The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Part 3

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The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Part 3

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THE ANGEL OF THE ODD-AN EXTRAVAGANZA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



IT WAS a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an unusually hearty 
dinner, of which the dyspeptic truffe formed not the least important item, and was sitting 
alone in the dining-room, with my feet upon the fender, and at my elbow a small table 
which I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies for dessert, with 
some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and liqueur. In the morning I had been reading 
Glover's "Leonidas," Wilkies "Epigoniad," Lamartine's "Pilgrimage," Barlow's 
"Columbiad," Tuckermann's "Sicily," and Griswold's "Curiosities"; I am willing to 
confess, therefore, that I now felt a little stupid. I made effort to arouse myself by aid of 
frequent Lafitte, and, all failing, I betook myself to a stray newspaper in despair. Having 
carefully perused the column of "houses to let," and the column of "dogs lost," and then 
the two columns of "wives and apprentices runaway," I attacked with great resolution the 
editorial matter, and, reading it from beginning to end without understanding a syllable, 
conceived the possibility of its being Chinese, and so re-read it from the end to the 
beginning, but with no more satisfactory result. I was about throwing away, in disgust. 

This folio of four pages, happy work 
Which not even poets criticise, 

when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which follows: 

"The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper mentions the decease 
of a person from a singular cause. He was playing at 'puff the dart,' which is played with 
a long needle inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin tube. He 
placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and drawing his breath strongly to puff the 
dart forward with force, drew the needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a few 
days killed him." 

Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing why. "This thing," I 
exclaimed, "is a contemptible falsehood-a poor hoax-the lees of the invention of some 
pitiable penny-a-liner-of some wretched concoctor of accidents in Cocaigne. These 
fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age, set their wits to work in the 
imagination of improbable possibilities-of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a 
reflecting intellect (like mine," I added, in parenthesis, putting my forefinger 
unconsciously to the side of my nose), "to a contemplative understanding such as I 
myself possess, it seems evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these 'odd 
accidents' is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing 
henceforward that has anything of the 'singular' about it. 



"Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!" replied one of the most remarkable voices I 
ever heard. At first I took it for a rumbling in my ears-such as man sometimes 
experiences when getting very drunk- but, upon second thought, I considered the sound 
as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty barrel beaten with a big 
stick; and, in fact, this I should have concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the 
syllables and words. I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of 
Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me a little, so that I felt nothing of 
trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement, and looked carefully 
around the room for the intruder. I could not, however, perceive any one at all. 

"Humph!" resumed the voice, as I continued my survey, "you mus pe so dronk as de pig, 
den, for not zee me as I zit here at your zide." 

Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and there, sure 
enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage nondescript, although not altogether 
indescribable. His body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or something of that 
character, and had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether extremity were inserted two kegs, 
which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs. For arms there dangled from the upper 
portion of the carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward for hands. All 
the head that I saw the monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens which 
resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen (with a 
funnel on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set on edge upon the 
puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and through this hole, which seemed puckered up 
like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling and 
grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible talk. 

"I zay," said he, "you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not zee me zit ere; and I 
zay, doo, you most pe pigger vool as de goose, vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. 'Tiz 
de troof-dat it iz-eberry vord ob it." 

"Who are you, pray?" said I, with much dignity, although somewhat puzzled; "how did 
you get here? and what is it you are talking about?" 

"Az vor ow I com'd ere," replied the figure, "dat iz none of your pizzness; and as vor vat I 
be talking apout, I be talk apout vot I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very 
ting I com'd here for to let you zee for yourzelf." 

"You are a drunken vagabond," said I, "and I shall ring the bell and order my footman to 
kick you into the street." 

"He! he! he!" said the fellow, "hu! hu! hu! dat you can't do." 

"Can't do!" said I, "what do you mean?-can't do what?" 

"Ring de pell," he replied, attempting a grin with his little villainous mouth. 



Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat into execution; but the 
ruffian just reached across the table very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the 
forehead with the neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the arm-chair 
from which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded; and, for a moment, was quite at a 
loss what to do. In the meantime, he continued his talk. 

"You zee," said he, "it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall know who I pe. Look at 
me! zee! I am te Angel ov te Odd!" 

"And odd enough, too," I ventured to reply; "but I was always under the impression that 
an angel had wings." 

"Te wing!" he cried, highly incensed, "vat I pe do mit te wing? Mein Gott! do you take 
me vor a shicken?" 

"No-oh, no!" I replied, much alarmed, "you are no chicken- certainly not." 

"Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I'll rap you again mid me vist.

It iz te shicken 
ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, und te imp ab te wing, und te headteuffel ab te wing. 
Te angel ab not te wing, and I am te Angel ov te Odd." 

"And your business with me at present is-is-" 

"My pizzness!" ejaculated the thing, "vy vot a low bred puppy you mos pe vor to ask a 
gentleman und an angel apout his pizzness!" 

This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an angel; so, plucking up 
courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay within reach, and hurled it at the head of the 
intruder. Either he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I accomplished 
was the demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the clock upon the 
mantelpiece. As for the Angel, he evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or 
three hard consecutive raps upon the forehead as before. These reduced me at once to 
submission, and I am almost ashamed to confess that, either through pain or vexation, 
there came a few tears into my eyes. 

"Mein Gott!" said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at my distress; "mein 
Gott, te man is eder ferry dronck or ferry sorry. You mos not trink it so strong-you mos 
put de water in te wine. Here, trink dis, like a goot veller, und don't gry now-don't!" 

Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was about a third full of 
Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of his hand bottles. I observed that 
these bottles had labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed 
"Kirschenwasser." 

The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little measure; and, aided by 
the water with which he diluted my Port more than once, I at length regained sufficient 



temper to listen to his very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount all that he 
told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was the genius who presided over the 
contre temps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents 
which are continually astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my venturing to 
express my total incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so 
that at length I considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him have his 
own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while I merely leaned back in my chair 
with my eyes shut, and amused myself with munching raisins and flipping the stems 
about the room. But, by and bye, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior of mine into 
contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched his funnel down over his eyes, swore a 
vast oath, uttered a threat of some character which I did not precisely comprehend, and 
finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop 
in Gil-Bias, "beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens." 

His departure afforded me relief. The very few glasses of Lafitte that I had sipped had the 
effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty 
minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an appointment of consequence, which 
it was quite indispensable that I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling 
house had expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was agreed that, at 
six, I should meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms of a renewal. 
Glancing upward at the clock on the mantel-piece (for I felt too drowsy to take out my 
watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five minutes to spare. It was half 
past five; I could easily walk to the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual post 
prandian siestas had never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, 
therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith. 

Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the time -piece, and was 
half inclined to believe in the possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of 
my ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three; for it still wanted 
seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I betook myself again to my nap, and at length a 
second time awoke, when, to my utter amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes 
of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My watch 
informed me that it was half past seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too 
late for my appointment "It will make no difference," I said; "I can call at the office in the 
morning and apologize; in the meantime what can be the matter with the clock?" Upon 
examining it I discovered that one of the raisin-stems which I had been flipping about the 
room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd had flown through the fractured 
crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, 
had thus arrested the revolution of the minute-hand. 

"Ah!" said I; "I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A natural accident, such as will 
happen now and then!" 

I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour retired to bed. Here, 
having placed a candle upon a reading-stand at the bed- head, and having made an attempt 



to peruse some pages of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," I unfortunately fell asleep in 
less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was. 

My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of the Odd. Methought he 
stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones 
of a rum-puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt with 
which I had treated him. He concluded a long harrangue by taking off his funnelcap, 
inserting the tube into my gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwasser, 
which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that stood 
him instead of an arm. My agony was at length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to 
perceive that a rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but not in season to 
prevent his making his escape with it through the hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating 
odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the 
blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief period the entire building was 
wrapped in flames. All egress from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. 
The crowd, however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of this I was 
descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund 
stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there was something 
which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd,-when this hog, I say, which hitherto had 
been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder 
needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing post than that afforded by 
the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture 
my arm. 

This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more serious loss of my hair, 
the whole of which had been singed off by the fire, predisposed me to serious 
impressions, so that, finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow 
disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit I offered the 
balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in 
gratitude and adoration. She blushed, and bowed her luxuriant tresse into close contact 
with those supplied me, temporarily, by Grandjean. I know not how the entanglement 
took place, but so it was. I arose with a shining pate, wigless, she in disdain and wrath, 
half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an accident which could 
not have been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural sequence of events had 
brought about. 

Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less implacable heart. The fates 
were again propitious for a brief period; but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting 
my betrothed in an avenue thronged with the elite of the city, I was hastening to greet her 
with one of my best considered bows, when a small particle of some foreign matter 
lodging in the corner of my eye, rendered me, for the moment, completely blind. Before I 
could recover my sight, the lady of my love had disappeared-irreparably affronted at 
what she chose to consider my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted. While 
I stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident (which might have happened, 
nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while I still continued incapable of sight, I 
was accosted by the Angel of the Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I 



had no reason to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and skill, 
informed me that I had a drop in it, and (whatever a "drop" was) took it out, and afforded 
me relief. 

