



Produced by David Widger and Carlo Traverso








THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

IN FIVE VOLUMES


The Raven Edition




VOLUME I


Contents:

     Edgar Allan Poe, An Appreciation
     Life of Poe, by James Russell Lowell
     Death of Poe, by N. P. Willis
     The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall
     The Gold-Bug
     Four Beasts in One
     The Murders in the Rue Morgue
     The Mystery of Marie Rogêt
     The Balloon-Hoax
     MS. Found in a Bottle
     The Oval Portrait




EDGAR ALLAN POE

AN APPRECIATION


   Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
   Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
   Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
         Of “never--never more!”

THIS stanza from “The Raven” was recommended by James Russell Lowell as
an inscription upon the Baltimore monument which marks the resting place
of Edgar Allan Poe, the most interesting and original figure in American
letters. And, to signify that peculiar musical quality of Poe’s genius
which inthralls every reader, Mr. Lowell suggested this additional
verse, from the “Haunted Palace”:

   And all with pearl and ruby glowing
    Was the fair palace door,
   Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
    And sparkling ever more,
   A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
    Was but to sing,
   In voices of surpassing beauty,
    The wit and wisdom of their king.


Born in poverty at Boston, January 19, 1809, dying under painful
circumstances at Baltimore, October 7, 1849, his whole literary career
of scarcely fifteen years a pitiful struggle for mere subsistence, his
memory malignantly misrepresented by his earliest biographer, Griswold,
how completely has truth at last routed falsehood and how magnificently
has Poe come into his own. For “The Raven,” first published in 1845,
and, within a few months, read, recited and parodied wherever the
English language was spoken, the half-starved poet received $10! Less
than a year later his brother poet, N. P. Willis, issued this touching
appeal to the admirers of genius on behalf of the neglected author, his
dying wife and her devoted mother, then living under very straitened
circumstances in a little cottage at Fordham, N. Y.:

“Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most original men of
genius, and one of the most industrious of the literary profession of
our country, whose temporary suspension of labor, from bodily illness,
drops him immediately to a level with the common objects of public
charity. There is no intermediate stopping-place, no respectful shelter,
where, with the delicacy due to genius and culture, he might secure
aid, till, with returning health, he would resume his labors, and his
unmortified sense of independence.”

And this was the tribute paid by the American public to the master who
had given to it such tales of conjuring charm, of witchery and mystery
as “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “Ligeia”; such fascinating
hoaxes as “The Unparalleled Adventure of Hans Pfaall,” “MSS. Found in a
Bottle,” “A Descent Into a Maelstrom” and “The Balloon-Hoax”; such tales
of conscience as “William Wilson,” “The Black Cat” and “The Tell-tale
Heart,” wherein the retributions of remorse are portrayed with an awful
fidelity; such tales of natural beauty as “The Island of the Fay” and
“The Domain of Arnheim”; such marvellous studies in ratiocination as the
“Gold-bug,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Purloined Letter”
 and “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” the latter, a recital of fact,
demonstrating the author’s wonderful capability of correctly analyzing
the mysteries of the human mind; such tales of illusion and banter
as “The Premature Burial” and “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor
Fether”; such bits of extravaganza as “The Devil in the Belfry” and “The
Angel of the Odd”; such tales of adventure as “The Narrative of Arthur
Gordon Pym”; such papers of keen criticism and review as won for Poe the
enthusiastic admiration of Charles Dickens, although they made him many
enemies among the over-puffed minor American writers so mercilessly
exposed by him; such poems of beauty and melody as “The Bells,” “The
Haunted Palace,” “Tamerlane,” “The City in the Sea” and “The Raven.”
 What delight for the jaded senses of the reader is this enchanted domain
of wonder-pieces! What an atmosphere of beauty, music, color! What
resources of imagination, construction, analysis and absolute art! One
might almost sympathize with Sarah Helen Whitman, who, confessing to
a half faith in the old superstition of the significance of anagrams,
found, in the transposed letters of Edgar Poe’s name, the words “a
God-peer.” His mind, she says, was indeed a “Haunted Palace,” echoing to
the footfalls of angels and demons.

“No man,” Poe himself wrote, “has recorded, no man has dared to record,
the wonders of his inner life.”

In these twentieth century days--of lavish recognition--artistic,
popular and material--of genius, what rewards might not a Poe claim!

Edgar’s father, a son of General David Poe, the American revolutionary
patriot and friend of Lafayette, had married Mrs. Hopkins, an English
actress, and, the match meeting with parental disapproval, had himself
taken to the stage as a profession. Notwithstanding Mrs. Poe’s beauty
and talent the young couple had a sorry struggle for existence. When
Edgar, at the age of two years, was orphaned, the family was in the
utmost destitution. Apparently the future poet was to be cast upon the
world homeless and friendless. But fate decreed that a few glimmers of
sunshine were to illumine his life, for the little fellow was adopted
by John Allan, a wealthy merchant of Richmond, Va. A brother and sister,
the remaining children, were cared for by others.

In his new home Edgar found all the luxury and advantages money could
provide. He was petted, spoiled and shown off to strangers. In Mrs.
Allan he found all the affection a childless wife could bestow. Mr.
Allan took much pride in the captivating, precocious lad. At the age of
five the boy recited, with fine effect, passages of English poetry to
the visitors at the Allan house.

From his eighth to his thirteenth year he attended the Manor House
school, at Stoke-Newington, a suburb of London. It was the Rev. Dr.
Bransby, head of the school, whom Poe so quaintly portrayed in “William
Wilson.” Returning to Richmond in 1820 Edgar was sent to the school
of Professor Joseph H. Clarke. He proved an apt pupil. Years afterward
Professor Clarke thus wrote:

“While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote genuine
poetry; the boy was a born poet. As a scholar he was ambitious to
excel. He was remarkable for self-respect, without haughtiness. He had
a sensitive and tender heart and would do anything for a friend. His
nature was entirely free from selfishness.”

At the age of seventeen Poe entered the University of Virginia at
Charlottesville. He left that institution after one session. Official
records prove that he was not expelled. On the contrary, he gained
a creditable record as a student, although it is admitted that he
contracted debts and had “an ungovernable passion for card-playing.”
 These debts may have led to his quarrel with Mr. Allan which eventually
compelled him to make his own way in the world.

Early in 1827 Poe made his first literary venture. He induced Calvin
Thomas, a poor and youthful printer, to publish a small volume of his
verses under the title “Tamerlane and Other Poems.” In 1829 we find Poe
in Baltimore with another manuscript volume of verses, which was soon
published. Its title was “Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Other Poems.” Neither
of these ventures seems to have attracted much attention.

Soon after Mrs. Allan’s death, which occurred in 1829, Poe, through
the aid of Mr. Allan, secured admission to the United States Military
Academy at West Point. Any glamour which may have attached to cadet life
in Poe’s eyes was speedily lost, for discipline at West Point was never
so severe nor were the accommodations ever so poor. Poe’s bent was
more and more toward literature. Life at the academy daily became
increasingly distasteful. Soon he began to purposely neglect his studies
and to disregard his duties, his aim being to secure his dismissal from
the United States service. In this he succeeded. On March 7, 1831, Poe
found himself free. Mr. Allan’s second marriage had thrown the lad on
his own resources. His literary career was to begin.

Poe’s first genuine victory was won in 1833, when he was the successful
competitor for a prize of $100 offered by a Baltimore periodical for the
best prose story. “A MSS. Found in a Bottle” was the winning tale. Poe
had submitted six stories in a volume. “Our only difficulty,” says Mr.
Latrobe, one of the judges, “was in selecting from the rich contents of
the volume.”

During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connected with
various newspapers and magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia and New York.
He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough. N. P. Willis, who for
some time employed Poe as critic and sub-editor on the “Evening Mirror,”
 wrote thus:

“With the highest admiration for Poe’s genius, and a willingness to
let it alone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by
common report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on,
however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. We saw but
one presentiment of the man-a quiet, patient, industrious and most
gentlemanly person.

“We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in all
mention of his lamentable irregularities), that with a single glass of
wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became uppermost, and,
though none of the usual signs of intoxication were visible, his will
was palpably insane. In this reversed character, we repeat, it was never
our chance to meet him.”

On September 22, 1835, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, in
Baltimore. She had barely turned thirteen years, Poe himself was but
twenty-six. He then was a resident of Richmond and a regular contributor
to the “Southern Literary Messenger.” It was not until a year later that
the bride and her widowed mother followed him thither.

Poe’s devotion to his child-wife was one of the most beautiful features
of his life. Many of his famous poetic productions were inspired by her
beauty and charm. Consumption had marked her for its victim, and the
constant efforts of husband and mother were to secure for her all the
comfort and happiness their slender means permitted. Virginia died
January 30, 1847, when but twenty-five years of age. A friend of the
family pictures the death-bed scene--mother and husband trying to impart
warmth to her by chafing her hands and her feet, while her pet cat was
suffered to nestle upon her bosom for the sake of added warmth.

These verses from “Annabel Lee,” written by Poe in 1849, the last year
of his life, tell of his sorrow at the loss of his child-wife:

     I was a child and _she_ was a child,
      In a kingdom by the sea;

     But we loved with _a _love that was more than love--
       I and my Annabel Lee;

     With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
      Coveted her and me.
     And this was the reason that, long ago;
      In this kingdom by the sea.
     A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
      My beautiful Annabel Lee;

     So that her high-born kinsmen came
      And bore her away from me,
     To shut her up in a sepulchre
      In this kingdom by the sea,


Poe was connected at various times and in various capacities with the
“Southern Literary Messenger” in Richmond, Va.; “Graham’s Magazine” and
the “Gentleman’s Magazine” in Philadelphia; the “Evening Mirror,” the
“Broadway Journal,” and “Godey’s Lady’s Book” in New York. Everywhere
Poe’s life was one of unremitting toil. No tales and poems were ever
produced at a greater cost of brain and spirit.

Poe’s initial salary with the “Southern Literary Messenger,” to which
he contributed the first drafts of a number of his best-known tales,
was $10 a week! Two years later his salary was but $600 a year. Even in
1844, when his literary reputation was established securely, he wrote to
a friend expressing his pleasure because a magazine to which he was to
contribute had agreed to pay him $20 monthly for two pages of criticism.

Those were discouraging times in American literature, but Poe never
lost faith. He was finally to triumph wherever pre-eminent talents win
admirers. His genius has had no better description than in this stanza
from William Winter’s poem, read at the dedication exercises of the
Actors’ Monument to Poe, May 4, 1885, in New York:

     He was the voice of beauty and of woe,
     Passion and mystery and the dread unknown;
     Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,
     Cold as the icy winds that round them moan,
     Dark as the caves wherein earth’s thunders groan,
     Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,
     Sweet as the faint, far-off celestial tone of angel
         whispers, fluttering from on high,
     And tender as love’s tear when youth and beauty die.


In the two and a half score years that have elapsed since Poe’s death
he has come fully into his own. For a while Griswold’s malignant
misrepresentations  the public estimate of Poe as man and as
writer. But, thanks to J. H. Ingram, W. F. Gill, Eugene Didier, Sarah
Helen Whitman and others these scandals have been dispelled and Poe is
seen as he actually was-not as a man without failings, it is true, but
as the finest and most original genius in American letters. As the
years go on his fame increases. His works have been translated into
many foreign languages. His is a household name in France and England-in
fact, the latter nation has often uttered the reproach that Poe’s own
country has been slow to appreciate him. But that reproach, if it ever
was warranted, certainly is untrue.

                                     W. H. R.




EDGAR ALLAN POE

By James Russell Lowell


THE situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no centre, or,
if it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes. It is divided
into many systems, each revolving round its several suns, and often
presenting to the rest only the faint glimmer of a milk-and-water way.
Our capital city, unlike London or Paris, is not a great central heart
from which life and vigor radiate to the extremities, but resembles more
an isolated umbilicus stuck down as near as may be to the centre of the
land, and seeming rather to tell a legend of former usefulness than to
serve any present need. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, each has its
literature almost more distinct than those of the different dialects
of Germany; and the Young Queen of the West has also one of her own,
of which some articulate rumor barely has reached us dwellers by the
Atlantic.

Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticism of
contemporary literature. It is even more grateful to give praise where
it is needed than where it is deserved, and friendship so often seduces
the iron stylus of justice into a vague flourish, that she writes what
seems rather like an epitaph than a criticism. Yet if praise be given
as an alms, we could not drop so poisonous a one into any man’s hat. The
critic’s ink may suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls
or of sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just, and we
might readily put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding place
of truth, did we judge from the amount of water which we usually find
mixed with it.

Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner life of
imaginative men, but Mr. Poe’s biography displays a vicissitude and
peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. The offspring of a
romantic marriage, and left an orphan at an early age, he was adopted
by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose barren marriage-bed seemed the
warranty of a large estate to the young poet.

Having received a classical education in England, he returned home and
entered the University of Virginia, where, after an extravagant course,
followed by reformation at the last extremity, he was graduated with
the highest honors of his class. Then came a boyish attempt to join the
fortunes of the insurgent Greeks, which ended at St. Petersburg, where
he got into difficulties through want of a passport, from which he
was rescued by the American consul and sent home. He now entered the
military academy at West Point, from which he obtained a dismissal
on hearing of the birth of a son to his adopted father, by a second
marriage, an event which cut off his expectations as an heir. The death
of Mr. Allan, in whose will his name was not mentioned, soon after
relieved him of all doubt in this regard, and he committed himself at
once to authorship for a support. Previously to this, however, he had
published (in 1827) a small volume of poems, which soon ran through
three editions, and excited high expectations of its author’s future
distinction in the minds of many competent judges.

That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet’s earliest lispings
there are instances enough to prove. Shakespeare’s first poems, though
brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness, give but a very faint
promise of the directness, condensation and overflowing moral of his
maturer works. Perhaps, however, Shakespeare is hardly a case in
point, his “Venus and Adonis” having been published, we believe, in his
twenty-sixth year. Milton’s Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for
nature, and a delicate appreciation of classic models, but give no hint
of the author of a new style in poetry. Pope’s youthful pieces have
all the sing-song, wholly unrelieved by the glittering malignity
and eloquent irreligion of his later productions. Collins’ callow
namby-pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original genius
which he afterward displayed. We have never thought that the world lost
more in the “marvellous boy,” Chatterton, than a very ingenious imitator
of obscure and antiquated dulness. Where he becomes original (as it is
called), the interest of ingenuity ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke
White’s promises were indorsed by the respectable name of Mr. Southey,
but surely with no authority from Apollo. They have the merit of a
traditional piety, which to our mind, if uttered at all, had been less
objectionable in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober raiment
of prose. They do not clutch hold of the memory with the drowning
pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of his occasional
simple, lucky beauty. Burns having fortunately been rescued by his
humble station from the contaminating society of the “Best models,”
 wrote well and naturally from the first. Had he been unfortunate enough
to have had an educated taste, we should have had a series of poems from
which, as from his letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from
the mass of chaff. Coleridge’s youthful efforts give no promise whatever
of that poetical genius which produced at once the wildest, tenderest,
most original and most purely imaginative poems of modern times. Byron’s
“Hours of Idleness” would never find a reader except from an intrepid
and indefatigable curiosity. In Wordsworth’s first preludings there
is but a dim foreboding of the creator of an era. From Southey’s early
poems, a safer augury might have been drawn. They show the patient
investigator, the close student of history, and the unwearied explorer
of the beauties of predecessors, but they give no assurances of a man
who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer
and more sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor. The earliest
specimens of Shelley’s poetic mind already, also, give tokens of that
ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to soar above the regions
of words, but leaves its body, the verse, to be entombed, without hope
of resurrection, in a mass of them. Cowley is generally instanced as a
wonder of precocity. But his early insipidities show only a capacity
for rhyming and for the metrical arrangement of certain conventional
combinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on a delicate
physical organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only
remarkable when it displays an effort of _reason, _and the rudest verses
in which we can trace some conception of the ends of poetry, are worth
all the miracles of smooth juvenile versification. A school-boy, one
would say, might acquire the regular see-saw of Pope merely by an
association with the motion of the play-ground tilt.

Mr. Poe’s early productions show that he could see through the verse to
the spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling that all the life
and grace of the one must depend on and be modulated by the will of the
other. We call them the most remarkable boyish poems that we have
ever read. We know of none that can compare with them for maturity of
purpose, and a nice understanding of the effects of language and metre.
Such pieces are only valuable when they display what we can only express
by the contradictory phrase of _innate experience. _We copy one of the
shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen. There is a
little dimness in the filling up, but the grace and symmetry of the
outline are such as few poets ever attain. There is a smack of ambrosia
about it.

     TO HELEN

     Helen, thy beauty is to me
       Like those Nicean barks of yore,
     That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
       The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
     To his own native shore.

     On desperate seas long wont to roam,
       Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
     Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
       To the glory that was Greece
     And the grandeur that was Rome.

     Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
       How statue-like I see thee stand!
     The agate lamp within thy hand,
       Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
     Are Holy Land!


It is the tendency of the young poet that impresses us. Here is no
“withering scorn,” no heart “blighted” ere it has safely got into its
teens, none of the drawing-room sansculottism which Byron had brought
into vogue. All is limpid and serene, with a pleasant dash of the Greek
Helicon in it. The melody of the whole, too, is remarkable. It is not of
that kind which can be demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of
the fingers. It is of that finer sort which the inner ear alone
_can _estimate. It seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its
perfection. In a poem named “Ligeia,” under which title he intended
to personify the music of nature, our boy-poet gives us the following
exquisite picture:

       Ligeia! Ligeia!
     My beautiful one,
       Whose harshest idea
     Will to melody run,
       Say, is it thy will,
     On the breezes to toss,
       Or, capriciously still,
     Like the lone albatross,
       Incumbent on night,
     As she on the air,
       To keep watch with delight
     On the harmony there?

John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too long
capriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these and similar
passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.

Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to call
_genius_. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is, and yet there
is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence and its power. Let
talent writhe and contort itself as it may, it has no such magnetism.
Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the wings are wanting. Talent
sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one foot of
clay. Genius claims kindred with the very workings of Nature herself, so
that a sunset shall seem like a quotation from Dante, and if Shakespeare
be read in the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but
seem nobler for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friends
for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the divine power
of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself
is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have disciples who has not himself
impulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits are allied to madness
only inasmuch as they are possessed and carried away by their demon,
while talent keeps him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the
pommel of his sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual
world is ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good
and evil who throng continually around it. No man of mere talent ever
flung his inkstand at the devil.

When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that he has
produced evidence of the highest. But to say that he possesses it at
all is to say that he needs only zeal, industry, and a reverence for the
trust reposed in him, to achieve the proudest triumphs and the greenest
laurels. If we may believe the Longinuses and Aristotles of our
newspapers, we have quite too many geniuses of the loftiest order to
render a place among them at all desirable, whether for its hardness
of attainment or its seclusion. The highest peak of our Parnassus is,
according to these gentlemen, by far the most thickly settled portion
of the country, a circumstance which must make it an uncomfortable
residence for individuals of a poetical temperament, if love of
solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of their
idiosyncrasy.

Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of vigorous
yet minute analysis, and a wonderful fecundity of imagination. The first
of these faculties is as needful to the artist in words, as a knowledge
of anatomy is to the artist in colors or in stone. This enables him to
conceive truly, to maintain a proper relation of parts, and to draw a
correct outline, while the second groups, fills up and colors. Both
of these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in his prose
works, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the first in his
later ones. In judging of the merit of an author, and assigning him his
niche among our household gods, we have a right to regard him from
our own point of view, and to measure him by our own standard. But,
in estimating the amount of power displayed in his works, we must be
governed by his own design, and placing them by the side of his own
ideal, find how much is wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions
of the objects of art. He esteems that object to be the creation of
Beauty, and perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that we
disagree with him. But in what we shall say of his writings, we shall
take his own standard as our guide. The temple of the god of song is
equally accessible from every side, and there is room enough in it for
all who bring offerings, or seek in oracle.

In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in that
dim region which stretches from the very utmost limits of the probable
into the weird confines of superstition and unreality. He combines in
a very remarkable manner two faculties which are seldom found united; a
power of influencing the mind of the reader by the impalpable shadows
of mystery, and a minuteness of detail which does not leave a pin or
a button unnoticed. Both are, in truth, the natural results of the
predominating quality of his mind, to which we have before alluded,
analysis. It is this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once
reaches forward to the effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring
about certain emotions in the reader, he makes all subordinate parts
tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is mathematical
to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity all along. In any picture
that he paints he understands the chemical properties of all his
colors. However vague some of his figures may seem, however formless
the shadows, to him the outline is as clear and distinct as that of
a geometrical diagram. For this reason Mr. Poe has no sympathy with
Mysticism. The Mystic dwells in the mystery, is enveloped with it; it
colors all his thoughts; it affects his optic nerve especially, and the
commonest things get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other
hand, is a spectator _ab extra_. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches

        “with an eye serene,
     The very pulse of the machine,”


for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and piston-rods,
all working to produce a certain end.

This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by giving
him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a wonderful reality
into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he paints with great power. He
loves to dissect one of these cancers of the mind, and to trace all the
subtle ramifications of its roots. In raising images of horror, also,
he has strange success, conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint
some terrible _doubt _which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to
imagination the task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she
is competent.

     “For much imaginary work was there;
     Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
     That for Achilles’ image stood his spear
     Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
     Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.”

Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe’s writings have also that of
form.

His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. It would be
hard to find a living author who had displayed such varied powers. As an
example of his style we would refer to one of his tales, “The House
of Usher,” in the first volume of his “Tales of the Grotesque and
Arabesque.” It has a singular charm for us, and we think that no one
could read it without being strongly moved by its serene and sombre
beauty. Had its author written nothing else, it would alone have been
enough to stamp him as a man of genius, and the master of a classic
style. In this tale occurs, perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems.

The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the vague and
the unreal as sources of effect. They have not used dread and horror
alone, but only in combination with other qualities, as means of
subjugating the fancies of their readers. The loftiest muse has ever a
household and fireside charm about her. Mr. Poe’s secret lies mainly in
the skill with which he has employed the strange fascination of mystery
and terror. In this his success is so great and striking as to deserve
the name of art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest
or purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of construction.

As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his
analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he seemed wanting in the faculty
of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His criticisms are, however,
distinguished for scientific precision and coherence of logic. They
have the exactness, and at the same time, the coldness of mathematical
demonstrations. Yet they stand in strikingly refreshing contrast with
the vague generalisms and sharp personalities of the day. If deficient
in warmth, they are also without the heat of partisanship. They are
especially valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally
overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of the critic.

On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has attained an
individual eminence in our literature which he will keep. He has given
proof of power and originality. He has done that which could only be
done once with success or safety, and the imitation or repetition of
which would produce weariness.




DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE

By N. P. Willis


THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one body,
equally powerful and having the complete mastery by turns-of one man,
that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and an angel seems to
have been realized, if all we hear is true, in the character of the
extraordinary man whose name we have written above. Our own impression
of the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs in some important degree,
however, from that which has been generally conveyed in the notices of
his death. Let us, before telling what we personally know of him, copy
a graphic and highly finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W.
Griswold, which appeared in a recent number of the “Tribune”:

“Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October 7th.
This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The
poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all this country; he had
readers in England and in several of the states of Continental Europe;
but he had few or no friends; and the regrets for his death will be
suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art has
lost one of its most brilliant but erratic stars.

