtle, whenever a fitting opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded
as a very peculiar coincidence—as one of those positively remarkable coincidences which set
a man to serious thinking—that just such a total revolution of opinion—just such entire
bouleversement (as we say in French),—just such thorough topsiturviness (if I may be permitted
to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws), as happened, pro and con, between myself
on the one part, and the Goosetherumfoodle on the other, did actually again happen, in a brief
period afterwards, and with precisely similar circumstances, in the case of myself and the
Rowdy-Dow, and in the case of myself and the Hum-Drum.
Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus may be said really and fairly to have
commenced that brilliant and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which
now enables me to say with Chateaubriand: “I have made history”—“J’ai fait l’histoire.”
I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now record, my
actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are familiar to the world. It is,
then, needless for me to detail how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the Lollipop—how I
merged this journal in the Hum-Drum—how again I made purchase of the Rowdy-Dow,
thus combining the three periodicals—how lastly, I effected a bargain for the sole
remaining rival, and united all the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine known everywhere as the
Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,
and
Goosetherumfoodle.
Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the uttermost ends of the
earth. You cannot take up a common newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion
to the immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr. Thingum Bob wrote
this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am meek and expire with an humble heart. After
all, what is it?—this indescribable something which men will persist in terming “genius”? I
agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but diligence after all.
Look at me!—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods, did I not write? I
knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered to my desk, and at night, a pale student,
I consumed the midnight oil. You should have seen me—you should. I leaned to the
right. I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat tete baissée (as they have it in
the Kickapoo), bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all, I—wrote.
Through joy and through sorrow, I—wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I—
wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I—wrote. Through sunshine and through
moonshine, I—wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The style!—that was the thing. I
caught it from Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—and I am giving you a specimen of it now.
D I D D L I NG
CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES
Hey, diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle.
Since the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote a Jeremiad about
usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has been much admired by Mr. John Neal,
and was a great man in a small way. The other gave name to the most important of the
Exact Sciences, and was a great man in a great way—I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways.
Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is sufficiently well
understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing, diddling, is somewhat difficult to define. We
may get, however, at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself—but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Plato
but hit upon this, he would have been spared the affront of the picked chicken.
Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken, which was clearly
a “biped without feathers,” was not, according to his own definition, a man? But I am not
to be bothered by any similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal
that diddles but man. It will take an entire hencoop of picked chickens to get over that.
What constitutes the essence, the nare, of principle of diddling is, in fact, peculiar to
the class of creatures that wear coats and pantaloons. A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a
weasel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. “Man was made to mourn,” says
the poet. But no so:—he was made to diddle. This is his aim—his object—his end. And
for this reason when a man’s diddled we say he’s “done.”
Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the ingredients are minuteness,
interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, nonchalance, originality, impertinence, and grin.
Minuteness:—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should he ever be tempted into
magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes
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DIDDLING
315
what we term “financier.” This latter word conveys the diddling idea in every respect
except that of magnitude. A diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto—a “financial operation,” as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to
“Flaccus”—as a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
Interest:—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle for the mere sake of
the diddle. He has an object in view—his pocket—and yours. He regards always the main
chance. He looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to yourself.
Perseverance:—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily discouraged. Should even the
banks break, he cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues his end, and
Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto.
so he lets go of his game.
Ingenuity:—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He understands
plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were
he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.
Audacity:—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He carries the war into
Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a
little more prudence Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less
blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a pound or two more brains, Charles the Twelfth.
Nonchalance:—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He never had any
nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He is never put out—unless put out of doors.
He is cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—“calm as a smile from Lady Bury.” He is
easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient Baiæ.
Originality:—Your diddler is original—conscientiously so. His thoughts are his own.
He would scorn to employ those of another. A stale trick is his aversion. He would return
a purse, I am sure, upon discovering that he had obtained it by an unoriginal diddle.
Impertinence:—Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arm a-kimbo. He
thrusts his hands in his trowsers’ pocket. He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns.
He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your nose,
he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.
Grin:—Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees but himself. He
grins when his daily work is done—when his allotted labors are accomplished—at night
in his own closet, and altogether for his own private entertainment. He goes home. He
locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed.
He places his head upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no
hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason à priori, and a diddle would be no diddle without a grin.
The origin of the diddle is referable to the infancy of the Human Race. Perhaps the
first diddler was Adam. At all events, we can trace the science back to a very remote
period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to speak of the “old
saws,” therefore, I shall content myself with a compendious account of some of the
more “modern instances.”
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for instance, is seen to go
in and out of several cabinet warehouses. At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble individual at
the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her views, and upon inquiring the price, is
surprised and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent lower than her
expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt, leaves her address,
with a request that the article be sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a
profusion of bows from the shop-keeper. The night arrives and no sofa. The next day
passes, and still none. A servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole
transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold—no money received—except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford every facility for
a trick of this kind. Visitors enter, look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen.