I now considered it time to die, (since fortune had so determined to persecute me,) and 
accordingly made my way to the nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes, (for 
there is no reason why we cannot die as we were born,) I threw myself headlong into the 
current; the sole witness of my fate being a solitary crow that had been seduced into the 
eating of brandy- saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his fellows. No sooner 
had I entered the water than this bird took it into its head to fly away with the most 
indispensable portion of my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal 
design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of my coat, and betook 
myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness which the case required and its 
circumstances would admit. But my evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full speed, 
with my nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon the purloiner of my property, I 
suddenly perceived that my feet rested no longer upon terre firma; the fact is, I had 
thrown myself over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed to pieces, but for 
my good fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which descended from a 
passing balloon. 

As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the terrific predicament in 
which I stood or rather hung, I exerted all the power of my lungs to make that 
predicament known to the aeronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in 
vain. Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me. Meantime the 
machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more rapidly failed. I was soon upon the 
point of resigning myself to my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits 
were suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which seemed to be lazily 
humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning 
with his arms folded, over the rim of the car, and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he 
puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself and the universe. I was 
too much exhausted to speak, so I merely regarded him with an imploring air. 

For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he said nothing. At length 
removing carefully his meerschaum from the right to the left comer of his mouth, he 
condescended to speak. 

"Who pe you?" he asked, "und what der teuffel you pe do dare?" 

To this piece of impudence, cruelty, and affectation, I could reply only by ejaculating the 
monosyllable "Help!" 



"Elp!" echoed the ruffian-"not I. Dare iz te pottle-elp yourself, und pe tam'd!" 

With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwasser which, dropping precisely 
upon the crown of my head, caused me to imagine that my brains were entirely knocked 



out. Impressed with this idea, I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the ghost 
with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the Angel, who bade me hold on. 

"Old on!" he said; "don't pe in te urry-don't. Will you pe take de odder pottle, or ave you 
pe got zober yet and come to your zenzes?" 

I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice-once in the negative, meaning thereby that 
I would prefer not taking the other bottle at present-and once in the affirmative, intending 
thus to imply that I was sober and had positively come to my senses. By these means I 
somewhat softened the Angel. 

"Und you pelief, ten," he inquired, "at te last? You pelief, ten, in te possibilty of te odd?" 

I again nodded my head in assent. 

"Und you ave pelief in me, te Angel of te Odd?" 

I nodded again. 

"Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk and te vool?" 

I nodded once more. 

"Put your right hand into your left hand preeches pocket, ten, in token oy your vuU 
zubmission unto te Angel ov te Odd." 

This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible to do. In the first place, 
my left arm had been broken in my fall from the ladder, and, therefore, had I let go my 
hold with the right hand, I must have let go altogether. In the second place, I could have 
no breeches until I came across the crow. I was therefore obliged, much to my regret, to 
shake my head in the negative-intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I 
found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his very reasonable demand! 
No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking my head than- 

"Go to der teuffel ten!" roared the Angel of the Odd. 

In pronouncing these words, he drew a sharp knife across the guide, rope by which I was 
suspended, and as we then happened to be precisely over my own house, (which, during 
my peregrinations, had been handsomely rebuilt,) it so occurred that I tumbled headlong 
down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room hearth. 

Upon coming to my senses, (for the fall had very thoroughly stunned me,) I found it 
about four o'clock in the morning. I lay outstretched where I had f Allan from the balloon. 
My head grovelled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet reposed upon the 
wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the fragments of a miscellaneous dessert. 



interaiingled with a newspaper, some broken glass and shattered bottles, and an empty 
jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the Angel of the Odd. 

THE END 



THE ASSIGNATION 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1834 



Stay for me there! I will not fail 
To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

[Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of 
Chichester.] 

ILL-FATED and mysterious man! —bewildered in the brilliancy of thine own and f Allan 
in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath 
risen before me! —not —oh not as thou art —in the cold valley and shadow -but as thou 
shouldst be -squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in that city of dim 
visions, thine own Venice -which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide 
windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter meaning upon the 
secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I repeat it-as thou shouldst be. There are surely other 
worlds than this -other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude —other speculations 
than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into question? who 
blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of 
life, which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting energies? 

It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di Sospiri, that I met 
for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection 
that I bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember — aah! how should 
I forget? —the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the Genius 
of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal. 

It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded the fifth hour 
of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights 
in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta, by 
way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San 
Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one hysterical, 
and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet: while the 
gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of 
recovery, and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current which here sets 
from the greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor, we 
were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux 
flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal Palace, turned all at 
once that deep gloom into a livid and preternatural day. 



A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had f Allan from an upper window of 
the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over 
their victim; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout 
swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure which 
was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at 
the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none 
who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite —the 
adoration of all Venice -the gayest of the gay —the most lovely where all were beautiful - 
-but still the young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that fair 
child, her first and only one, who now deep beneath the murky water, was thinking in 
bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to call 
upon her name. 

She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble 
beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from its ball-room 
array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls 
like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be 
nearly the sole covering to her delicate form; but the mid- summer and midnight air was 
hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of 
that raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the 
Niobe. Yet —strange to say! —her large lustrous eyes were not turned downwards upon 
that grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried —but riveted in a widely different 
direction! The prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all Venice — 
but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay stifling her only 
child? Yon dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber window -what, 
then, could there be in its shadows —in its architecture —in its ivy-wreathed and solemn 
cornices —that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at a thousand times before? 
Nonsense! —Who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered 
mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo 
which is close at hand? 

Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the water-gate, stood, in full 
dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in 
thrumming a guitar, and seemed ennuye to the very death, as at intervals he gave 
directions for the recovery of his child. Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to 
move from the upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must 
have presented to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as 
with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among them in that funereal 
gondola. 

All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search were relaxing their 
exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child; 
(how much less than for the mother!) but now, from the interior of that dark niche which 
has been already mentioned as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as 
fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach 
of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent, plunged 



headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he stood with the still living and 
breathing child within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, 
his cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about 
his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very young 
man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing. 

No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive her child —she will 
press it to her heart —she will cling to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. 
Alas! another's arms have taken it from the stranger -another's arms have taken it away, 
and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa! Her lip —her 
beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering in her eyes —those eyes which, like Pliny's 
acanthus, are "soft and almost liquid." Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes-and see! the 
entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of 
the marble countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity of the marble 
feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight 
shudder quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver 
lilies in the grass. 

Why should that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer —except that, having left, 
in the eager haste and terror of a mother's heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she has 
neglected to enthrall her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over her 
Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason could 
there have been for her so blushing? —for the glance of those wild appealing eyes? for the 
unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom? —for the convulsive pressure of that trembling 
hand? -that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the 
hand of the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low —the singularly low 
tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu? 
"Thou hast conquered — " she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived me-"thou hast 
conquered —one hour after sunrise —we shall meet —so let it be!" 

The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace, and the stranger, 
whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags. He shook with inconceivable 
agitation, and his eye glanced around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer 
him the service of my own; and he accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the 
water-gate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self- 
possession, and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent 
cordiality. 

There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The person of the 
stranger —let me call him by this title, who to all the world was still a stranger —the 
person of the stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been below rather 
than above the medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when his 
frame actually expanded and belled the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of 
his figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, 
than of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort, upon 
occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity —singular. 



wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant jet - 
and a profusion of curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed 
forth at intervals all light and ivory —his were features than which I have seen none more 
classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his 
countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period of 
their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no peculiar —it had no settled 
predominant expression to be fastened upon the memory; a countenance seen and 
instantly forgotten —but forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to 
mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own distinct 
image upon the mirror of that face —but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige of 
the passion, when the passion had departed. 

Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in what I thought an 
urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I 
found myself accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy, yet 
fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the 
Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics, into an apartment whose 
unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door with an actual glare, making me 
blind and dizzy with luxuriousness. 

I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his possessions in terms 
which I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about 
me, I could not bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could 
have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around. 

Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly lighted up. I judge 
from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my 
friend, that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In the 
architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had been to dazzle 
and astound. Little attention had been paid to the decora of what is technically called 
keeping, or to the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object, and 
rested upon none —neither the grotesques of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the 
best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part 
of the room trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose origin was not to 
be discovered. The senses were oppressed by mingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking 
up from strange convolute censers, together with multitudinous flaring and flickering 
tongues of emerald and violet fire. The rays of the newly, risen sun poured in upon the 
whole, through windows formed each of a single pane of crimson-tinted glass. Glancing 
to and fro, in a thousand reflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices like 
cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at length fitfully with the 
artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking 
cloth of Chih gold. 