“His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His
voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably
expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who
listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his
imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His
imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision
of genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply
defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected the
forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion,
built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest
grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty, so minutely
and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yielded
to him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations, till he
himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to common
and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest
passion.

“He was at all times a dreamer dwelling in ideal realms, in heaven or
hell, peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. He
walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in
indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer (never for
himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned,
but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry;
or with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with
a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, and all
night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains,
would speak as if the spirits that at such times only could be evoked by
him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul sought to
forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him--close by the
Aidenn where were those he loved--the Aidenn which he might never see,
but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery
and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of
death.

“He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and
engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling
sorrow. The remarkable poem of ‘The Raven’ was probably much more nearly
than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a
reflection and an echo of his own history. _He_ was that bird’s

     “‘Unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
     Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
     Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
          Of ‘Never-never more.’


“Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his works,
whatever their design, traces of his personal character: elements of his
immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we
read the pages of the ‘Fall of the House of Usher,’ or of ‘Mesmeric
Revelations,’ we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one,
and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the
idiosyncrasies of what was most remarkable and peculiar in the author’s
intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his
nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience
had deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his mind
upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole
system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to
his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded
society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his
intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany,
while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of
honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer’s novel
of ‘The Caxtons.’ Passion, in him, comprehended--many of the worst
emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not
contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of
wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural
advantages of this poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, the daring
spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere--had raised his
constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his
very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible,
envious--bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were
all varnished over with a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented
themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and,
what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the
true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to rise
which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the
love of his species; only the hard wish to succeed-not shine, not
serve--succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world which
galled his self-conceit.

“We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes upon his
literature. It was more conspicuous in his later than in his
earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three
years-including much of his best poetry-was in some sense biographical;
in draperies of his imagination, those who had taken the trouble to
trace his steps, could perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of
himself.”

Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written sketch, let
us truthfully say:

Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this
city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic and
sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with him. He
resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the morning till the
evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his genius,
and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity,
we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention to
his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time
went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With
his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what genius
was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always with
deferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request that he would not
probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would erase a passage 
too highly with his resentments against society and mankind, he readily
and courteously assented-far more yielding than most men, we thought,
on points so excusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in
another periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment
with us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen but
one presentment of the man-a quiet, patient, industrious, and most
gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good feeling by
his unvarying deportment and ability.

Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours of
leisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place of
business, and we met him often in the street-invariably the same sad
mannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had always known
him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his death, that we knew of
any other development of manner or character. We heard, from one who
knew him well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentable
irregularities), that, with a single glass of wine, his whole nature
was reversed, the demon became uppermost, and, though none of the
usual signs of intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane.
Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such times,
and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and memory, he easily
seemed personating only another phase of his natural character, and was
accused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance and bad-heartedness. In
this reversed character, we repeat, it was never our chance to see him.
We know it from hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sad
infirmity of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly the
ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.

The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe was
generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this reversed
phase of his character. Under that degree of intoxication which only
acted upon him by demonizing his sense of truth and right, he doubtless
said and did much that was wholly irreconcilable with his better nature;
but, when himself, and as we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected
humility, as to his own deservings, were a constant charm to his
character. His letters, of which the constant application for autographs
has taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,
exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly written
notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for instance, he
speaks of “The Raven”--that extraordinary poem which electrified the
world of imaginative readers, and has become the type of a school of
poetry of its own-and, in evident earnest, attributes its success to
the few words of commendation with which we had prefaced it in this
paper.--It will throw light on his sane character to give a literal copy
of the note:

                                  “FORDHAM, April 20, 1849


“My DEAR WILLIS--The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain as to
hope you will like, in some respects, has been just published in a paper
for which sheer necessity compels me to write, now and then. It pays
well as times go-but unquestionably it ought to pay ten prices; for
whatever I send it I feel I am consigning to the tomb of the Capulets.
The verses accompanying this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb, and
bring them to light in the ‘Home journal?’ If you can oblige me so far
as to copy them, I do not think it will be necessary to say ‘From the
----, that would be too bad; and, perhaps, ‘From a late ---- paper,’
would do.

“I have not forgotten how a ‘good word in season’ from you made ‘The
Raven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have done me the
honor of attributing to you), therefore, I would ask you (if I dared) to
say something of these lines if they please you.

                      “Truly yours ever,

                        “EDGAR A. POE.”


In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for himself,
and of the trustful and grateful nature which has been denied him, we
give another of the only three of his notes which we chance to retain:

                          “FORDHAM, January 22, 1848.


“My DEAR MR. WILLIS--I am about to make an effort at re-establishing
myself in the literary world, and _feel _that I may depend upon your
aid.

“My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The Stylus,’ but
it would be useless to me, even when established, if not entirely out of
the control of a publisher. I mean, therefore, to get up a journal which
shall be _my own_ at all points. With this end in view, I must get a
list of at least five hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly two
hundred I have already. I propose, however, to go South and West,
among my personal and literary friends--old college and West Point
acquaintances--and see what I can do. In order to get the means of
taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society Library,
on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be no cause of
_squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary _at all. I have chosen a
broad text: ‘The Universe.’

“Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the rest
to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity. Gratefully, _most
gratefully,_

                         _“Your friend always,_

                             _“EDGAR A. POE._”


Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they sufficiently
prove the existence of the very qualities denied to Mr. Poe-humility,
willingness to persevere, belief in another’s friendship, and capability
of cordial and grateful friendship! Such he assuredly was when sane.
Such only he has invariably seemed to us, in all we have happened
personally to know of him, through a friendship of five or six years.
And so much easier is it to believe what we have seen and known, than
what we hear of only, that we remember him but with admiration and
respect; these descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming to
us like portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in
health.

But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible evidence that
there was _goodness _in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it we are obliged to
venture upon the lifting of the veil which sacredly covers grief and
refinement in poverty; but we think it may be excused, if so we can
brighten the memory of the poet, even were there not a more needed and
immediate service which it may render to the nearest link broken by his
death.

Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a call
which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us as the mother
of his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excused
her errand by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was a
confirmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelled
her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful
and saintly with an evidently complete giving up of her life to
privation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging
its plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined
manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the claims
and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence of one of those
angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate
that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty,
and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid. He was
always in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in
want of the merest necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for
years, the most touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that
tireless minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from
office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary subject, to
sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice that he was ill, and
begging for him, mentioning nothing but that “he was ill,” whatever
might be the reason for his writing nothing, and never, amid all her
tears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her
lips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of
pride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and
a half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
angel--living with him, caring for him, guarding him against exposure,
and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and the
loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self abandonment
prostrated in destitution and suffering, _begging _for him still. If
woman’s devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion,
hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion
like this-pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible
spirit-say for him who inspired it?

We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on the
morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her untiring
care. It is merely a request that we would call upon her, but we will
copy a few of its words--sacred as its privacy is--to warrant the truth
of the picture we have drawn above, and add force to the appeal we wish
to make for her:

“I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie.... Can you
give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not desert your
poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ---- to come, as I must
deliver a message to him from my poor Eddie.... I need not ask you to
notice his death and to speak well of him. I know you will. But say what
an affectionate son he was to me, his poor desolate mother...”

To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between the
relinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the story of such a
woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, in delicacy, by making
it public, we feel--other reasons aside--that it betters the world to
make known that there are such ministrations to its erring and gifted.
What we have said will speak to some hearts. There are those who will
be glad to know how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their
far-away recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that they
may send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction, some
token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any, far or
near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through the remainder
of her life, we will joyfully place it in her hands.





THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL (*1)

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 which chequered in a fitful manner 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 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 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 vrows
and 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 cocking up his right
eye towards 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 the 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
foolscap turned upside down. And this similitude was regarded as by no
means lessened when, upon nearer inspection, there was perceived 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 had failed of obtaining
any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. 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 Rotterdam, 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
droll little somebody. He could not have been more 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 proportionately broad, giving to his entire
figure a rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen
at all, although a horny substance of suspicious nature was occasionally
protruded through a rent in the bottom of the car, or to speak more
properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were enormously large. His
hair was extremely gray, and collected in a cue 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 or character 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 there from 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 aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, and
having apparently no farther 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 one-and-twenty times, in the face of every man 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 and every
one of his one-and twenty circumvolutions he emitted no less than
one-and-twenty 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 until the day of his death.

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 to his Excellency, the illustrious Burgomaster Mynheer
Superbus Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, during
his circumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon the important
subject of securing the packet in question, which was seen, upon
inspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands, being actually
addressed to himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, 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, communications.

To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, 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 by all parties at once sudden, and
extremely 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 on all hands 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 very best customers in the
world, had now not a moment of time to think of us at all. They had, so
they said, 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, so that I began to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged
tiger against the bars of his enclosure. 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
internally 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
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 my creditors the slip, and feeling more than
usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander about the most
obscure streets without object whatever, 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 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 a
powerful and 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; whether, to
proceed a step farther, profundity itself might not, in matters of a
purely speculative nature, be detected as a legitimate source of falsity
and error. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth,
is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases,
the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual
situations wherein she may be found. Nature herself seemed to afford
me corroboration of these ideas. In the contemplation of the heavenly
bodies it struck me forcibly that I could not distinguish a star with
nearly as much precision, when I gazed on it with earnest, direct and
undeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye only to glance in
its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that time aware that this
apparent paradox was occasioned by the center of the visual area being
less susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the exterior
portions of the retina. This knowledge, and some of another kind, came
afterwards in the course of an eventful five years, during which I
have dropped the prejudices of my former humble situation in life, and
forgotten the bellows-mender in far different occupations. But at the
epoch of which I speak, the analogy which a casual observation of a star
offered to the conclusions I had already drawn, struck me with the force
of positive conformation, and I then finally made up my mind to the
course which I afterwards pursued.

“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, and contriving
again to escape the vigilance of my creditors, 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 my plan. 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.

“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 paying any attention 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
a net-work of sufficient dimensions; rigged it with a hoop and the
necessary cords; bought a quadrant, a compass, a spy-glass, a common
barometer with some important modifications, and two astronomical
instruments not so generally known. 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 tinned ware 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. The secret I would make no
difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right belongs 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 hole
two feet deep; 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 three feet in 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.

“Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot, 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, quite as strong and a good deal
less expensive.

“Everything 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 boy, 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.

“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--not forgetting the condensing apparatus, 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, whose end,
as I said before, protruded a very little beyond the lower rim of one of
the smaller casks. This manoeuvre 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, carrying with all ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of
leaden ballast, and able to have carried up as many more.

“Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when,
roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible and tumultuous
manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke, and sulphur, and
legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and blazing metal, that
my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down in the bottom of the car,
trembling with unmitigated 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 horrible velocity, and finally, reeling and staggering
like a drunken man, hurled me with great force over the rim of the car,
and left me dangling, at a terrific height, with my head downward, and
my face outwards, 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 of my frame--I felt my eyes starting from their sockets--a
horrible nausea overwhelmed me--and at length I fainted away.

“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 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 rife with agony as might have been anticipated. Indeed, there was
much of incipient 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 fingernails. 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 toothpick 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 I never, for a moment, looked
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 forefinger 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 inexpressibles. 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 the instrument thus obtained
within my teeth, I now proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I had
to rest several times before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, 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 upwards, 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 towards 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 outwards from my position, which was accordingly one
of the most imminent and deadly 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 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 be readily
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
wonderful adventures of Hans Pfaall 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 anything at all, and hung
for, perhaps, a quarter of an hour in that extraordinary manner, without
making the slightest farther exertion whatsoever, 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
chilling 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 madness and 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 upwards, 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 my 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, and
in every way bearing a great resemblance to one of those childish
toys called a domino. 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 perilous 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 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 nature, although without doubt difficult, and
incontestably 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, as it were, 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 1080,
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 land has been repeatedly
accomplished at the rate of thirty miles per hour, and indeed a much
greater speed may be anticipated. But even at this velocity, it would
take me no more than 322 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 thirty 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 a matter 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 aeronautic
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.