Should any one wish to purchase, or to inquire the price of an article, a bell is at hand,
and this is considered amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed individual enters a shop;
makes a purchase to the value of a dollar; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his
pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so says to the shop-keeper—
“My dear sir, never mind!—just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle home?
But stay! I really believe that I have nothing less than a five dollar bill, even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the bundle, you know.”
“Very good, sir,” replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at once, a lofty opinion of
the high-mindedness of his customer. “I know fellows,” he says to himself, “who would
just have put the goods under their arm, and walked off with a promise to call and pay
the dollar as they came by in the afternoon.”
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite accidentally, he is met
by the purchaser, who exclaims:
“Ah! this is my bundle, I see—I thought you had been home with it, long ago.
Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you the five dollars—I left instructions
with her to that effect. The change you might as well give to me—I shall want some
silver for the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a good quarter?—three, four—
quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on
the way.”
The boy doesn’t loiter at all—but he is a very long time in getting back from his
errand—for no lady of the precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles
himself, however, that he has not been such a fool as to leave the goods without the
money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air, feels sensibly hurt and indignant
when his master asks him what has become of the change.
DIDDLING
317
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship which is about to sail, is
presented by an official looking person with an unusually moderate bill of city charges.
Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties pressing upon him all at once,
he discharges the claim forthwith. In about fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable
bill is handed him by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a diddler,
and the original collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steam-boat is casting loose from the
wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand, is discovered running toward the wharf, at full
speed. Suddenly, he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up something from the ground
in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and—“Has any gentleman lost a pocketbook?” he cries. No one can say that he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great
excitement ensues, when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat however,
must not be detained.
“Time and tide wait for no man,” says the captain.
“For God’s sake, stay only a few minutes,” says the finder of the book—“the true
claimant will presently appear.”
“Can’t wait!” replies the man in authority; “cast off there, d’ye hear?”
“What am I to do?” asks the finder, in great tribulation. “I am about to leave the country
for some years, and I cannot conscientiously retain this large amount in my possession. I
beg your pardon, sir,” [here he addresses a gentleman on shore,] “but you have the air of an
honest man. Will you confer upon me the favor of taking charge of this pocket-book—I know
I can trust you—and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very considerable
sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding you for your trouble—”
“Me!—no, you!—it was you who found the book.”
“Well, if you must have it so—I will take a small reward—just to satisfy your scruples.
Let me see—why these notes are all hundreds—bless my soul! a hundred is too much
to take—fifty would be quite enough, I am sure—”
“Cast off there!” says the captain.
“But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole, you had better—”
“Cast off there!” says the captain.
“Never mind!” cries the gentleman on shore, who has been examining his own
pocket-book for the last minute or so—“never mind! I can fix it—here is a fifty on the
Bank of North America—throw me the book.”
And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked reluctance, and
throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while the steam-boat fumes and fizzes on her
way. In about half an hour after her departure, the “large amount” is seen to be a “counterfeit presentment,” and the whole thing a capital diddle.
A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is to be held at a certain
spot which is accessible only by means of a free bridge. A diddler stations himself upon
this bridge, respectfully informs all passers by of the new county law, which establishes
a toll of one cent for foot passengers, two for horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
forth. Some grumble but all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some
fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a great crowd of people is an
excessively troublesome thing.
A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler’s promises to pay, filled up and
signed in due form, upon the ordinary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases
one or two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his soup, makes his
dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity,
the diddler, with the diddler’s dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay is
made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his escritoire, and is in the act of
reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps the diddler’s dog and devours it forthwith.
The diddler is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd behavior of his
dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel the obligation at any moment when the
evidence of the obligation shall be forthcoming.
A very minute diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a diddler’s accomplice.
The diddler himself flies to her assistance, and, giving his friend a comfortable thrashing,
insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He bows, with his hand upon his heart,
and most respectfully bids her adieu. She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be
introduced to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do so. “Is there no
way, then, sir,” she murmurs, “in which I may be permitted to testify my gratitude?”
“Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a couple of shillings?”
In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon fainting outright. Upon
second thought, however, she opens her purse-strings and delivers the specie. Now this,
I say, is a diddle minute—for one entire moiety of the sum borrowed has to be paid to
the gentleman who had the trouble of performing the insult, and who had then to stand
still and be thrashed for performing it.
Rather a small, but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler approaches the bar of a
tavern, and demands a couple of twists of tobacco. These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined them, he says:
“I don’t much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me a glass of brandy and
water in its place.”
The brandy and water is furnished and imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the
door. But the voice of the tavern-keeper arrests him.
“I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and water.”
“Pay for my brandy and water!—didn’t I give you the tobacco for the brandy and
water? What more would you have?”