"Ha! ha! ha! -ha! ha! ha!" -laughed the proprietor, motioning me to a seat as I entered 
the room, and throwing himself back at full length upon an ottoman. "I see," said he, 
perceiving that I could not immediately reconcile myself to the bienseance of so singular 



a welcome —"I see you are astonished at my apartment —at my statues —my pictures —my 
originality of conception in architecture and upholstery —absolutely drunk, eh? with my 
magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice dropped to the very 
spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so utterly 
astonished. Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous that a man must laugh or 
die. To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More — 
a very fine man was Sir Thomas More —Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. 
Also in the Absurdities of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characters who came to 
the same magnificent end. Do you know, however," continued he musingly, "that at 
Sparta (which is now Palaeochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among a 
chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of socle, upon which are still legible the letters 
'LASM'. They are undoubtedly part of 'GELASMA'. Now at Sparta were a thousand 
temples and shrines to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly strange that the 
altar of Laughter should have survived all the others! But in the present instance," he 
resumed, with a singular alteration of voice and manner, "I have no right to be merry at 
your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so 
fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of the same 
order; mere ultras of fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion —is it not? Yet this 
has but to be seen to become the rage —that is, with those who could afford it at the cost 
of their entire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With 
one exception you are the only human being besides myself and my valet, who has been 
admitted within the mysteries of these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened 
as you see!" 

I bowed in acknowledgment; for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume, and 
music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, prevented me 
from expressing, in words, my appreciation of what I might have construed into a 
compliment. 

"Here," he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around the apartment, 
"here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. 
Many are chosen, as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They are all, 
however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here too, are some chefs d'oeuvre of 
the unknown great —and here unfinished designs by men, celebrated in their day, whose 
very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to silence and to me. What think 
you," said he, turning abruptly as he spoke —"what think you of this Madonna della 
Pieta?" 

It is Guido's own!" I said with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I had been poring 
intently over its surpassing loveliness. "It is Guido's own! -how could you have obtained 
it? —she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture." 

"Ha!" said he thoughtfully, "the Venus -the beautiful Venus? -the Venus of the Medici? 
—she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair? Part of the left arm (here his voice 
dropped so as to be heard with difficulty,) and all the right are restorations, and in the 
coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give me the 



Canova! The Apollo, too! --is a copy -there can be no doubt of it -blind fool that I am, 
who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help —pity me! —I 
cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the statuary found 
his statue in the block of marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his 
couplet — 

'Non ha I'ottimo artista alcun concetto 

Che tin marmo solo in se non circonscriva.'" 

It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true gentleman, we are 
always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar, without being at once 
precisely able to determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have 
applied in its full force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that 
eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor 
can I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apart 
from all other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual thought, 
pervading even his most trivial actions —intruding upon his moments of dalliance -and 
interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment —like adders which writhe from out 
the eyes of the grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis. 

I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity and 
solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little importance, a certain air 
of trepidation —a degree of nervous unction in action and in speech —an unquiet 
excitability of manner which appeared to me at all times unaccountable, and upon some 
occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence 
whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the 
deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of a visitor, or to sounds, which 
must have had existence in his imagination alone. 

It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over 
a page of the poet and scholar Politian's beautiful tragedy "The Orfeo," (the first native 
Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage underlined in 
pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third act —a passage of the most heart- 
stirring excitement —a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read 
without a thrill of novel emotion —no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted 
with fresh tears, and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, 
written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance, that I 
had some difficulty in recognising it as his own. 

Thou wast that all to me, love. 

For which my soul did pine — 

A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine. 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers; 

And all the flowers were mine. 



Ah, dream too bright to last; 
Ah, starry Hope that didst arise 
But to be overcast! 
A voice from out the Future cries 
"Onward!" --but o'er the Past 
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies. 
Mute, motionless, aghast! 

For alas! alas! me 

The light of life is o'er. 

"No more-no more-no more," 

(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore,) 

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree. 

Or the stricken eagle soar! 

Now all my hours are trances; 
And all my nightly dreams 
Are where the dark eye glances. 
And where thy footstep gleams. 
In what ethereal dances. 
By what Italian streams. 

Alas! for that accursed time 
They bore thee o'er the billow. 
For Love to titled age and crime. 
And an unholy pillow - 
From me, and from our misty clime. 
Where weeps the silver willow! 

That these lines were written in English —a language with which I had not believed their 
author acquainted —afforded me little matter for surprise. I was too well aware of the 
extent of his acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from 
observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must 
confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally written London, and 
afterwards carefully overscored —not, however, so effectually as to conceal the word 
from a scrutinizing eye. I say this occasioned me no little amazement; for I well 
remember that, in a former conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he had at 
any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her 
marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to 
understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here 
mention, that I have more than once heard, (without of course giving credit to a report 
involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak was not only by 
birth, but in education, an Englishman. 



"There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my notice of the tragedy —"there 
is still one painting which you have not seen." And throwing aside a drapery, he 
discovered a full length portrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite. 

Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman beauty. The 
same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding night upon the steps of the 
Ducal Palace, stood before me once again. But in the expression of the countenance, 
which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) 
that fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of 
the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom. With her left she pointed 
downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely 
touched the earth —and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to 
encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings. 
My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of 
Chapman's Bussy D'Ambois quivered instinctively upon my lips: 

"He is up 

There like a Roman statue! He will stand 

Till Death hath made him marble!" 

"Come!" he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled and massive silver, 
upon which were a few goblets fantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan 
vases, fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, 
and filled with what I supposed to be Johannisberger. "Come!" he said abruptly, "let us 
drink! It is early —but let us drink. It is indeed early," he continued, musingly, as a cherub 
with a heavy golden hammer, made the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise — 
"It is indeed early, but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out an offering to yon 
solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to subdue!" And, having 
made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the 
wine. 

"To dream", he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory conversation, as he held up 
to the rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases —"to dream has been the 
business of my life. I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In 
the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You behold around you, it is true, a 
medley of architectural embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian 
devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect 
is incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the 
bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was 
myself a decorist: but that sublimation of folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now 
the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and 
the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real 
dreams whither I am now rapidly departing." He here paused abruptly, bent his head to 
his bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At length, erecting his 
frame, he looked upwards and ejaculated the lines of the Bishop of Chichester: — 



Stay for me there! I will not fail 
To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw himself at full length upon 
an ottoman. 

A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly 
succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni's 
household burst into the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the 
incoherent words, "My mistress! —my mistress! —poisoned! -poisoned! Oh beautiful — 
oh beautiful Aphrodite!" 

Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the sleeper to a sense of the 
startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid —his lips were livid —his lately beaming 
eyes were riveted in death. I staggered back toward the table -my hand fell upon a 
cracked and blackened goblet —and a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth 
flashed suddenly over my soul. 

THE END 



THE BALLOON-HOAX 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



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. E. A. P. 

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 1 1 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 aeronauts; Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, author of "Jack 
Sheppard," etc.; and Mr. Henson the projector of the late unsuccessful flying machine- 
with two seamen from Woolwich-in all, eight persons. The particulars furnished below 
may be relied on as authentic and accurate in every respect, as, with a slight exception, 
they are copied verbatim from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Harrison 
Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also indebted for much verbal information 
respecting the balloon itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only 
alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of throwing the hurried 
account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a connected and intelligible form. 

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 fins 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 13 feet 6 
inches-height, 6 feet 8 inches. It contained about 320 cubic feet of gas, which, if pure 
hydrogen, would support 21 pounds upon its first inflation, before the gas has time to 
deteriorate or escape. The weight of the whole machine and apparatus was 17 pounds- 
leaving about 4 pounds to spare. Beneath the centre of the balloon, was a frame of light 
wood, about 9 feet long, and rigged on to the balloon itself with a net- work in the 
customary manner. From this framework was suspended a wicker basket or car. 

The screw consists of an axis of hollow brass tube, 18 inches in length, through which, 
upon a semi-spiral inclined at 15 degrees, pass a series of steel-wire radii, 2 feet long, and 
thus projecting a foot on either side. These radii are connected at the outer extremities by 
2 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 45 pounds upon a barrel 
of 4 inches diameter, after the first turn, and gradually increasing as it was wound up. It 
weighed, altogether, eight pounds six ounces. The rudder was a light frame of cane 
covered with silk, shaped somewhat like a battledoor, and was about 3 feet long, and at 
the widest, one foot. Its weight was about 2 ounces. It could be turned flat, and directed 
upward or downward, as well as to the right or left-, and thus enabled the aeronaut 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 5 
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 aerial 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 aerostation. 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 4 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 nor descend, except within very narrow limits, and its 
resources, either in gas or ballast, remain comparatively unimpaired. When passing over 
an expanse of water, it becomes necessary to employ small kegs of copper or wood, filled 
with liquid ballast of a lighter nature than water. These float, and serve all the purposes of 



a mere rope on land. Another most important office of the guide-rope, is to point out the 
direction of the balloon. The rope drags, either on land or sea, while the balloon is free; 
the latter, consequently, is always in advance, when any progress whatever is made, a 
comparison, therefore, by means of the compass, of the relative positions of the two 
objects, will always indicate the course. In the same way, the angle formed by the rope 
with the vertical axis of the machine, indicates the velocity. When there is no angle-in 
other words, when the rope hangs perpendicularly, the whole apparatus is stationary; but 
the larger the angle, that is to say, the farther the balloon precedes the end of the rope, the 
greater the velocity; and the converse. 