“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 towards 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 only denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? 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.(*2) 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, so to speak, purely
geological.

“Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little further
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 purposes of
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 might
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 lightness of
the gas in the balloon compared with the atmospheric air; 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 upwards, the original velocity
should be accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any
recorded ascension, a diminution was 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 some accelerating power. I
now considered that, provided in my passage I found the medium I
had imagined, and provided that it should prove to be actually
and 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 rarefaction partially similar (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. In the meantime, the force of gravitation would be
constantly diminishing, in proportion to the squares of the distances,
and thus, 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. In accordance with
these ideas, I did not think it worth while to encumber myself with more
provisions than would be sufficient for a period of forty days.

“There was still, however, another difficulty, 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.(*3) This was a reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was
it not probable that these symptoms would increase indefinitely, or at
least until terminated by death itself? I finally thought not. 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 reasons which will be explained in the sequel. 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, what a great 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 spy-glass, 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 to the skin. This was, to be sure, a singular
recontre, 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 and glowing 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, as it were, 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, inevitable ruin 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 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 endeavored 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 right 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 anything 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 a deeper tint of blue and began already
to assume a slight appearance of convexity. 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 could be discovered, and the proudest cities of
mankind had utterly faded away from the face of the earth. From the rock
of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim speck, the dark Mediterranean sea,
dotted with shining islands as the heaven is dotted with stars, spread
itself out to the eastward as far as my vision extended, until its
entire mass of waters seemed at length to tumble headlong over the abyss
of the horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes
of the mighty cataract. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and the
stars were brilliantly visible.

“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 off 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 a 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 whatever.

“At a quarter-past eight, being no longer able 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 cat 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 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.

“About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening,
eight 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.

“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
than the three hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire superficies.
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 convexity of the ocean beneath me was very evident indeed,
although my view was often interrupted by the masses of cloud which
floated to and fro. I observed now that even the lightest vapors never
rose to more than ten miles above the level of the sea.

“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 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 forever. 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. And out of this melancholy water arose a forest of tall
eastern trees, like a wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that
the shadows of the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on
the surface where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, and
commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees other
shadows were continually coming out, and taking the place of their
brothers thus entombed. “This then,” I said thoughtfully, “is the very
reason why the waters of this lake grow blacker with age, and more
melancholy as the hours run on.” 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, 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 whatever. 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 sleeves of my shirt
became entangled in the loop which sustained the basket, and thus, in
a moment, loosened it from the bottom. 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 and total 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 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 whatever. 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 earthern 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 sure consequences 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 apparent convexity increased in a material degree. Below me in
the ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which undoubtedly were islands.
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 disk 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 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 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 its 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 and impenetrable blackness. Farther than this, little could
be ascertained. By twelve o’clock the circular centre had materially
decreased in circumference, and by 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 bring
me to the tropics. This circumstance did not fail to give me the most
heartful 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
degrees 8’ 48”.

“April 9th. To-day 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 nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar
elipse. 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 elipse, but made little progress to the eastward.

“April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth.
To-day 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 anything approaching 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. To-day, 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 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 meet 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 a speed
by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first so horribly
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 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 protuberance.
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 Phlegraei 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. To-day 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 degrees
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 eighty-second 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.(*4)

“Cassini frequently observed Saturn, Jupiter, and the fixed stars,
when approaching the moon to occultation, to have their circular figure
changed into an oval one; and, in other occultations, he found no
alteration of figure at all. Hence it might be supposed, that at some
times and not at others, there is a dense matter encompassing the moon
wherein the rays of the stars are refracted.

“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 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 net-work, 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.

“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 satellites, 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.”

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
Professor Rub-a-dub, 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 Rub-a-dub, 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:

Imprimus. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

Don’t understand at all.

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.

Well--what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
balloon were newspapers 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.

He was mistaken--undoubtedly--mistaken.

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.

Don’t believe it--don’t believe a word of it.

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 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.

~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

(*1) NOTE--Strictly speaking, there is but little similarity between the
above sketchy trifle and the celebrated “Moon-Story” of Mr. Locke; but
as both have the character of _hoaxes _(although the one is in a tone of
banter, the other of downright earnest), and as both hoaxes are on the
same subject, the moon--moreover, as both attempt to give plausibility
by scientific detail--the author of “Hans Pfaall” thinks it necessary to
say, in _self-defence, _that his own _jeu d’esprit _was published in the
“Southern Literary Messenger” about three weeks before the commencement
of Mr. L’s in the “New York Sun.” Fancying a likeness which, perhaps,
does not exist, some of the New York papers copied “Hans Pfaall,” and
collated it with the “Moon-Hoax,” by way of detecting the writer of the
one in the writer of the other.

As many more persons were actually gulled by the “Moon-Hoax” than would
be willing to acknowledge the fact, it may here afford some little
amusement to show why no one should have been deceived-to point out
those particulars of the story which should have been sufficient to
establish its real character. Indeed, however rich the imagination
displayed in this ingenious fiction, it wanted much of the force which
might have been given it by a more scrupulous attention to facts and
to general analogy. That the public were misled, even for an instant,
merely proves the gross ignorance which is so generally prevalent upon
subjects of an astronomical nature.

The moon’s distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000 miles.
If we desire to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens would bring the
satellite (or any distant object), we, of course, have but to divide the
distance by the magnifying or, more strictly, by the space-penetrating
power of the glass. Mr. L. makes his lens have a power of 42,000 times.
By this divide 240,000 (the moon’s real distance), and we have five
miles and five sevenths, as the apparent distance. No animal at all
could be seen so far; much less the minute points particularized in the
story. Mr. L. speaks about Sir John Herschel’s perceiving flowers (the
Papaver rheas, etc.), and even detecting the color and the shape of the
eyes of small birds. Shortly before, too, he has himself observed that
the lens would not render perceptible objects of less than eighteen
inches in diameter; but even this, as I have said, is giving the glass
by far too great power. It may be observed, in passing, that this
prodigious glass is said to have been molded at the glasshouse of
Messrs. Hartley and Grant, in Dumbarton; but Messrs. H. and G.’s
establishment had ceased operations for many years previous to the
publication of the hoax.

On page 13, pamphlet edition, speaking of “a hairy veil” over the eyes
of a species of bison, the author says: “It immediately occurred to the
acute mind of Dr. Herschel that this was a providential contrivance
to protect the eyes of the animal from the great extremes of light
and darkness to which all the inhabitants of our side of the moon are
periodically subjected.” But this cannot be thought a very “acute”
 observation of the Doctor’s. The inhabitants of our side of the moon
have, evidently, no darkness at all, so there can be nothing of the
“extremes” mentioned. In the absence of the sun they have a light from
the earth equal to that of thirteen full unclouded moons.

The topography throughout, even when professing to accord with Blunt’s
Lunar Chart, is entirely at variance with that or any other lunar chart,
and even grossly at variance with itself. The points of the compass,
too, are in inextricable confusion; the writer appearing to be ignorant
that, on a lunar map, these are not in accordance with terrestrial
points; the east being to the left, etc.

Deceived, perhaps, by the vague titles, Mare Nubium, Mare
Tranquillitatis, Mare Faecunditatis, etc., given to the dark spots by
former astronomers, Mr. L. has entered into details regarding oceans
and other large bodies of water in the moon; whereas there is no
astronomical point more positively ascertained than that no such bodies
exist there. In examining the boundary between light and darkness (in
the crescent or gibbous moon) where this boundary crosses any of the
dark places, the line of division is found to be rough and jagged; but,
were these dark places liquid, it would evidently be even.

The description of the wings of the man-bat, on page 21, is but a
literal copy of Peter Wilkins’ account of the wings of his flying
islanders. This simple fact should have induced suspicion, at least, it
might be thought.

On page 23, we have the following: “What a prodigious influence must our
thirteen times larger globe have exercised upon this satellite when an
embryo in the womb of time, the passive subject of chemical affinity!”
 This is very fine; but it should be observed that no astronomer would
have made such remark, especially to any journal of Science; for the
earth, in the sense intended, is not only thirteen, but forty-nine times
larger than the moon. A similar objection applies to the whole of the
concluding pages, where, by way of introduction to some discoveries in
Saturn, the philosophical correspondent enters into a minute schoolboy
account of that planet--this to the “Edinburgh journal of Science!”

But there is one point, in particular, which should have betrayed the
fiction. Let us imagine the power actually possessed of seeing animals
upon the moon’s surface--what would first arrest the attention of an
observer from the earth? Certainly neither their shape, size, nor any
other such peculiarity, so soon as their remarkable _situation_. They
would appear to be walking, with heels up and head down, in the manner
of flies on a ceiling. The _real_ observer would have uttered an instant
ejaculation of surprise (however prepared by previous knowledge) at the
singularity of their position; the _fictitious_ observer has not even
mentioned the subject, but speaks of seeing the entire bodies of such
creatures, when it is demonstrable that he could have seen only the
diameter of their heads!

It might as well be remarked, in conclusion, that the size, and
particularly the powers of the man-bats (for example, their ability to
fly in so rare an atmosphere--if, indeed, the moon have any), with most
of the other fancies in regard to animal and vegetable existence, are at
variance, generally, with all analogical reasoning on these themes; and
that analogy here will often amount to conclusive demonstration. It is,
perhaps, scarcely necessary to add, that all the suggestions attributed
to Brewster and Herschel, in the beginning of the article, about “a
transfusion of artificial light through the focal object of vision,”
 etc., etc., belong to that species of figurative writing which comes,
most properly, under the denomination of rigmarole.

There is a real and very definite limit to optical discovery among the
stars--a limit whose nature need only be stated to be understood. If,
indeed, the casting of large lenses were all that is required, man’s
ingenuity would ultimately prove equal to the task, and we might have
them of any size demanded. But, unhappily, in proportion to the increase
of size in the lens, and consequently of space-penetrating power, is the
diminution of light from the object, by diffusion of its rays. And for
this evil there is no remedy within human ability; for an object is seen
by means of that light alone which proceeds from itself, whether direct
or reflected. Thus the only “artificial” light which could avail
Mr. Locke, would be some artificial light which he should be able to
throw-not upon the “focal object of vision,” but upon the real object
to be viewed-to wit: upon the moon. It has been easily calculated that,
when the light proceeding from a star becomes so diffused as to be as
weak as the natural light proceeding from the whole of the stars, in
a clear and moonless night, then the star is no longer visible for any
practical purpose.

The Earl of Ross’s telescope, lately constructed in England, has
a _speculum_ with a reflecting surface of 4,071 square inches; the
Herschel telescope having one of only 1,811. The metal of the Earl of
Ross’s is 6 feet diameter; it is 5 1/2 inches thick at the edges, and 5
at the centre. The weight is 3 tons. The focal length is 50 feet.

I have lately read a singular and somewhat ingenious little book, whose
title-page runs thus: “L’Homme dans la lvne ou le Voyage Chimerique
fait au Monde de la Lvne, nouellement decouvert par Dominique Gonzales,
Aduanturier Espagnol, autrem?t dit le Courier volant. Mis en notre
langve par J. B. D. A. Paris, chez Francois Piot, pres la Fontaine de
Saint Benoist. Et chez J. Goignard, au premier pilier de la grand’salle
du Palais, proche les Consultations, MDCXLVII.” Pp. 76.