“But, sir, if you please, I don’t remember that you paid me for the tobacco.”
“What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?—Didn’t I give you back your tobacco?
Isn’t that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect me to pay for what I did not take?”
“But, sir,” says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say, “but sir—”
DIDDLING
319
“But me no buts, sir,” interrupts the diddler, apparently in very high dudgeon, and
slamming the door after him, as he makes his escape.—“But me no buts, sir, and none
of your tricks upon travellers.”
Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is not its least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being really lost, the loser inserts in one of the daily papers
of a large city a fully descriptive advertisement.
Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement, with a change of heading, of general phraseology, and address. The original, for instance, is long, and verbose, is
headed “A Pocket-Book Lost!” and requires the treasure, when found, to be left at No. 1
Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being headed with “Lost” only, indicates No. 2 Dick,
or No. 3 Harry Street, as the locality in which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is
inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day, while in point of time, it
makes its appearance only a few hours after the original. Should it be read by the loser
of the purse, he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own misfortune.
But, of course, the chances are five or six to one, that the finder will repair to the address
given by the diddler, rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The
former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.
Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped, somewhere in the street,
a diamond ring of very unusual value. For its recovery, she offers some forty or fifty dollars reward—giving, in her advertisement, a very minute description of the gem, and of
its settings, and declaring that, on its restoration at No. so and so, in such and such
Avenue, the reward will be paid instanter, without a single question being asked. During
the lady’s absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a ring is heard at the door of No.
so and so, in such and such Avenue; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for
and is declared to be out, at which astounding information, the visitor expresses the
most poignant regret. His business is of importance and concerns the lady herself. In
fact, he had the good fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as well
that he should call again. “By no means!” says the servant; and “By no means!” says the
lady’s sister and the lady’s sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith. The ring is clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder nearly thrust out of doors. The lady
returns and expresses some little dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because
they happen to have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond ring—a facsimile made out of real pinchbeck and unquestionable paste.
But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this essay, were
I even to hint at half the variations, or inflections, of which this science is susceptible. I
must bring this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and this I cannot do better than by a
summary notice of a very decent, but rather elaborate diddle, of which our own city was
made the theatre, not very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success,
in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A middle-aged gentleman arrives
in town from parts unknown. He is remarkably precise, cautious, staid, and deliberate in
his demeanor. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain, unostentatious. He wears a white
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THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
cravat, an ample waistcoat, made with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking
shoes, and pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your well-to-do,
sober-sided, exact, and respectable “man of business,’ par excellence—one of the stern and
outwardly hard, internally soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high comedies—
fellows whose words are so many bonds, and who are noted for giving away guineas, in
charity, with the one hand, while, in the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost
fraction of a farthing with the other.
He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding-house. He dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits are methodical—and then he would
prefer getting into a private and respectable small family, piously inclined. Terms, however, are no object—only he must insist upon settling his bill on the first of every
month, (it is now the second) and begs his landlady, when he finally obtains one to his
mind, not on any account to forget his instructions upon this point—but to send in a bill,
and receipt, precisely at ten o’clock, on the first day of every month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the second.
These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a reputable rather than
a fashionable quarter of the town. There is nothing he more despises than pretence. “Where
there is much show,” he says, “there is seldom anything very solid behind”—an observation
which so profoundly impresses his landlady’s fancy, that she makes a pencil memorandum
of it forthwith, in her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this, in the principal business
sixpennies of the city—the pennies are eschewed as not “respectable”—and as demanding payment for all advertisements in advance. Our man of business holds it as a point of
his faith that work should never be paid for until done.
Wanted.—The advertisers, being about to commence extensive business operations in
this city, will require the services of three or four intelligent and competent clerks, to
whom a liberal salary will be paid. The very best recommendations, not so much for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected. Indeed, as the duties to be performed, involve high
responsibilities, and large amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of
those engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty dollars from each clerk
employed. No person need apply, therefore, who is not prepared to leave this sum in the
possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most satisfactory testimonials of
morality. Young gentlemen piously inclined will be preferred. Application should be made
between the hours of ten and eleven a.m., and four and five p.m., of Messrs.
“Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, & Co.,
“No. 110 Dog Street.”
By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has brought to the office of
Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or twenty young gentlemen
piously inclined. But our man of business is in no hurry to conclude a contract with
DIDDLING
321
any—no man of business is ever precipitate—and it is not until the most rigid catechism
in respect to the piety of each young gentleman’s inclination, that his services are
engaged and his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper precaution, on the part
of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning of the
first day of the next month, the landlady does not present her bill, according to promise—a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of the house ending in ogs would
no doubt have chided her severely, could he have been prevailed upon to remain in
town a day or two for that purpose.