As the original design was to cross the British Channel, and alight as near Paris as 
possible, the voyagers had taken the precaution to prepare themselves with passports 
directed to all parts of the Continent, specifying the nature of the expedition, as in the 
case of the Nassau voyage, and entitling the adventurers to exemption from the usual 
formalities of office; unexpected events, however, rendered these passports superfluous. 

The inflation was commenced very quietly at day-break, on Saturday morning, the 6th 
instant in the courtyard of Wheal- Vor House, Mr. Osborne's seat, about a mile from 
Penstruthal, in North Wales; and at 7 minutes past 11, everything being ready for 
departure, the balloon was set free, rising gently but steadily, in a direction nearly South; 
no use being made, for the first half hour, of either the screw or the rudder. We proceed 
now with the journal, as transcribed by Mr. Forsyth from the joint MSS. of Mr. Monck 
Mason and Mr. Ainsworth. The body of the journal, as given, is in the handwriting of Mr. 
Mason, and a P. S. is appended, each day, by Mr. Ainsworth, who has in preparation, and 
will shortly give the public a more minute and, no doubt, a thrillingly interesting account 
of the voyage. 

THE JOURNAL 

Saturday, April the 6th.-Every preparation likely to embarrass us having been made 
overnight, we commenced the inflation this morning at daybreak; but owing to a thick 
fog which encumbered the folds of the silk and rendered it unmanageable, we did not get 
through before nearly eleven o'clock. Cut loose, then, in high spirits, and rose gently but 
steadily, with a light breeze at North, which bore us in the direction of the Bristol 
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 10 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 20 minutes our first buoy dipped, and at the 
touch of the second soon afterward, we remained stationary as to elevation. We were all 
now anxious to test the efficiency of the rudder and screw, and we put them both into 
requisition forthwith, for the purpose of altering our direction more to the eastward, and 
in a line for Paris. By means of the rudder we instantly effected the necessary change of 
direction, and our course was brought nearly at right angles to that of the wind; when we 
set in motion the spring of the screw, and were rejoiced to find it propel us readily as 
desired. Upon this we gave nine hearty cheers, and dropped in the sea a bottle, inclosing a 
slip of parchment with a brief account of the principle of the invention. Hardly, however, 
had we done with our rejoicings, when an unforeseen accident occurred which 
discouraged us in no little degree. The steel rod connecting the spring with the propeller 
was suddenly jerked out of place, at the car end, (by a swaying of the car through some 
movement of one of the two seamen we had taken up,) and in an instant hung dangling 
out of reach, from the pivot of the axis of the screw. While we were endeavoring to 
regain it, our attention being completely absorbed, we became involved in a strong 
current of wind from the East, which bore us, with rapidly increasing force, toward the 
Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving out to sea at the rate of not less, certainly, than 
50 or 60 miles an hour, so that we came up with Cape Clear, at some 40 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. 
HoUand-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 500 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 4 or 5 days (these gales often last longer) 
and the voyager will be easily borne, in that period, from coast to coast. In view of such a 
gale the broad Atlantic becomes a mere lake. I am more struck, just now, with the 
supreme silence which reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding its agitation, than 
with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The waters give up no voice to the 
Heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes and is tortured uncomplainingly. The 
mountainous surges suggest the idea of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in 
impotent agony. In a night such as is this to me, a man lives-lives a whole century of 
ordinary life-nor would I forego this rapturous delight for that of a whole century of 
ordinary existence. 

Sunday, the 7th. [Mr. Mason's MS.] This morning the gale, by 10, had subsided to an 
eight-or nine-knot breeze (for a vessel at sea), and bears us, perhaps, 30 miles per hour, 
or more. It has veered, however, very considerably to the North; and now, at sundown, 
we are holding our course due West, principally by the screw and rudder, which answer 
their purposes to admiration. I regard the project as thoroughly successful, and the easy 
navigation of the air in any direction (not exactly in the teeth of a gale) as no longer 
problematical. We could not have made head against the strong wind of yesterday, but, 
by ascending, we might have got out of its influence, if requisite. Against a pretty stiff 
breeze, I feel convinced, we can make our way with the propeller. At noon, today, 
ascended to an elevation of nearly 25,000 feet, (about the height of Cotopaxi) 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 3 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 20 or 30 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.* 

* "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 aeronaut 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 appear. 

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. Osbomes 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 9th. [Mr. Ainsworth's MS.] One, P.M. We are in full view of the low coast 
of South Carolina. The great problem is accomplished. We have crossed the Atlantic- 
fairly and easily crossed it in a balloon! God be praised! Who shall say that 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 75 hours; or rather less, 
counting from shore to shore. No serious accident occurred. No real danger was at any 
time apprehended. The balloon was exhausted and secured without trouble; and when the 
MS. from which this narrative is compiled was despatched from Charleston, the party 
were still at Fort Moultrie. Their further intentions were not ascertained; but we can 
safely promise our readers some additional information either on Monday or in the course 
of the next day, at furthest. 

This is unquestionably the most stupendous, the most interesting, and the most important 
undertaking ever accomplished or even attempted by man. What magnificent events may 
ensue, it would be useless now to think of determining. 

THE END 



THE BELLS 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1849 



Hear the sledges with the bells- 
Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells- 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



n 



Hear the mellow wedding bells. 

Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 

Through the balmy air of night 

How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten-golden notes. 

And an in tune. 

What a liquid ditty floats 

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 

On the moon! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells. 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 

How it swells! 

How it dwells 

On the Future! how it tells 

Of the rapture that impels 

To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 



Of the bells, bells, bells,bells. 

Bells, bells, bells- 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 



Ill 



Hear the loud alarum bells- 
Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now-now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows. 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows: 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- 
Ofthebells- 

Of the bells, bells, bells,bells. 
Bells, bells, bells- 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 



IV 



Hear the tolling of the bells- 
Iron Bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 



In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people-ah, the people- 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All Alone 

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling. 
In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone- 
They are neither man nor woman- 
They are neither brute nor human- 
They are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
Rolls 

A paean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the paean of the bells- 
Of the bells: 

Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the throbbing of the bells- 
Of the bells, bells, bells- 
To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 
To the rolling of the bells- 
Of the bells, bells, bells: 
To the tolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
Bells, bells, bells- 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

THE END 



THE BLACK CAT 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1843 



FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect 
nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses 
reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not —and very surely do I not dream. But to- 
morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place 
before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household 
events. In their consequences, these events have terrified —have tortured —have destroyed 
me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror - 
-to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect 
may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place —some intellect 
more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the 
circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural 
causes and effects. 

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My 
tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I 
was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of 
pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and 
caressing them. This peculiar of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I 
derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an 
affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the 
nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the 
unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who 
has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. 

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my 
own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring 
those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small 
monkey, and a cat. 

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to 
an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a 
little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, 
which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon 
this point -and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just 
now, to be remembered. 



Pluto -this was the cat's name —was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and 
he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could 
prevent him from following me through the streets. 

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general 
temperament and character —through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance —had 
(I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, 
more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself 
to use intemperate language to my At length, I even offered her personal violence. My 
pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but 
ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from 
maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the 
dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew 
upon me —for what disease is like Alcohol! —and at length even Pluto, who was now 
becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish —even Pluto began to experience the 
effects of my ill temper. 

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I 
fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, 
he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly 
possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its 
flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every 
fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the 
poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I 
bum, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. 

When reason returned with the morning —when I had slept off the fumes of the night's 
debauch —I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of 
which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul 
remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory 
of the deed. 

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, 
a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the 
house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so 
much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a 
creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And 
then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. 
Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than 
I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart —one of the 
indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. 
Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no 
other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, 
in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we 
understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It 
was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself -to offer violence to its own 



nature —to do wrong for the wrong's sake only —that urged me to continue and finally to 
consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool 
blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; —hung it with the 
tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; —hung it 
because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of 
offence; —hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin —a deadly sin 
that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it —if such a thing were possible - 
even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. 

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by 
the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It 
was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the 
conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed 
up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair. 

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between 
the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts -and wish not to leave 
even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The 
walls, with one exception, had fAUan in. This exception was found in a compartment 
wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had 
rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action 
of the fire —a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a 
dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular 
portion of it with every minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and 
other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas 
relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with 
an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck. 

When I first beheld this apparition -for I could scarcely regard it as less —my wonder and 
my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, 
had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had 
been immediately filled by the crowd —by some one of whom the animal must have been 
cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had 
probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls 
had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; 
the lime of which, had then with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, 
accomplished the portraiture as I saw it. 