The writer professes to have translated his work from the English of one
Mr. D’Avisson (Davidson?) although there is a terrible ambiguity in the
statement. “J’ en ai eu,” says he “l’original de Monsieur D’Avisson,
medecin des mieux versez qui soient aujourd’huy dans la cõnoissance des
Belles Lettres, et sur tout de la Philosophic Naturelle. Je lui ai cette
obligation entre les autres, de m’ auoir non seulement mis en main
cc Livre en anglois, mais encore le Manuscrit du Sieur Thomas D’Anan,
gentilhomme Eccossois, recommandable pour sa vertu, sur la version
duquel j’ advoue que j’ ay tiré le plan de la mienne.”

After some irrelevant adventures, much in the manner of Gil Blas, and
which occupy the first thirty pages, the author relates that, being
ill during a sea voyage, the crew abandoned him, together with a
<DW64> servant, on the island of St. Helena. To increase the chances of
obtaining food, the two separate, and live as far apart as possible.
This brings about a training of birds, to serve the purpose of
carrier-pigeons between them. By and by these are taught to carry
parcels of some weight-and this weight is gradually increased. At length
the idea is entertained of uniting the force of a great number of the
birds, with a view to raising the author himself. A machine is contrived
for the purpose, and we have a minute description of it, which is
materially helped out by a steel engraving. Here we perceive the
Signor Gonzales, with point ruffles and a huge periwig, seated astride
something which resembles very closely a broomstick, and borne aloft by
a multitude of wild swans _(ganzas) _who had strings reaching from their
tails to the machine.

The main event detailed in the Signor’s narrative depends upon a very
important fact, of which the reader is kept in ignorance until near the
end of the book. The _ganzas, _with whom he had become so familiar, were
not really denizens of St. Helena, but of the moon. Thence it had been
their custom, time out of mind, to migrate annually to some portion of
the earth. In proper season, of course, they would return home; and
the author, happening, one day, to require their services for a short
voyage, is unexpectedly carried straight tip, and in a very brief period
arrives at the satellite. Here he finds, among other odd things, that
the people enjoy extreme happiness; that they have no _law; _that they
die without pain; that they are from ten to thirty feet in height;
that they live five thousand years; that they have an emperor called
Irdonozur; and that they can jump sixty feet high, when, being out of
the gravitating influence, they fly about with fans.

I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the general _philosophy _of the
volume.

“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of
the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also me and the earth. As to the
stars, _since there was no night where I was, they always had the same
appearance; not brilliant, as usual, but pale, and very nearly like the
moon of a morning. _But few of them were visible, and these ten times
larger (as well as I could judge) than they seem to the inhabitants
of the earth. The moon, which wanted two days of being full, was of a
terrible bigness.

 “I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side
of the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also to inform you that, whether it was
calm weather or stormy, I found myself _always immediately between the
moon and the earth._ I_ _was convinced of this for two reasons-because
my birds always flew in a straight line; and because whenever we
attempted to rest, _we were carried insensibly around the globe of the
earth. _For I admit the opinion of Copernicus, who maintains that it
never ceases to revolve _from the east to the west, _not upon the poles
of the Equinoctial, commonly called the poles of the world, but upon
those of the Zodiac, a question of which I propose to speak more at
length here-after, when I shall have leisure to refresh my memory in
regard to the astrology which I learned at Salamanca when young, and
have since forgotten.”

Notwithstanding the blunders italicized, the book is not without
some claim to attention, as affording a naive specimen of the current
astronomical notions of the time. One of these assumed, that the
“gravitating power” extended but a short distance from the earth’s
surface, and, accordingly, we find our voyager “carried insensibly
around the globe,” etc.

There have been other “voyages to the moon,” but none of higher merit
than the one just mentioned. That of Bergerac is utterly meaningless. In
the third volume of the “American Quarterly Review” will be found
quite an elaborate criticism upon a certain “journey” of the kind in
question--a criticism in which it is difficult to say whether the critic
most exposes the stupidity of the book, or his own absurd ignorance of
astronomy. I forget the title of the work; but the _means _of the voyage
are more deplorably ill conceived than are even the _ganzas _of our
friend the Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth,
happens to discover a peculiar metal for which the moon has a strong
attraction, and straightway constructs of it a box, which, when cast
loose from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with him, forthwith, to
the satellite. The “Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is a _jeu d’ esprit _not
altogether contemptible, and has been translated into German. Thomas,
the hero, was, in fact, the gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose
eccentricities gave rise to the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s
back, from Hungry Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay.

In these various _brochures _the aim is always satirical; the theme
being a description of Lunarian customs as compared with ours. In none
is there any effort at _plausibility _in the details of the voyage
itself. The writers seem, in each instance, to be utterly uninformed in
respect to astronomy. In “Hans Pfaall” the design is original, inasmuch
as regards an attempt at _verisimilitude, _in the application of
scientific principles (so far as the whimsical nature of the subject
would permit), to the actual passage between the earth and the moon.

(*2) The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called Trabes.
Emicant Trabes quos docos vocant.--Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26.

(*3) Since the original publication of Hans Pfaall, I find that Mr.
Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other late aeronauts, deny
the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of a decreasing
inconvenience,--precisely in accordance with the theory here urged in a
mere spirit of banter.

(*4) Havelius writes that he has several times found, in skies
perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and seventh magnitude
were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the moon, at the
same elongation from the earth, and with one and the same excellent
telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear equally lucid at all
times. From the circumstances of the observation, it is evident that the
cause of this phenomenon is not either in our air, in the tube, in
the moon, or in the eye of the spectator, but must be looked for in
something (an atmosphere?) existing about the moon.




THE GOLD-BUG

          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 main land 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 seacoast, 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 collection of the latter
might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he was
usually accompanied by an old <DW64>, 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 to-night?” 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 to-night,
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 black 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 never saw a more brilliant
metallic lustre than the scales emit--but of this you cannot judge
till tomorrow. In the mean time 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,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from
his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be 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 anything like it
before--unless it was a skull, or a death’s-head--which it more nearly
resembles than anything 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 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
reverie, 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 <DW64> 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 find nowhar--dat’s just whar de shoe
pinch--my mind is got to be 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, taint 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 arter all--he look 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 anything unpleasant happened since
I saw you?”

“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin unpleasant since den--‘twas fore den I’m
feared--‘twas 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 mouth too. I nebber did see sick 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 did n’t like de look oh de bug
mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’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 piece ob 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 do n’t tink noffin about it--I nose it. What make him dream bout de
goole so much, if taint cause he bit by de 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 to-day?”

“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 to-_night_, upon business of importance. I
assure you that it is of the _highest_ importance.

        Ever yours,                     WILLIAM LEGRAND.

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 <DW64>.

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 debbils 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 blieve ‘tis more
dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob do 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.
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 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 mean time 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 table land, 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 <DW64>, drawing back in
dismay--“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?--d-n if I do!”

“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big <DW64> 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 <DW65>. Was only funnin any how.
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 Tulipferum, 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
<DW64> 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 <DW64>; “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 anything
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--tis 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 sartain--done
departed dis here life.”

“What in the name 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 <DW64> in a few moments, “but
not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de
limb by myself, dat’s true.”

“By yourself!--what do you mean?”

“Why I mean de bug. ‘Tis berry hebby bug. Spose I drop him down fuss,
and den de limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one <DW65>.”

“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 <DW65> 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 <DW64> 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 dare aint no eye lef at all.”

“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your left?”

“Yes, I nose dat--nose all bout dat--tis 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 <DW64> asked,

“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 illumined
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 or 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 farther 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 <DW64>’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 lunacy 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.

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 mean time 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 towards 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 <DW64> 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
<DW64> 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 outwards, or with the face to the
limb?”

“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.

“Twas dis eye, massa--de lef eye--jis as you tell me,” and here it was
his right eye that the <DW64> indicated.

“That will do--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 spades.
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 Bi-chloride 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 trelliswork over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the
top, were three rings of iron--six in 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 upwards 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 nature of things,
for any <DW64>’s visage to assume. He seemed stupified--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, <DW65>?--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
afterwards, 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 some 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 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 earrings;--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 time keepers 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 afterwards
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 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 stupified me for a time.
This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind struggles to
establish a connexion--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 farther 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 scarabaeus 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 towards 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 long boat. 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 afterwards 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 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 connexion. 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 connexion?’ 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
connexion 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, 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 connexion between your pirates and a goat--pirates, you know,
have 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.”

“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 afterwards 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 downwards, 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;4
  8†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 lead 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
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 case
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.

                          ;        “     26.
                          4        “     19.
                        ‡ )        “     16.
                          *        “     13.
                          5        “     12.
                          6        “     11.
                        † 1        “      8.
                          0        “      6.
                        9 2        “      5.
                        : 3        “      4.
                          ?        “      3.
                          ¶        “      2.
                         -.        “      1.

“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e.
Afterwards, 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 leave, 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,’ &c. 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:

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 †.

“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.’

“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
                †       “         d
                8       “         e
                3       “         g
                4       “         h
                6       “         i
                *       “         n
                ‡       “         o
                (       “         r
                ;       “         t

“We have, therefore, no less than ten 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 hotels?’”

“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a serious
aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first endeavor 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 easily detect five such cases of unusual
crowding. Acting upon this 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
into 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 <DW64>s 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 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
homewards. The instant that I left ‘the devil’s seat,’ however, the
circular rift vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, 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 the ‘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. 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 it 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?”




FOUR BEASTS IN ONE--THE <DW25>-CAMELEOPARD

                     Chacun a ses vertus.
                        --_Crebillon’s Xerxes._

ANTIOCHUS EPIPHANES is very generally looked upon as the Gog of the
prophet Ezekiel. This honor is, however, more properly attributable to
Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. And, indeed, the character of the
Syrian monarch does by no means stand in need of any adventitious
embellishment. His accession to the throne, or rather his usurpation of
the sovereignty, a hundred and seventy-one years before the coming
of Christ; his attempt to plunder the temple of Diana at Ephesus; his
implacable hostility to the Jews; his pollution of the Holy of Holies;
and his miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign of eleven
years, are circumstances of a prominent kind, and therefore more
generally noticed by the historians of his time than the impious,
dastardly, cruel, silly, and whimsical achievements which make up the
sum total of his private life and reputation.

Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the year of the world
three thousand eight hundred and thirty, and let us, for a few minutes,
imagine ourselves at that most grotesque habitation of man, the
remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were, in Syria and other
countries, sixteen cities of that appellation, besides the one to which
I more particularly allude. But ours is that which went by the name of
Antiochia Epidaphne, from its vicinity to the little village of Daphne,
where stood a temple to that divinity. It was built (although about this
matter there is some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, the first king of the
country after Alexander the Great, in memory of his father Antiochus,
and became immediately the residence of the Syrian monarchy. In the
flourishing times of the Roman Empire, it was the ordinary station of
the prefect of the eastern provinces; and many of the emperors of the
queen city (among whom may be mentioned, especially, Verus and Valens)
spent here the greater part of their time. But I perceive we have
arrived at the city itself. Let us ascend this battlement, and throw our
eyes upon the town and neighboring country.

“What broad and rapid river is that which forces its way, with
innumerable falls, through the mountainous wilderness, and finally
through the wilderness of buildings?”

That is the Orontes, and it is the only water in sight, with the
exception of the Mediterranean, which stretches, like a broad mirror,
about twelve miles off to the southward. Every one has seen the
Mediterranean; but let me tell you, there are few who have had a peep at
Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, like you and me, have had, at the same
time, the advantages of a modern education. Therefore cease to regard
that sea, and give your whole attention to the mass of houses that lie
beneath us. You will remember that it is now the year of the world three
thousand eight hundred and thirty. Were it later--for example, were
it the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five, we should be
deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the nineteenth century
Antioch is--that is to say, Antioch will be--in a lamentable state
of decay. It will have been, by that time, totally destroyed, at three
different periods, by three successive earthquakes. Indeed, to say the
truth, what little of its former self may then remain, will be found in
so desolate and ruinous a state that the patriarch shall have removed
his residence to Damascus. This is well. I see you profit by my advice,
and are making the most of your time in inspecting the premises--in

-satisfying your eyes

With the memorials and the things of fame

That most renown this city.--

I beg pardon; I had forgotten that Shakespeare will not flourish for
seventeen hundred and fifty years to come. But does not the appearance
of Epidaphne justify me in calling it grotesque?