As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running hither and thither, and all
they can do is to declare the man of business most emphatically, a “hen knee high”—by
which some persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is n. e. i.—by which again
the very classical phrase non est inventus, is supposed to be understood. In the meantime the
young gentlemen, one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before, while
the landlady purchases a shilling’s worth of the best Indian rubber, and very carefully
obliterates the pencil memorandum that some fool has made in her great family Bible,
on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
X- I N G
A
PARAGRAB
As it is well known that the “wise men” came “from the East,” and as Mr. Touch-and-go
Bullet-head came from the East, it follows that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor. Irascibility was
his sole foible; for in fact the obstinacy of which men accused him was any thing but his
foible, since he justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his virtue; and it would
have required all the logic of a Brownson to convince him that it was “any thing else.”
I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and the only occasion
on which he did not prove infallible was when, abandoning that legitimate home for all
wise men, the East, he migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some
place of a similar title, out West.
I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up his mind finally to
settle in that town, it was under the impression that no newspaper, and consequently no
editor, existed in that particular section of the country. In establishing The Tea-Pot he
expected to have the field all to himself. I feel confident he never would have dreamed
of taking up his residence in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John Smith (if I rightly
remember), who for many years had there quietly grown fat in editing and publishing
the Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette. It was solely, therefore, on account of having been
misinformed, that Mr. Bullet-head found himself in Alex—suppose we call it Nopolis,
“for short”—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to keep up his character for
obst—for firmness, and remain. So remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his
press, type, etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the Gazette, and, on the
third morning after his arrival, issued the first number of The Alexan—that is to say, of
The Nopolis Tea-Pot:—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the new paper.
The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as for the editor of The Gazette, he was torn all to pieces in
particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery that I have always, since that
time, been forced to look upon John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander.
I cannot pretend to give all the Tea-Pot’s paragraphs verbatim, but one of them runs thus:
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X-ING A PARAGRAB
323
“Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way is a genius—O,
my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!”
A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a bombshell among the
hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets. Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the dignified
Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:
“We quote from The Tea-Pot of yesterday the subjoined paragraph: ‘Oh, yes! Oh, we
perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh, goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’ Why, the fellow is
all O! That accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is neither beginning nor end to him, nor to any thing he says. We really do not believe the vagabond can
write a word that hasn’t an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he
came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as much there as he does
here? ‘O! it is pitiful.’”
The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous insinuations, I shall not
attempt to describe. On the eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so
much incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have imagined. It was the
sneer at his style that drove him to desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head—
not able to write a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see that
he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was mistaken, the puppy! He,
Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that
he, Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole paragraph—ay! a whole
article—in which that contemptible vowel should not once—not even once—make its
appearance. But no;—that would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He, Bullethead, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the caprices of any Mr. Smith in
Christendom. Perish so vile a thought! The O forever! He would persist in the O. He
would be as O-wy as O-wy could be.
Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great Touch-and-go, in the next
Tea-Pot, came out merely with this simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this
unhappy affair:
“The editor of the Tea-Pot has the honor of advising the editor of the Gazette that he
(the Tea-Pot) will take an opportunity in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing
him (the Gazette) that he (the Tea-Pot) both can and will be his own master, as regards
style;—he (the Tea-Pot) intending to show him (the Gazette) the supreme, and indeed
the withering contempt with which the criticism of him (the Gazette) inspires the
independent bosom of him (the Tea-Pot) by composing for the especial gratification (?)
of him (the Gazette) a leading article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—
the emblem of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of him (the
Gazette) shall most certainly not be avoided by his (the Gazette’s) most obedient, humble
servant, the Tea-Pot. ‘So much for Buckingham!’”
In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head turning a deaf ear to all entreaties for “copy,” and simply
324
THE COMPLETE TALES AND POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
requesting his foreman to “go to the d——l,” when he (the foreman) assured him
(the Tea-Pot!) that it was high time to “go to press”: turning a deaf ear to every thing, I
say, the great Bullet-head sat up until daybreak, consuming the midnight oil, and
absorbed in the composition of the really unparalled paragraph, which follows:—
“So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another time, before
you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home
at once, now, John, to your odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old
owl,—go! You won’t? Oh, poh, poh, John, don’t do so! You’ve got to go, you know! So
go at once, and don’t go slow; for nobody owns you here, you know. Oh! John, John, if
you don’t go you’re no homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a poll;
a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or frog, come out of a Concord
bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t
frown so—don’t! Don’t hollo, nor howl, nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord,
John, how you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of an old
poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!”
Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great Touch-and-go could
attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly, composedly, yet with an air of conscious
power, he handed his MS. to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,
retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.
Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran upstairs to his “case,”
in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a commencement at “setting” the
MS. “up.”
In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was “So”—he made a plunge into
the capital S hole and came out in triumph with a capital S. Elated by this success, he
immediately threw himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but who
shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without the anticipated letter in their
clutch? who shall paint his astonishment and rage at