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for 
the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fall to make a deep impression upon my 
fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this 
period, there came back into my spirit a half- sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. 
I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile 
haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of 
somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place. 



One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was 
suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense 
hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had 
been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused 
me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I 
approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat —a very large one —fully as 
large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white 
hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of 
white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. 

Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, 
and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was 
in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim 
to it —knew nothing of it —had never seen it before. 

I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a 
disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it 
as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became 
immediately a great favorite with my wife. 

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse 
of what I had anticipated; but I know not how or why it was —its evident fondness for 
myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and 
annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of 
shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from 
physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; 
but gradually —very gradually —I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to 
flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence. 

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after 
I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This 
circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, 
possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my 
distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures. 

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It 
followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader 
comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my 
knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between 
my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my 
dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy 
it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly it at by a memory of my former 
crime, but chiefly -let me confess it at once —by absolute dread of the beast. 

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil-and yet I should be at a loss how 
otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own —yes, even in this felon's cell, I am 



almost ashamed to own —that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, 
had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My 
wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, 
of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the 
strange beast and the one I had y si destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, 
although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees —degrees nearly 
imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful -it 
had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation 
of an object that I shudder to name -and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and 
would have rid myself of the monster had I dared —it was now, I say, the image of a 
hideous -of a ghastly thing -of the GALLOWS! -oh, mournful and terrible engine of 
Horror and of Crime -of Agony and of Death! 

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a 
brute beast —whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed —a brute beast to work out for 
me —for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God —so much of insufferable wo! 
Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the 
former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from 
dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast 
weight —an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off —incumbent eternally 
upon my heart! 

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me 
succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates —the darkest and most evil of 
thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all 
mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to 
which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual 
and the most patient of sufferers. 

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old 
building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep 
stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, 
and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I 
aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it 
descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by 
the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp 
and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan. 

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to 
the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either 
by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects 
entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, 
and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the 
cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard —about packing it in a 
box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it 
from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of 



these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar —as the monks of the middle ages are 
recorded to have walled up their victims. 

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, 
and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the 
atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a 
projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to 
resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the at this 
point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect 
anything suspicious. 

And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the 
bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that 
position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. 
Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a 
plaster could not every poss be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully 
went over the new brick- work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The 
wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the 
floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to 
myself —"Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain." 

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much 
wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to 
meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared 
that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and 
forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, 
the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned 
in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night -and thus for one night at 
least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even 
with the burden of murder upon my soul! 

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I 
breathed as a free-man. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should 
behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me 
but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even 
a search had been instituted —but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon 
my future felicity as secured. 

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, 
into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. 
Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no 
embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They 
left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended 
into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who 
slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my 
bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared 



to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one 
word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness. 

"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your 
suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this — 
this is a very well constructed house." (In the rabid desire to say something easily, I 
scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) -"I may say an excellently well constructed house. 
These walls —are you going, gentlemen? -these walls are solidly put together"; and here, 
through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my 
hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife 
of my bosom. 

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the 
reverberation of my blows sunk into silence than I was answered by a voice from within 
the tomb! —by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then 
quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and 
inhuman -a howl —a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might 
have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and 
of the demons that exult in the damnation. 

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For 
one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and 
of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were tolling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, 
already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the 
spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the 
hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had 
consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb! 

THE END 



THE BUSINESS MAN 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Method is the soul of business. 
OLD SAYING. 

I AM a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing, after all. But there are 
no people I more heartily despise than your eccentric fools who prate about method 
without understanding it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit. These 
fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in what they call an orderly 
manner. Now here, I conceive, is a positive paradox. True method appertains to the 
ordinary and the obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the outre. What definite idea can 
a body attach to such expressions as "methodical Jack o' Dandy," or "a systematical Will 
o' the Wisp"? 

My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they are, but for a fortunate 
accident which happened to me when I was a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish 
nurse (whom I shall not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I was 
making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round two or knocked my head 
into a cocked hat against the bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. 
A bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty an organ of order as 
one shall see on a summer's day. Hence that positive appetite for system and regularity 
which has made me the distinguished man of business that I am. 

If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your geniuses are all arrant asses-the 
greater the genius the greater the ass- and to this rule there is no exception whatever. 
Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius, any more than money out 
of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a 
tangent into some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at variance 
with the "fitness of things," and having no business whatever to be considered as a 
business at all. Thus you may tell these characters immediately by the nature of their 
occupations. If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a manufacturer, or 
going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be 
a drygoods dealer, or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a lawyer, 
or a blacksmith, or a physician-any thing out of the usual way-you may set him down at 
once as a genius, and then, according to the rule-of-three, he's an ass. 

Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man. My Day-book and 
Ledger will evince this in a minute. They are well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my 
general habits of accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock. Moreover, my 
occupations have been always made to chime in with the ordinary habitudes of my 



fellowmen. Not that I feel the least indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak- 
minded parents, who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at last, if 
my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the rescue. In biography the truth is 
every thing, and in autobiography it is especially so- yet I scarcely hope to be believed 
when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put me, when I was about fifteen 
years of age, into the counting-house of what be termed "a respectable hardware and 
commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!" A capital bit of fiddlestick! 
However, the consequence of this folly was, that in two or three days, I had to be sent 
home to my button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most violent and 
dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my organ of order. It was nearly a gone 
case with me then-just touch-and-go for six weeks-the physicians giving me up and all 
that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a thankful boy in the main. I was 
saved from being a "respectable hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit 
of business," and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been the means of my 
salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female who had originally put these means within 
my reach. 

The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of age, but I waited till I 
was sixteen. I don't know that I should have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear 
my old mother talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The grocery 
way!- only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith, and try and establish myself in 
some decent occupation, without dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of 
these eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius of in the end. In 
this project I succeeded perfectly well at the first effort, and by the time I was fairly 
eighteen, found myself doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor's 
Walking-Advertisement line. 

I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession, only by that rigid 
adherence to system which formed the leading feature of my mind. A scrupulous method 
characterized my actions as well as my accounts. In my case it was method-not money- 
which made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor whom I served. 
At nine, every morning, I called upon that individual for the clothes of the day. Ten 
o'clock found me in some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement. 
The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person about, so as to bring 
successively into view every portion of the suit upon my back, was the admiration of all 
the knowing men in the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer 
to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this proudly, but with 
tears in my eyes-for the firm proved themselves the basest of ingrates. The little account, 
about which we quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought 
overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of the business. Upon this 
point, however, I feel a degree of proud satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for 
himself. My bill ran thus: 

Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, 



Merchant Tailors. 

To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser, 

Drs. JULY lO.-to promenade, as usual and customer brought home... $00 25 JULY 11.- 
To do do do 25 JULY 12.-To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold for 

invisible green 25 JULY 13.-To one lie, first class, extra 

quality and size; 

recommended milled satinet as broadcloth 75 JULY 20.-To purchasing 

bran new paper shirt collar or dickey, 

to set off gray Petersham 02 AUG. 15. -To wearing double-padded 

bobtail frock, (thermometer 

106 in the shade) 25 AUG. 16.-Standing on one leg three 

hours, to show off new- style 

strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per hour 37 1/2 AUG. 17.-To promenade, 

as usual, and large customer brought 

(fat man) 50 AUG. I8.-T0 do do (medium 

size) 25 AUG. 19.-To do do (small man and bad pay) 06 

TOTAL 
[sic] $2 96 1/2 

The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate charge of two pennies for the 
dickey. Upon my word of honor, this was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It 
was one of the cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good reason to 
believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams. The elder partner of the firm, 
however, would allow me only one penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show 
in what manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a sheet of 
foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon the principle of the thing. Business is 
business, and should be done in a business way. There was no system whatever in 
swindling me out of a penny-a clear fraud of fifty per cent-no method in any respect. I 
left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line 
by myself-one of the most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary 
occupations. 

My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here again came into play. I 
found myself driving a flourishing trade, and soon became a marked man upon 'Change. 
The truth is, I never dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober 
routine of the calling-a calling in which I should, no doubt, have remained to the present 
hour, but for a little accident which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual 
business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks or prodigal heir or 
bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of putting up a palace, there is no such thing in 
the world as stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows. The fact in 
question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade. As soon, therefore, as a building- 
project is fairly afoot by one of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot 
in contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or tight in front. This done, we 
wait until the palace is half-way up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an 
ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or 



an ingenious little bit of fancy work, either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course 
we can't afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five hundred per cent upon 
the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. 
It would be irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally corporation 
which asked me to do this very thing-this very thing! I did not reply to their absurd 
proposition, of course; but I felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole 
of their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into jail; and the gentlemen 
of the Eye-Sore trade could not well avoid cutting my connection when I came out. 