“It is well fortified; and in this respect is as much indebted to nature
as to art.”

Very true.

“There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.”

There are.

“And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent, may bear
comparison with the most lauded of antiquity.”

All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an infinity of mud huts, and
abominable hovels. We cannot help perceiving abundance of filth in
every kennel, and, were it not for the over-powering fumes of idolatrous
incense, I have no doubt we should find a most intolerable stench.
Did you ever behold streets so insufferably narrow, or houses so
miraculously tall? What gloom their shadows cast upon the ground! It
is well the swinging lamps in those endless colonnades are kept burning
throughout the day; we should otherwise have the darkness of Egypt in
the time of her desolation.

“It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning of yonder singular
building? See! it towers above all others, and lies to the eastward of
what I take to be the royal palace.”

That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored in Syria under the
title of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter a very notorious Roman Emperor
will institute this worship in Rome, and thence derive a cognomen,
Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like to take a peep at the divinity
of the temple. You need not look up at the heavens; his Sunship is not
there--at least not the Sunship adored by the Syrians. That deity will
be found in the interior of yonder building. He is worshipped under the
figure of a large stone pillar terminating at the summit in a cone or
pyramid, whereby is denoted Fire.

“Hark--behold!--who can those ridiculous beings be, half naked, with
their faces painted, shouting and gesticulating to the rabble?”

Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong to the race
of philosophers. The greatest portion, however--those especially who
belabor the populace with clubs--are the principal courtiers of the
palace, executing as in duty bound, some laudable comicality of the
king’s.

“But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming with wild beasts!
How terrible a spectacle!--how dangerous a peculiarity!”

Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous. Each
animal if you will take the pains to observe, is following, very
quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be sure, are led with a
rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the lesser or timid species.
The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are entirely without restraint.
They have been trained without difficulty to their present
profession, and attend upon their respective owners in the capacity of
valets-de-chambre. It is true, there are occasions when Nature asserts
her violated dominions;--but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the
throttling of a consecrated bull, is a circumstance of too little moment
to be more than hinted at in Epidaphne.

“But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a loud noise
even for Antioch! It argues some commotion of unusual interest.”

Yes--undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle--some
gladiatorial exhibition at the hippodrome--or perhaps the massacre of
the Scythian prisoners--or the conflagration of his new palace--or the
tearing down of a handsome temple--or, indeed, a bonfire of a few Jews.
The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter ascend the skies. The air
becomes dissonant with wind instruments, and horrible with clamor of a
million throats. Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is
going on! This way--be careful! Here we are in the principal street,
which is called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming
this way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They are
pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly from the
palace;--therefore the king is most probably among the rioters. Yes;--I
hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his approach in the pompous
phraseology of the East. We shall have a glimpse of his person as
he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves in the
vestibule of the sanctuary; he will be here anon. In the meantime let
us survey this image. What is it? Oh! it is the god Ashimah in proper
person. You perceive, however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a
goat, nor a satyr, neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the
Arcadians. Yet all these appearances have been given--I beg pardon--will
be given--by the learned of future ages, to the Ashimah of the Syrians.
Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. What is it?

“Bless me! it is an ape!”

True--a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a
derivation of the Greek Simia--what great fools are antiquarians! But
see!--see!--yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he going?
What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says the king
is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that he has just
finished putting to death, with his own hand, a thousand chained
Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the ragamuffin is lauding him to
the skies. Hark! here comes a troop of a similar description. They have
made a Latin hymn upon the valor of the king, and are singing it as they
go:

Mille, mille, mille,

Mille, mille, mille,

Decollavimus, unus <DW25>!

Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!

Mille, mille, mille,

Vivat qui mille mille occidit!

Tantum vini habet nemo

Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)

Which may be thus paraphrased:

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,

We, with one warrior, have slain!

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.

Sing a thousand over again!

Soho!--let us sing

Long life to our king,

Who knocked over a thousand so fine!

Soho!--let us roar,

He has given us more

Red gallons of gore

Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”

Yes: the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with admiration,
and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence. He comes;--he is
coming;--there he is!

“Who?--where?--the king?--do not behold him--cannot say that I perceive
him.”

Then you must be blind.

“Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of idiots
and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves before a gigantic
cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the animal’s hoofs.
See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the rabble over--and
another--and another--and another. Indeed, I cannot help admiring the
animal for the excellent use he is making of his feet.”

Rabble, indeed!--why these are the noble and free citizens of Epidaphne!
Beasts, did you say?--take care that you are not overheard. Do you not
perceive that the animal has the visage of a man? Why, my dear sir,
that cameleopard is no other than Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the
Illustrious, King of Syria, and the most potent of all the autocrats
of the East! It is true, that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus
Epimanes--Antiochus the madman--but that is because all people have not
the capacity to appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at
present ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play
the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better sustaining
his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of gigantic stature,
and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming nor over large. We may,
however, presume he would not have adopted it but for some occasion
of especial state. Such, you will allow, is the massacre of a thousand
Jews. With how superior a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours!
His tail, you perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines,
Elline and Argelais; and his whole appearance would be infinitely
prepossessing, were it not for the protuberance of his eyes, which will
certainly start out of his head, and the queer color of his face, which
has become nondescript from the quantity of wine he has swallowed. Let
us follow him to the hippodrome, whither he is proceeding, and listen to
the song of triumph which he is commencing:

Who is king but Epiphanes?

Say--do you know?

Who is king but Epiphanes?

Bravo!--bravo!

There is none but Epiphanes,

No--there is none:

So tear down the temples,

And put out the sun!

Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him ‘Prince of
Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of the Universe,’ and
‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.’ They have encored his effusion,
and do you hear?--he is singing it over again. When he arrives at the
hippodrome, he will be crowned with the poetic wreath, in anticipation
of his victory at the approaching Olympics.

“But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?”

Behind us, did you say?--oh! ah!--I perceive. My friend, it is well
that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety as soon as
possible. Here!--let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this aqueduct,
and I will inform you presently of the origin of the commotion. It has
turned out as I have been anticipating. The singular appearance of the
cameleopard and the head of a man, has, it seems, given offence to
the notions of propriety entertained, in general, by the wild animals
domesticated in the city. A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual
upon such occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling
the mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the
general voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating up the
cameleopard. ‘The Prince of Poets,’ therefore, is upon his hinder legs,
running for his life. His courtiers have left him in the lurch, and
his concubines have followed so excellent an example. ‘Delight of the
Universe,’ thou art in a sad predicament! ‘Glory of the East,’ thou art
in danger of mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail;
it will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this there is no
help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation; but
take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the hippodrome!
Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus the
Illustrious!--also ‘Prince of Poets,’ ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of
the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards!’ Heavens! what a
power of speed thou art displaying! What a capacity for leg-bail
thou art developing! Run, Prince!--Bravo, Epiphanes! Well done,
Cameleopard!--Glorious Antiochus!--He runs!--he leaps!--he flies! Like
an arrow from a catapult he approaches the hippodrome! He leaps!--he
shrieks!--he is there! This is well; for hadst thou, ‘Glory of
the East,’ been half a second longer in reaching the gates of the
Amphitheatre, there is not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not
have had a nibble at thy carcase. Let us be off--let us take our
departure!--for we shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure
the vast uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the king’s
escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!--the whole town is
topsy-turvy.

“Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a wilderness
of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what a multiplicity
of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes! what a Babel of
languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a tinkling of instruments!
what a parcel of philosophers!”

Come let us be off.

“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is the
meaning of it, I beseech you?”

That?--oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne being, as
they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor, wisdom, and divinity
of their king, and having, moreover, been eye-witnesses of his late
superhuman agility, do think it no more than their duty to invest his
brows (in addition to the poetic crown) with the wreath of victory
in the footrace--a wreath which it is evident he must obtain at the
celebration of the next Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give
him in advance.


Footnotes--Four Beasts

(*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was sung by
the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic war, having
slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of the enemy.




THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

  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, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his
solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which appears to the ordinary
apprehension præternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul
and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical
study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and
merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as
if _par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to
analyse. A 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 frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have
different and _bizarre_ motions, with various and variable values, what
is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound.
The _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an
instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The
possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such
oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the
more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In
draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are _unique_ and have but
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and
the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_. To be
less abstract--Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are
reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be
expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the
players being at all equal) only by some _recherché_ movement, the
result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary
resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent,
identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a
glance, the sole methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which
he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the
calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been
known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing
chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature
so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in
Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player of chess; but
proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more
important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage may be
derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently
among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary
understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and,
so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while
the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the
game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a
retentive memory, and to proceed by “the book,” are points commonly
regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond
the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He
makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps,
do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information
obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the
quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of _what_ to
observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game
is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the
game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully
with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting
the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes
every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund
of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of
surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up
a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the
suit. He recognises what is played through feint, by the air with
which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the
accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety
or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation,
eagerness or trepidation--all afford, to his apparently intuitive
perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two
or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the
contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as
absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned
outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity; for
while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often
remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power,
by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists
(I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect
bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation
among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability
there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the
fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and
the _truly_ imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I
there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young
gentleman was of an excellent--indeed of an illustrious family, but, by
a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the
energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir
himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes.
By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a
small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries
of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books,
indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where
the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very
remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other
again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history
which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges
whenever mere self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast
extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within
me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of
such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I
frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live
together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances
were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be
at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the
rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque
mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not
inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of
the Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen--although, perhaps, as madmen of
a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors.
Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret
from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin
had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves
alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to
be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_,
as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild
whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself
dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the
first dawn of the morning we closed all the messy shutters of our old
building; lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw
out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we
then busied our souls in dreams--reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied
forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or
roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights
and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement
which quiet observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic
ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its
exercise--if not exactly in its display--and did not hesitate to confess
the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh,
that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms,
and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling
proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments
was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his
voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded
petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the
enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively
upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the
fancy of a double Dupin--the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing
any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the
Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased
intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in
question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the vicinity of
the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither
of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once
Dupin broke forth with these words:

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the
_Théâtre des Variétés_.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first
observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In
an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was
profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How
was it possible you should know I was thinking of -----?” Here I paused,
to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

--“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in Crébillon’s tragedy so
called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method--if method there
is--by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In
fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”

“The fruiterer!--you astonish me--I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street--it may have
been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C ---- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of _charlatanerie_ 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, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the
word ‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly applied to this species of
pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without
being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus;
and since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned
to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses
of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular
cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to
the great _nebula_ in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do
so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed
your steps. But in that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared
in yesterday’s ‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful
allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin,
quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line

     Perdidit antiquum litera sonum.

“I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written
Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I
was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore,
that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly.
That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which
passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So
far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself
up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little
fellow--that Chantilly--he would do better at the _Théâtre des
Variétés_.”

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the
“Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs arrested our
attention.

“EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.--This morning, about three o’clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth
story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of
one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye.
After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission
in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight
or ten of the neighbors entered accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this
time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention were
distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house.
As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased and
everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves and
hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in
the fourth story, (the door of which, being found locked, with the key
inside, was forced open,) a spectacle presented itself which struck
every one present not less with horror than with astonishment.

“The apartment was in the wildest disorder--the furniture broken and
thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from
this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor.
On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or
three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood,
and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were
found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons,
three smaller of_ métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, which stood in
one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many
articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under
the _bed_ (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in
the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers
of little consequence.