The Assault- and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to adventure for a 
livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the delicate nature of my constitution; but I went 
to work in it with a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those stern 
habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into me by that delightful old 
nurse-I would indeed be the basest of men not to remember her well in my will. By 
observing, as I say, the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a well-regulated 
set of books, I was enabled to get over many serious difficulties, and, in the end, to 
establish myself very decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals, in any 
line, did a snugger little business than 1. 1 will just copy a page or so out of my Day- 
Book; and this will save me the necessity of blowing my own trumpet-a contemptible 
practice of which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a thing that 
don't lie. 

"Jan. l.-New Year's Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy. Mem-he'U do. Met Gruff 
shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem-he'U answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my 
Ledger, and opened a running account with each. 

"Jan. 2.-Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his toe. Doubled his fist and 
knocked me down. Good!-got up again. Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I 
want the damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock down we can't lay 
them at more than five hundred. Mem-must get rid of Bag-no system at all. 

"Jan. 3-Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting in a side box, in the second 
tier, between a fat lady and a lean one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, 
till I saw the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the box, and put my 
nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn't pull it-no go. Blew it, and tried again-no go. Sat 
down then, and winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of finding him 
lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over into the pit. Neck dislocated, and 
right leg capitally splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne, and 
booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it'll do. 

"Feb. 15-Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in Journal-fifty cents- 
which see. 

"Feb. 16.-Cast by that ruffian. Gruff, who made me a present of five dollars. Costs of 
suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents. Nett profit,-see Joumal,-seventy-five cents." 



Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less than one dollar and twenty- 
five cents-this is in the mere cases of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader 
that these extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book. 

It's an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is nothing in comparison with 
health. I found the exactions of the profession somewhat too much for my delicate state 
of body; and, discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so that I didn't 
know very well what to make of the matter, and so that my friends, when they met me in 
the street, couldn't tell that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best 
expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I turned my attention, therefore, 
to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it for some years. 

The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a fancy to it, and the 
competition is in consequence excessive. Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he 
hasn't brains in sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or an eye- sore 
prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course, that he'll answer very well as a dabbler of 
mud. But there never was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no brains 
to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in this way without method. I did 
only a retail business myself, but my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. 
I selected my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation, and I never put 
down a broom in any part of the town but that. I took care, too, to have a nice little 
puddle at hand, which I could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known 
as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me tell you, in trade. Nobody 
ever failed to pitch me a copper, and got over my crossing with a clean pair of 
pantaloons. And, as my business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I 
never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn't have put up with it, if I had. Never 
imposing upon any one myself, I suffered no one to play the possum with me. The frauds 
of the banks of course I couldn't help. Their suspension put me to ruinous inconvenience. 
These, however, are not individuals, but corporations; and corporations, it is very well 
known, have neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned. 

I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I was induced to merge it 
in the Cur-Spattering-a somewhat analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a 
profession. My location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I had capital 
blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He 
had been in the trade a long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was 
this:-Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end at the shop door, until 
he observed a dandy approaching in bright boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and 
gave the Wellingtons a rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and 
looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view, with blacking and brushes. It 
was only a minute's work, and then came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a 
time;-in fact, I was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the profit, 
but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn't stand-so we quarrelled and parted. 

I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may say that I made out 
pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward business, and requires no particular abilities. You 



can get a music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but to open the 
works, and give them three or four smart raps with a hammer. In improves the tone of the 
thing, for business purposes, more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to 
stroll along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the street, and a knocker 
wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and grind; looking as if you meant to stop and 
grind till doomsday. Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence, 
with a request to "Hush up and go on," etc. I am aware that some grinders have actually 
afforded to "go on" for this sum; but for my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital 
too great to permit of my "going on" under a shilling. 

At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not quite satisfied, and so 
finally abandoned it. The truth is, I labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey- 
and American streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive, and so full 
of demnition mischievous little boys. 

I was now out of employment for some months, but at length succeeded, by dint of great 
interest, in procuring a situation in the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not 
altogether unprofitable. For example:-very early in the morning I had to make up my 
packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of these I had to scrawl a few lines on any 
subject which occurred to me as sufficiently mysterious-signing all the epistles Tom 
Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded and sealed all, and 
stamped them with sham postmarks-New Orleans, Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other 
place a great way off-I set out, forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. 
I always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and receive the postage. Nobody 
hesitates at paying for a letter-especially for a double one-people are such fools-and it 
was no trouble to get round a comer before there was time to open the epistles. The worst 
of this profession was, that I had to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary 
my route. Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can't bear to hear innocent 
individuals abused-and the way the whole town took to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby 
Tompkins was really awful to hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust. 

My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I have found that a 
most pleasant and lucrative business, and, really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well 
known, has become infested with cats-so much so of late, that a petition for relief, most 
numerously and respectably signed, was brought before the Legislature at its late 
memorable session. The Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, 
having passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all with the Cat- 
Act. In its original form, this law offered a premium for cat- heads (fourpence a-piece), 
but the Senate succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the word "tails" 
for "heads." This amendment was so obviously proper, that the House concurred in it 
nem. con. 

As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole estate in the purchase of 
Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), 
but they fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that I at length 
considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so indulged them in oysters and turtle. 



Their tails, at a legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have discovered a 
way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force three crops in a year. It delights me 
to find, too, that the animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have the 
appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself, therefore, a made man, and am 
bargaining for a country seat on the Hudson. 

THE END 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1846 



THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured 
upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not 
suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was 
a point definitely, settled —but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved 
precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is 
unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the 
avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. 

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt 
my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that 
my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation. 

He had a weak point —this Fortunato —although in other regards he was a man to be 
respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few 
Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit 
the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian 
millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but 
in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him 
materially; -I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I 
could. 

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I 
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking 
much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head 
was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I 
should never have done wringing his hand. 

I said to him —"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are 
looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my 
doubts." 

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!" 

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price 
without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of 
losing a bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 



"I have my doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And I must satisfy them." 

"Amontillado!" 

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. 
He will tell me--" 

"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." 

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. 

"Come, let us go." 

"Whither?" 

"To your vaults." 

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an 
engagement. Luchresi—" 

"I have no engagement; —come." 

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you 
are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." 

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been 
imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black 
silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my 
palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the 
time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them 
explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to 
insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. 

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him 
through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a 
long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at 
length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the 
catacombs of the Montresors. 



The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. 

"The pipe," he said. 

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these 
cavern walls." 

He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the 
rheum of intoxication. 



"Nitre?" he asked, at length. 

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" 

"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! -ugh! ugh! ugh! -ugh! ugh! ugh! -ugh! ugh! ugh!" 

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. 

"It is nothing," he said, at last. 

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, 
respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. 
For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. 
Besides, there is Luchresi — " 

"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a 
cough." 

"True —true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily - 
but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the 
damps. 

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that 
lay upon the mould. 



"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. 

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells 
jingled. 

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." 

"And I to your long life." 

He again took my arm, and we proceeded. 



"These vaults," he said, "are extensive." 

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." 

"I forget your arms." 

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs 
are imbedded in the heel." 

"And the motto?" 

"Nemo me impune lacessit." 

"Good!" he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the 
Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons 
intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I 
made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. 

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below 
the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back 
ere it is too late. Your cough — " 

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." 

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed 
with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not 
understand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement —a grotesque one. 

"You do not comprehend?" he said. 

"Not I," I replied. 

"Then you are not of the brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You are not of the masons." 

"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." 

"You? Impossible! A mason?" 



"A mason," I replied. 

"A sign," he said, "a sign." 

"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. 

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." 

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He 
leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed 
through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a 
deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than 
flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had 
been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great 
catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this 
manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously 
upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed 
by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about 
four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no 
especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal 
supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing 
walls of solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of 
the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. 

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi — " 

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I 
followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the 
extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly 
bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two 
iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these 
depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it 
was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. 
Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. 

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is 
very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave 
you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." 

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. 

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado." 



As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before 
spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. 
With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the 
entrance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of 
Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low 
moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was 
then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and 
then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, 
during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours 
and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, 
and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was 
now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over 
the mason- work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. 

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained 
form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. 
Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an 
instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt 
satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re- 
echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer 
grew still. 

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the 
ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there 
remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I 
placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low 
laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had 
difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said— 

"Ha! ha! ha! —he! he! he! —a very good joke, indeed —an excellent jest. We will have 
many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo —he! he! he! —over our wine —he! he! he!" 

"The Amontillado!" I said. 

"He! he! he! —he! he! he! —yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they 
be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." 



"Yes," I said, "let us be gone." 

"For the love of God, Montresor!" 

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" 

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud 



"Fortunato!" 

No answer. I called again — 

"Fortunato!" 

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. 
There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the 
dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I 
forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re- 
erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. 
In pace requiescat! 

THE END 



THE CITY IN THE SEA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1831 



Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 

Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters he. 