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity
of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was made in the
chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head
downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up the
narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm.
Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned
by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon
the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises,
and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
throttled to death.

“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without
farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in
the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her
throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell
off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated--the former
so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity.

“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest
clew.”

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

“_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._ Many individuals have been examined
in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair. [The word
‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys
with us,] “but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it.
We give below all the material testimony elicited.

“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both the
deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period.
The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms--very affectionate
towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard
to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes
for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons
in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure
that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in
any part of the building except in the fourth story.

“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of
selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for
nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided
there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the
corpses were found, for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by
a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house
was the property of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of
the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let
any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an
exceedingly retired life--were reputed to have money. Had heard it said
among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes--did not believe it.
Had never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her
daughter, a porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten
times.

“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one
was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there
were any living connexions of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters
of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always
closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The
house was a good house--not very old.

“_Isidore Muset_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the house
about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty
persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open,
at length, with a bayonet--not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty
in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate,
and bolted neither at bottom not top. The shrieks were continued until
the gate was forced--and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams
of some person (or persons) in great agony--were loud and drawn out,
not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the
first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention--the one
a gruff voice, the other much shriller--a very strange voice. Could
distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was
positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words
‘_sacré_’ and ‘_diable._’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner.
Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could
not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The
state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we
described them yesterday.

“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that
he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the
testimony of Muset 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 anger. The voice was harsh--not so much shrill as
harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly
‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once ‘_mon Dieu._’

“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine.
Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had opened an
account with his banking house in the spring of the year--(eight years
previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for
nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in
person the sum of 4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk
went home with the money.

“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in
question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her residence
with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened,
Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the bags, while
the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did
not see any person in the street at the time. It is a bye-street--very
lonely.

“_William Bird_, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who entered
the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of
the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The
gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words, but
cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon Dieu._’
There was a sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling--a
scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud--louder
than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does
not understand German.

“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the
door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L.
was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Every thing was
perfectly silent--no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door
no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were
down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was
closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the
passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the
front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was
open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes,
and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not
an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched.
Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story
one, with garrets (_mansardes._) A trap-door on the roof was nailed down
very securely--did not appear to have been opened for years. The
time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the
breaking open of the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses.
Some made it as short as three minutes--some as long as five. The door
was opened with difficulty.

“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the
house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of
the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff
voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said.
The shrill voice was that of an Englishman--is sure of this. Does not
understand the English language, but judges by the intonation.

“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first
to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was
that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared
to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice.
Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates
the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of
Russia.

“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all
the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a
human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical sweeping brushes, such
as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed
up and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which
any one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The
body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their
strength.

“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of the
bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of
the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it
had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these
appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep
scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots
which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully
discolored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially
bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the
stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion
of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly
mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less
shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well as all the ribs of
the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not
possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of
wood, or a broad bar of iron--a chair--any large, heavy, and obtuse
weapon would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of
a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any
weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely
separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat
had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument--probably with a
razor.

“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the
bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

“Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several other
persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all
its particulars, was never before committed in Paris--if indeed a murder
has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault--an unusual
occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow
of a clew apparent.”

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement
still continued in the Quartier St. Roch--that the premises in question
had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses
instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned
that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned--although nothing
appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair--at
least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only
after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me
my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble
mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the
murderer.

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an
examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for _acumen_, are
cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond
the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not
unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as
to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his
_robe-de-chambre--pour mieux entendre la musique._ The results attained
by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are
brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are
unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good
guesser and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his
vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or
two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost
sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too
profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more
important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial.
The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the
mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of
error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies.
To look at a star by glances--to view it in a side-long way, by turning
toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more susceptible of
feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star
distinctly--is to have the best appreciation of its lustre--a lustre
which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision _fully_ upon
it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter
case, but, in the former, there is the more refined capacity for
comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and
it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmanent by a
scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will
afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said
nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I
am not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes.
I know G----, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in
obtaining the necessary permission.”

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue.
This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the
Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we
reached it; as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we
resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons
gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from
the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with
a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding
panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._ Before going in
we walked up the street, 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
ménageais_:--for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his
humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder,
until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had
observed any thing _peculiar_ at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,”
 which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both
saw stated in the paper.”

“The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual
horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It
appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very
reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution--I mean
for the _outré_ character of its features. The police are confounded by
the seeming absence of motive--not for the murder itself--but for
the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming
impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with
the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without
the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful
mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those
just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed
to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted
_acumen_, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but
common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by
these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its
way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we
are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’
as ‘what has occurred that has never occurred before.’ In fact, the
facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of
this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the
eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment--“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure
implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes
committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right
in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the
entire riddle. I look for the man here--in this room--every moment. It
is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will.
Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols;
and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what
I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have
already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was
addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that
intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great
distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the
stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved
by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether
the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter and afterward have
committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method;
for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal
to the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it
was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed
by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard
in contention. Let me now advert--not to the whole testimony respecting
these voices--but to what was _peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you
observe any thing peculiar about it?”

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff
voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard
to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive.
Yet there _was_ something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark,
agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to
the shrill voice, the peculiarity is--not that they disagreed--but
that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a
Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of
a foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own
countrymen. Each likens it--not to the voice of an individual of any
nation with whose language he is conversant--but the converse.
The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might have
distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with the Spanish._’ The
Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it
stated that ‘_not understanding French this witness was examined through
an interpreter._’ The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and
‘_does not understand German._’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that
of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he has
no knowledge of the English._’ The Italian believes it the voice of a
Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a native of Russia._’ A second
Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the
voice was that of an Italian; but, _not being cognizant of that tongue_,
is, like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely
unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as
this _could_ have been elicited!--in whose _tones_, even, denizens of
the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing familiar! You
will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic--of an African.
Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the
inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points.
The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It
is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal._’ No
words--no sounds resembling words--were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so
far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that
legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony--the
portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices--are in themselves
sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all
farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate
deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed
to imply that the deductions are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the
suspicion arises _inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the
suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to
bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a
definite form--a certain tendency--to my inquiries in the chamber.

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall
we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is
not too much to say that neither of us believe in præternatural events.
Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The
doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how?
Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that
mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision.--Let us examine, each by
each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were
in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the
room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from
these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid
bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every
direction. No _secret_ issues could have escaped their vigilance. But,
not trusting to _their_ eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then,
no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage
were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys.
These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the
hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large
cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus
absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room
no one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street.
The murderers _must_ have passed, then, through those of the back room.
Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are,
it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent
impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent
‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by
furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is
hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust
close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within.
It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A
large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very
stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining
the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and
a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police were now
entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And,
_therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the
nails and open the windows.

“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 refastened
the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened;--the
consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny
of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes _were_ fastened. They
_must_, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no
escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement,
withdrew the nail with some difficulty and attempted to raise the sash.
It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring
must, I now know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced
me that my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still
appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon
brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with
the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing
out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would
have caught--but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion
was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The
assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then,
the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_
be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes
of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked
over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand
down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring,
which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor.
I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently
fitted in the same manner--driven in nearly up to the head.

“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have
misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase,
I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant
been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the
secret to its ultimate result,--and that result was _the nail._ It
had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other
window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive us it might
seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this
point, terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said,
‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an
inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in
the gimlet-hole where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old
one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been
accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded,
in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now
carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had
taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete--the
fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash
for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.
I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again
perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through
the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon
his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become fastened by the
spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken
by the police for that of the nail,--farther inquiry being thus
considered unnecessary.

“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 Bordeaux.
They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door)
except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis--thus
affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these
shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from
the rear of the house, they were both about half open--that is to say,
they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the
police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if
so, in looking at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth (as they
must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or,
at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having
once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this
quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination.
It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window
at the head of the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach
to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by
exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance
into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected.--By
reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the
shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp
upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing
his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he
might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the
window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_
unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and
so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing
might possibly have been accomplished:--but, secondly and _chiefly_, I
wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_--the
almost præternatural character of that agility which could have
accomplished it.

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make
out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full
estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the
practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object
is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in
juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken
with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about
whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose
utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning
of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of
comprehension without power to comprehend--men, at times, find
themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in the end,
to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode
of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that
both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now
revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here.
The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many
articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is
absurd. It is a mere guess--a very silly one--and no more. How are
we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these
drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter
lived an exceedingly retired life--saw no company--seldom went out--had
little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least
of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a
thief had taken any, why did he not take the best--why did he not take
all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to
encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was _abandoned.
Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was
discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard
from your thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_, engendered in the
brains of the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of
money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as
remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed
within three days upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us
every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice.
Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that
class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory
of probabilities--that theory to which the most glorious objects of
human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In
the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery
three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence.
It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the
real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive
of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an
idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.

“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your
attention--that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling
absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this--let us
glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death
by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary
assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they
thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse
up the chimney, you will admit that there was something _excessively
outré_--something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of
human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men.
Think, too, how great must have been that strength which could have
thrust the body _up_ such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor
of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it _down!_

“Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most
marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses--very thick tresses--of
grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of
the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or
thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself.
Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh
of the scalp--sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted
in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of
the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from
the body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at
the _brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body
of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy
coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by
some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The
obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which
the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This
idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same
reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them--because, by the
affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed
against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected
upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine
the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity
brutal, a butchery without motive, a _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely
alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men
of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible
syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I
made upon your fancy?”

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A
madman,” I said, “has done this deed--some raving maniac, escaped from a
neighboring _Maison de Santé._”

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the
voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to
tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some
nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always
the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not
such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the
rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make
of it.”

“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most unusual--this
is no _human_ hair.”

“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide this
point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon
this paper. It is a _fac-simile_ drawing of what has been described in
one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep indentations
of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in
another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid spots,
evidently the impression of fingers.’

“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon
the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a firm
and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger has
retained--possibly until the death of the victim--the fearful grasp by
which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to place all your
fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you see
them.”

I made the attempt in vain.

“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The
paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is
cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which
is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the
experiment again.”

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,”
 I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”

“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.”

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 reading,
“is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an
Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the
indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, is
identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot
possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides,
there were _two_ voices heard in contention, and one of them was
unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.”

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,--the expression, ‘_mon
Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by
one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of
remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have
mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman
was cognizant of the murder. It is possible--indeed it is far more
than probable--that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody
transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from
him. He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating
circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is
still at large. I will not pursue these guesses--for I have no right to
call them more--since the shades of reflection upon which they are based
are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect,
and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the
understanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak
of them as such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose,
innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement which I left last night,
upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde,’ (a paper devoted to
the shipping interest, and much sought by sailors,) will bring him to
our residence.”

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

CAUGHT--_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the--inst.,_
(the morning of the murder,) _a very large, tawny Ourang-Outang of
the Bornese species. The owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor,
belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon
identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from
its capture and keeping. Call at No. ----, Rue ----, Faubourg St.
Germain--au troisiême._

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a
sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”

“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here, however,
is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy
appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those
long _queues_ of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one
which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I
picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have
belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my
induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to
a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in
the advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I have
been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble
to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant
although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate
about replying to the advertisement--about demanding the Ourang-Outang.
He will reason thus:--‘I am innocent; I am poor; my 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.

“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 visiter had
entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the staircase.
Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending.
Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up.
He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision, and
rapped at the door of our chamber.

“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,--a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt,
was more than half hidden by whisker and _mustachio._ He had with him
a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed
awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which,
although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a
Parisian origin.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called about the
Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him;
a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you
suppose him to be?”