No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently- 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- 
Up domes-up spires-up kingly halls- 
Up fanes-up Babylon-like walls- 
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air. 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves; 
But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol's diamond eye- 
Not the gaily -jewelled dead 
Tempt the waters from their bed; 
For no ripples curl, alas! 



Along that wilderness of glass- 
No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea- 
No heavings hint that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 

But lo, a stir is in the air! 
The wave-there is a movement there! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In slightly sinking, the dull tide- 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven. 
The waves have now a redder glow- 
The hours are breathing faint and low- 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence. 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones. 
Shall do it reverence. 

THE END 



THE COLISEUM 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1833 



Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
By buried centuries of pomp and power! 
At length-at length-after so many days 
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) 
I kneel, an altered and an humble man. 
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! 

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! 
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! 
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength- 
O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king 
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! 
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! 

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! 

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! 

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! 

Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled. 

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home. 

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon. 

The swift and silent lizard of the stones! 

But stay! these walls-these ivy-clad arcades- 
These moldering plinths-these sad and blackened shafts- 
These vague entablatures-this crumbling frieze- 
These shattered cornices-this wreck-this ruin- 
These stones-alas! these grey stones-are they all- 
All of the famed, and the colossal left 
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? 

"Not aU"-the Echoes answer me-"not all! 
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 



From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise. 
As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
We rule the hearts of mightiest men-we rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not impotent-we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone-not all our fame- 
Not all the magic of our high renown- 
Not all the wonder that encircles us- 
Not all the mysteries that in us lie- 
Not all the memories that hang upon 
And cling around about us as a garment. 
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." 

THE END 



THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



1850 



These things are in the future. 
SOPHOCLES-Antig. 

UNA. "Bom again?" 

MONOS. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words upon 
whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the 
priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the secret. 

UNA. Death! 

MONOS. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in 
your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the 
majestic novelty of the Life Etemal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how 
singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing 
a mildew upon all pleasures! 

UNA. Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose 
ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to 
human bliss, saying unto it "thus far and no further!" That eamest mutual love, my own 
Monos, which burned within our bosoms-how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling 
happy in its first upspringing, that our happiness would strengthen with its strength! Alas! 
as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to 
separate us forever! Thus, in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been 
mercy then. 

MONOS. Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una-mine, mine, forever now! 

UNA. But the memory of past sorrow-is it not present joy? I have much to say yet of the 
things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the incidents of your own passage 
through the dark Valley and Shadow. 

MONOS. And when did the radiant Una ask any thing of her Monos in vain? I will be 
minute in relating ail-but at what point shall the weird narrative begin? 

UNA. At what point? 

MONOS. You have said. 



UNA. Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity of man to 
define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with the moment of life's 
cessation-but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned 
you, you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid 
eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. 

MONOS. One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this epoch. 
You will remember that one or two of the wise among our forefathers-wise in fact, 
although not in the world's esteem-had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term 
"improvement," as applied to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each 
of the five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some 
vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth appears now, to our 
disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious-principles which should have taught our race 
to submit to the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their control. At long 
intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance in practical science as 
a retro-gradation in the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect-that intellect which 
we now feel to have been the most exalted of ail-since those truths which to us were of 
the most enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in 
proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to the unaided reason bears no weight- 
occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague 
idea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, 
and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct intimation that knowledge was not 
meet for man in the infant condition of his soul. And these men, the poets, living and 
perishing amid the scorn of the "utilitarians"-or rough pedants, who arrogated to 
themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the scorned- these men, 
the poets, ponder piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were 
not more simple than our enjoyments were keen-days when mirth was a word unknown, 
so solemnly deep-toned was happiness-holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers 
ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and 
unexplored. 

Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by 
opposition. Alas! we had f Allan upon the most evil of all our evil days. The great 
"movement"-that was the cant term- went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. 
Art-the Arts- arose supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which 
had elevated them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of 
Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still increasing dominion over her 
elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came 
over him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with 
system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd 
ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of analogy and of God-in 
despite of the loud warning voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading all things 
in Earth and Heaven-wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy were made. Yet this 
evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil-Knowledge. Man could not both know and 
succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before 
the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages of 



some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the 
forced and of the farfetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that we had 
worked out our own destruction in the perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind 
neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that taste alone-that 
faculty which, holding a middle position between the pure intellect and the moral sense, 
could never safely have been disregarded-it was now that taste alone could have led us 
gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure contemplative spirit 
and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the mousika which he justly regarded as an all 
sufficient education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!-since both were most 
desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or despised.* 

* It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that which the experience 
of so many ages has already discovered; and this may be summed up as consisting in 
gymnastics for the body and music for the soul."-Repub. lib. 2. "For this reason is a 
musical education most essential; since it causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most 
intimately into the soul, taking the strangest hold upon it, filling it with beauty and 
making the man beautiful-minded... He will praise and admire the beautiful; will receive 
it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it, and assimilate his own condition with it." Ibid, 
lib. 3. Music mousika had, among the Athenians, a far more comprehensive signification 
than with us. It included not only the harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic 
diction, sentiment and creation each in its widest sense. The study of music was with 
them in fact, the general cultivation of the taste-of that which recognizes the beautiful-in 
contra-distinction from reason, which deals only with the true. 

Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how truly!- "que tout notre 
raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment," and it is not impossible that the sentiment 
of the natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendancy over the 
harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was not to be. Prematurely 
induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old age of the world drew on. This the mass 
of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for 
myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of highest 
civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the simple 
and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more 
crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In history* of these regions I met with 
a ray from the Future. The individual artificialities of the three latter were local diseases 
of the Earth, and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied; but 
for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration save in death. That man, 
as a race, should not become extinct, I saw that he must be "born again." 

* "History," from istorein, to contemplate. 

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits, daily, in dreams. Now it 
was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the days to come, when the Art- scarred surface of 
the Earth, having undergone that purification* which alone could efface its rectangular 
obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the 
smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for man:-for 



man the Death-purged-for man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in 
knowledge no more-for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still 
for the material, man. 

* The word "purification" seems here to be used with reference to its root in the Greek, 
pur, fire. 

UNA. Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of the fiery 
overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the corruption you indicate did 
surely warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died individually. You yourself sickened, 
and passed into the grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And 
though the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus together 
once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of duration, yet, my 
Monos, it was a century still. 

MONOS. Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in the Earth's 
dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which had their origin in the general 
turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and 
many of dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook 
for pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you-after some days there came 
upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death 
by those who stood around me. 

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience. It appeared to me 
not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and 
profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer noon, begins to steal 
slowly back into consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without 
being awakened by external disturbances. 

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to beat. Volition had not 
departed, but was powerless. The senses were unusually active, although eccentrically 
so-assuming often each other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were 
inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The 
rosewater with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the last, affected me with 
sweet fancies of flowers-fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but 
whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The eyelids, transparent and 
bloodless, offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance the 
balls could not roll in their sockets-but all objects within the range of the visual 
hemisphere were seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which fell upon the 
external retina, or into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those 
which struck the front or anterior surface. Yet, in the former instance, this effect was so 
far anomalous that I appreciated it only as sound-sound sweet or discordant as the 
matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in shade-curved or angular in 
outline. The hearing at the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in 
action-estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision, not less than of 
sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were 



tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest physical 
pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only 
recognized through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled my whole being with 
a sensual delight immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my perceptions were 
purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the senses were not in the 
least degree wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain there was some 
little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your 
wild sobs floated into my ears with all their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in 
their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no more; they 
conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while 
the large and constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a heart 
which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And this was in truth 
the Death of which these bystanders spoke reverently, in low whispers-you, sweet Una, 
gaspingly, with loud cries. 

They attired me for the coffin-three or four dark figures which flitted busily to and fro. 
As these crossed the direct line of my vision they affected me as forms; but upon passing 
to my side their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and other dismal 
expressions of terror, of horror, or of wo. You alone, habited in a white robe, passed in all 
directions musically about me. 

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a vague uneasiness- 
an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall continuously within his ear- 
low distant bell tones, solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with 
melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It oppressed 
my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a 
moaning sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which 
beginning with the first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights 
were brought into the room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted into 
frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary and less distinct. The 
ponderous oppression was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of 
each lamp, (for there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of 
melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay 
outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor from your sweet lips, and 
pressing them upon my brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling 
with the merely physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something 
akin to sentiment itself-a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded to your earnest 
love and sorrow,-but this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and seemed indeed 
rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and 
then into a purely sensual pleasure as before. 

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there appeared to have arisen 
within me a sixth, all perfect. In its exercise I found a wild delight yet a delight still 
physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal frame had 
fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed 
to have sprung up in the brain, that of which no words could convey to the merely human 



intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous pulsation. It 
was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization 
of this movement-or of such as this-had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves, 
been adjusted. By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of 
the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The slightest 
deviation from the true proportion-and these deviations were omni-prevalent-affected 
me just as violations of abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. 
Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck individual seconds accurately 
together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective 
momentary errors of each. And this-this keen, perfect, self-existing sentiment of 
duration-this sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) 
independently of any succession of events-this idea-this sixth sense, upspringing from 
the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the 
threshold of the temporal Eternity. 