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some
intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

“I have no way of telling--but he can’t be more than four or five years
old. Have you got him here?”

“Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery
stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of
course you are prepared to identify the property?”

“To be sure I am, sir.”

“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,”
 said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for
the finding of the animal--that is to say, any thing in reason.”

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me
think!--what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be
this. You shall give me all the information in your power about these
murders in the Rue Morgue.”

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as
quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and put the key in
his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without
the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation.
He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but the next moment he
fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance
of death itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my
heart.

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily--you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge
you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no
injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities
in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some
measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
that I have had means of information about this matter--means of which
you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done
nothing which you could have avoided--nothing, certainly, which renders
you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have
robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason
for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle
of honor to confess all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned,
charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while
Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all
gone.

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I will tell you all I
know about this affair;--but I do not expect you to believe one half I
say--I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I will
make a clean breast if I die for it.”

What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage
to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed
at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure.
Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion
dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great
trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during
the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own
residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant
curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such
time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a
splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in the
morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bed-room,
into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as
was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it
was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving,
in which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the
key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon
in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use
it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been
accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods,
by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the
Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down
the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the
street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its pursuer, until
the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In this
manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly
quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down
an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was
arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s
chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it
perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility,
grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and,
by its means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of the bed. The
whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by
the 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 between the
ingress of the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not
immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would naturally
have been attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame
L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing
it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the
motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had
swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the
hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably
pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one
determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her
body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its
teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the
girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp
until she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment
upon the head of the bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with
horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore
still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear.
Conscious of having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of
concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony
of nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it
moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized
first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as
it was found; then that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled
through the window headlong.

As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor
shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it,
hurried at once home--dreading the consequences of the butchery, and
gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the
Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the
Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the
fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped
from the chamber, by the rod, just before the break of the door. It
must have closed the window as it passed through it. It was subsequently
caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the
_Jardin des Plantes._ Le Don was instantly released, upon our narration
of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of
the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my
friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which
affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about
the propriety of every person minding his own business.

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply.
“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I am satisfied with
having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed
in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder
which he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat
too cunning to be profound. In his wisdom is no _stamen._ It is all head
and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna,--or, at best, all
head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all.
I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has
attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the way he has ‘_de nier
ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas._’” (*)

(*) Rousseau--Nouvelle Heloise.




THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)

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
  modifieiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, 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. (*2) 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 Cecila 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 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 farther 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 reverie.
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 farther
agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus
happened that he found himself the cynosure of the political 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
“cigargirl,” 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; (*3) 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 (*4) 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 info
confusion by her sudden disappearance from 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 Andree, and at a point not very far distant
from the secluded neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule. (*6)

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 mean time
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 clue 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 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
absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since either of
us had gone abroad, or received a visiter, 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 signal 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, (*7) and to him only, of her intent 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 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 disappearance that
any thing satisfactory was ascertained respecting her. On this day,
(Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais, (*8) 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
perfumery-girl. 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 arms were bent over on the chest and
were rigid. 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 fasted 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 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, (*9) 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, (*10) a paper conducted, in general, with
much ability.

“Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother’s house on Sunday morning, June the
twenty-second, 18--, with the ostensible purpose of going to see her
aunt, or some other connexion, 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
de 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 the 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 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 five or six days’ immersion, it sinks again, if let
alone. Now, we ask, what was there in this 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 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 sculpture 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 Rogêt’s house, M. Beauvais,
who was going out, told her that a gendarme was expected there, and she,
Madame B., must not say anything 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 visiter 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, (*11) 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 of 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 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, which 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,(*12) 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 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, (*13) 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 case 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 before 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,
(*14) 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 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 thence 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 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
journalist 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 cöincident 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. (*15) 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 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 found 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 fleshy 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 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 upwards, 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.

“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 permitting 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 experience 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,
moreover, 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 struggles by which
he 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 reappeared 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 afterwards 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 so have 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 any thing 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 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.

“Reperuse 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’ 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 farther. If only one flower, we seek for nothing
farther--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 garter’s being
an usual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in 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, guiding 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. (*16)

“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 busy-body, 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 return (Beauvais’); and,
lastly, his apparent determination ‘that nobody should have anything 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 rencounters would be made. For my own
part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as very 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 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
connexion 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 such as this, is the limiting of
inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or
circumstantial events. It is the mal-practice 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 any 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 unimagined, to the
mathematical _formulae_ 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 mean
time 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 visit 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. (*17)

“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 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. (*18)

“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. (*19)

“We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to
fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais; (*20) but as this
gentleman has been fully exonerated by a loyal 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. (*21)

“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. (*22)

“On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service, saw
a 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 those 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 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 villany 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--I will give it to be
understood that I shall visit and spend the day with my aunt at the Rue
des Drômes--I well 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 for ever 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 perpetuated, 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 connexion 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
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 farther, 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
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 Rogêt.’
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 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?

“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
weekdays, 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 suspicion is not that, in consequence 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 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 with a back and footstool. And this
thicket, so full of a natural 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 entangled
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, 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 uncaged 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 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 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, but
leaves behind him the other evidences of 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 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 having been 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?

“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
pocket-handkerchief. 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 Madame 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 illæ iræ?

“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 in the route of the young man and girl,
returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed 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
Madame 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
bonnet-ribbon 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 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 endeavor 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 agency of advertisement, of the locality of
the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine some connexion with the
navy--some personal permanent connexion leading to cognizance of its
minute in 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. (*23)]

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 præter-nature. 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 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 farther: 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 suggestion 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 anything 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.

Footnotes--Marie Rogêt

(*1) Upon the original publication of “Marie Roget,” the foot-notes now
appended were considered unnecessary; but the lapse of several years
since the tragedy upon which the tale is based, renders it expedient
to give them, and also to say a few words in explanation of the general
design. A young girl, Mary Cecilia Rogers, was murdered in the
vicinity of New York; and, although her death occasioned an intense and
long-enduring excitement, the mystery attending it had remained
unsolved at the period when the present paper was written and published
(November, 1842). Herein, under pretence of relating the fate of
a Parisian grisette, the author has followed in minute detail, the
essential, while merely paralleling the inessential facts of the real
murder of Mary Rogers. Thus all argument founded upon the fiction is
applicable to the truth: and the investigation of the truth was the
object. The “Mystery of Marie Roget” was composed at a distance from the
scene of the atrocity, and with no other means of investigation than the
newspapers afforded. Thus much escaped the writer of which he could have
availed himself had he been upon the spot, and visited the localities.
It may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confessions of
two persons, (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative) made, at
different periods, long subsequent to the publication, confirmed, in
full, not only the general conclusion, but absolutely all the chief
hypothetical details by which that conclusion was attained.

(*2) The nom de plume of Von Hardenburg.

(*3) Nassau Street.

(*4) Anderson.

(*5) The Hudson.

(*6) Weehawken.

(*7) Payne.

(*8) Crommelin.

(*9) The New York “Mercury.”

(*10) The New York “Brother Jonathan,” edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq.

(*11) New York “Journal of Commerce.”

(*12) Philadelphia “Saturday Evening Post,” edited by C. I. Peterson,
Esq.

(*13) Adam

(*14) See “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

(*15) The New York “Commercial Advertiser,” edited by Col. Stone.

(*16) “A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent its
being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges topics in
reference to their causes, will cease to value them according to their
results. Thus the jurisprudence of every nation will show that, when law
becomes a science and a system, it ceases to be justice. The errors
into which a blind devotion to principles of classification has led the
common law, will be seen by observing how often the legislature has
been obliged to come forward to restore the equity its scheme had
lost.”--Landor.

(*17) New York “Express”

(*18) New York “Herald.”

(*19) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”

(*20) Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and arrested,
but discharged through total lack of evidence.

(*21) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”

(*22) New York “Evening Post.”

(*23) Of the Magazine in which the article was originally published.




THE BALLOON-HOAX

 [Astounding News by Express, _via_ Norfolk!--The Atlantic
 crossed in Three Days!  Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying
 Machine!--Arrival at Sullivan’s Island, near Charlestown, 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 æronauts; Mr. Harrison
Ainsworth, author of “Jack Sheppard,” &c.; 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.

“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 aerial
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 network 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 steel wire 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 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
battle-door, 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
upwards or downwards, as well as to the right or left; and thus enabled
the æronaut 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 anything which carries with it an air of simplicity. To
accomplish the great desideratum of ærial 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 ærostation. 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, 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
2500 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 aerostation, 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 quantity 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 2500 pounds, and the united
weights of the party amounting only to about 1200, there was left a
surplus of 1300, of which again 1200 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 aerostation.

“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
recourse 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 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 or 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 Court-Yard of Weal-Vor House, Mr.
Osborne’s seat, about a mile from Penstruthal, in North Wales; and at 7
minutes past 11, 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 hand-writing 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 JOURNAL.

“_Saturday, April the 6th_.--Every preparation likely to embarrass us,
having been made over night, 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 afterwards, 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, enclosing 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 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, towards the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving out to sea
at the 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 manoeuvre 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 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 seventh_. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning the gale, by 10,
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, to-day, 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_.(*1)

“_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 north-east all day and so far fortune
seems bent upon favoring us. Just before day, we were all somewhat
alarmed at 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. Saw 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 12, 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 2, 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 _9_th_. [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 anything 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 2, 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 farther 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 farthest.

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.

(*1) _Note_.--Mr. Ainsworth has not attempted to account for this
phenomenon, which, however, is quite susceptible of explanation. A line
dropped from an elevation of 25,000 feet, perpendicularly to the surface
of the earth (or sea), would form the perpendicular of a right-angled
triangle, of which the base would extend from the right angle to the
horizon, and the hypothenuse from the horizon to the balloon. But the
25,000 feet of altitude is little or nothing, in comparison with the
extent of the prospect. In other words, the base and hypothenuse of the
supposed triangle would be so long when compared with the perpendicular,
that the two former may be regarded as nearly parallel. In this manner
the horizon of the æronaut would appear to be _on 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 extent of prospect, that the apparent parallelism of the base and
hypothenuse disappears--when the earth’s real convexity must become
apparent.




MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

               Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre

               N’a plus rien a 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 methodize the stores
which early study very diligently garnered up.--Beyond all things,
the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any
ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with
which my habits of rigid thought 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 of the Sunda 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.

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 for 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
afterwards 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 heat iron. As night
came on, every breath of wind died away, an 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 Simoom. I told the
captain 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
mill-wheel, 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 gained 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 our 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 exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard;--the captain
and mates must have perished as 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
frame-work 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 Simoom, 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,
sliver-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 arrived--to the Swede, never did arrive. Thenceforward we were
enshrouded in patchy darkness, so that we could not have seen an object
at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued to envelop 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 wrapped up 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 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 exceeded
that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman 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 their 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 already 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 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
bygone times 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 was 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 fall to make the endeavour. 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 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 many 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 canvas, 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 by 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 wood 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 thrust 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 trucks to her lower studding-sail booms, and rolling every
moment her top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water
which it can enter into the mind of a 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 remarkably
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 muttered 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.

* * * * *

When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions. 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 simoom 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 onwards
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 countenances an 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 of tempest, the ship
is quivering, oh God! and--going down.

NOTE.--The “MS. Found in a Bottle,” was originally published in 1831,
and it was not until many years afterwards that I became acquainted with
the maps of Mercator, in which the ocean is represented as rushing, by
four mouths, into the (northern) Polar Gulf, to be absorbed into the
bowels of the earth; the Pole itself being represented by a black rock,
towering to a prodigious height.




THE OVAL PORTRAIT

THE chateau 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 chateau 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, devotedly 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
bed-posts. 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 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 back-ground 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 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
canvas merely, 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 sate 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!”







End of Project Gutenberg’s The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, by Edgar Allan Poe

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