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed from the chamber 
of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I 
knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these strains 
diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils 
died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted 
itself from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my frame, and was 
followed by total loss of the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was 
merged in the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration. 
The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the deadly Decay. 

Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the sentiment remaining 
supplied some of its functions by a lethargic intuition. I appreciated the direful change 
now in operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily 
presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you sat by my 
side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those 
movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me within the coffin, 
which deposited me within the hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me 
within it, which heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness 
and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. 

And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, they rolled away days 
and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly each second as it flew, and, 
without effort, took record of its flight- without effort and without object. 

A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more indistinct, and that of 
mere locality had, in great measure, usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming 
merged in that of place. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the 
body, was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often happens to the sleeper 
(by sleep and its world alone is Death imaged)-at length, as sometimes happened on 
Earth to the deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking, yet 
left him half enveloped in dreams-so to me, in the strict embrace of the Shadow, came 



that light which alone might have had power to startle-the light of enduring Love. Men 
toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They up threw the damp earth. Upon my 
mouldering bones there descended the coffin of Una. 

And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill 
had vibrated itself into quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had returned to 
dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being at length utterly departed, and 
there reigned in its stead-instead of all things- dominant and perpetual-the autocrats 
Place and Time. For that which was not-for that which had no form-for that which had 
no thought- for that which had no sentience-for that which was soulless, yet of which 
matter formed no portion-for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave 
was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates. 

THE END 



THE CONQUEROR WORM 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



1843 



Lo ! 'tis a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years! 

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears. 

Sit in a theatre, to see 

A play of hopes and fears. 

While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high. 
Mutter and mumble low. 
And hither and thither fly- 
Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 
That shift the scenery to and fro. 
Flapping from out their Condor wings 
Invisible Woe! 

That motley drama-oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot! 

With its Phantom chased for evermore. 

By a crowd that seize it not. 

Through a circle that ever retumeth in 

To the self-same spot. 

And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see, amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude! 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude! 

It writhes !-it writhes !-with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food. 

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out-out are the lights-out all! 
And, over each quivering form. 



The curtain, a funeral pall, 

Comes down with the rush of a storm. 

While the angels, all pallid and wan. 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 

That the play is the tragedy, "Man," 

And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 

THE END 



THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



/ will bring fire to thee. 
EURIPIDES Andiom. 

EIROS. Why do you call me Eiros? 

CHARMION. So henceforth will you always be called. You must forget, too, my earthly 
name, and speak to me as Charmion. 

EIROS. This is indeed no dream! 

CHARMION. Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to see 
you looking like-life and rational. The film of the shadow has already passed from off 
your eyes. Be of heart and fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired; and, 
to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel 
existence. 

EIROS. True, I feel no stupor, none at all. The wild sickness and the terrible darkness 
have left me, and I hear no longer that mad, rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of 
many waters." Yet my senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their 
perception of the new. 

CHARMION. A few days will remove all this;-but I fully understand you, and feel for 
you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you undergo, yet the 
remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now suffered all of pain, however, which 
you will suffer in Aidenn. 

EIROS. In Aidenn? 

CHARMION. In Aidenn. 

EIROS. Oh, God!-pity me, Charmion!-I am overburthened with the majesty of all 
things-of the unknown now known-of the speculative Future merged in the august and 
certain Present. 

CHARMION. Grapple not now with such thoughts. Tomorrow we will speak of this. 
Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise of simple memories. 
Look not around, nor forward-but back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of 



that stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of 
familiar things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so fearfully perished. 

EIROS. Most fearfully, fearfully !-this is indeed no dream. 

CHARMION. Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros? 

EIROS. Mourned, Charmion?-oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there hung a cloud of 
intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household. 

CHARMION. And that last hour-speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact of 
the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among mankind, I passed 
into Night through the Grave-at that period, if I remember aright, the calamity which 
overwhelmed you was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative 
philosophy of the day. 

EIROS. The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but analogous 
misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with astronomers. I need scarce tell 
you, my friend, that, even when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages 
in the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire, as 
having reference to the orb of the earth alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of 
the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical knowledge in 
which the comets were divested of the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of 
these bodies had been well established. They had been observed to pass among the 
satellites of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either in the masses or 
in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had long regarded the wanderers as vapory 
creations of inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our 
substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not in any degree 
dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were accurately known. That among them we 
should look for the agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years 
considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been, of late days, 
strangely rife among mankind; and although it was only with a few of the ignorant that 
actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a new comet, 
yet this announcement was generally received with I know not what of agitation and 
mistrust. 

The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it was at once 
conceded by all observers, that its path, at perihelion, would bring it into very close 
proximity with the earth. There were two or three astronomers, of secondary note, who 
resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the 
effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they would not believe an 
assertion which their intellect, so long employed among worldly considerations, could 
not in any manner grasp. But the truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into 
the understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical 
knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was not, at first, seemingly 
rapid; nor was its appearance of very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little 



perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase in its apparent 
diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color. Meantime the ordinary affairs of men 
were discarded, and all interests absorbed in a growing discussion, instituted by the 
philosophic, in respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused their 
sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect-their 
soul-to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They 
sought- they panted for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose 
in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed down and 
adored. 

That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result from the apprehended 
contact, was an opinion which hourly lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now 
freely permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated, that 
the density of the comet's nucleus was far less than that of our rarest gas; and the 
harmless passage of a similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly 
insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness 
fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people 
with a directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been known. That the 
final destruction of the earth must be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with 
a spirit that enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery nature 
(as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a great measure, from the 
apprehension of the great calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices 
and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars-errors which were wont to prevail 
upon every appearance of a comet-were now altogether unknown. As if by some sudden 
convulsive exertion, reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The feeblest 
intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest. 

What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate question. The 
learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and 
consequently in vegetation; of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that 
no visible or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such discussions 
were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent diameter, 
and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as it came. All human operations were 
suspended. There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the comet 
had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any previously recorded visitation. The 
people now, dismissing any lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced 
all the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The hearts of the 
stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, 
however, to merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable. We could no 
longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes had 
disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an 
astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and a 
shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable rapidity, the character of a 
gigantic mantle of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon. 



Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we were already 
within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of 
frame and vivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was 
apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our 
vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, 
in the foresight of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst 
out upon every vegetable thing. 

Yet another day-and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now evident that its 
nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come over all men; and the first sense of 
pain was the wild signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of pain lay in 
a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable dryness of the skin. It 
could not be denied that our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this 
atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the 
topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest 
terror through the universal heart of man. 

It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound of oxygen and 
nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of 
nitrogen, in every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of 
combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal 
life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, 
was incapable of supporting either animal life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen 
would result, it had been ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we 
had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea, which had 
engendered awe. What would be the result of a total extraction of the nitrogen? A 
combustion irresistible, all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate; the entire fulfillment, 
in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror- inspiring denunciations of 
the prophecies of the Holy Book. 

Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind? That tenuity in 
the comet which had previously inspired us with hope, was now the source of the 
bitterness of despair. In its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the 
consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed, bearing away with it the last 
shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood bounded 
tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and, with 
arms rigidly outstretched toward the threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked 
aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder 
while I speak. Let me be brief-brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a moment there 
was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating all things. Then-let us bow down, 
Charmion, before the excessive majesty of the great God!-then, there came a shouting 
and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent 
mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose 
surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the high Heaven of pure 
knowledge have no name. Thus ended all. 



THE DAGUERREOTYPE 



by Edgar Allan Poe 

(1840) 

Alexander's Weekly Messenger, Jan. 15, 1840, p. 2. 

THIS WORD is properly spelt Daguerreotype, and pronounced as if written 
Dagairraioteep. The inventor's name is Daguerre, but the French usage requires an accent 
on the second e, in the formation of the compound term. 

The instrument itself must undoubtedly be regarded as the most important, and perhaps 
the most extraordinary triumph of modern science. We have not now space to touch upon 
the history of the invention, the earliest idea of which is derived from the camera 
obscure, and even the minute details of the process of photogeny (from Greek words 
signifying sun-painting) are too long for our present purpose. We may say in brief, 
however, that a plate of silver upon copper is prepared, presenting a surface for the action 
of the light, of the most delicate texture conceivable. A high polish being given this plate 
by means of a steatitic calcareous stone (called Daguerreolite) and containing equal parts 
of steatite and carbonate of lime, the fine surface is then iodized by being placed over a 
vessel containing iodine, until the whole assumes a tint of pale yellow. The plate is then 
deposited in a camera obscure, and the lens of this instrument directed to the object which 
it is required to paint. The action of the light does the rest. The length of time requisite for 
the operation varies according to the hour of the day, and the state of the weather— the 
general period being from ten to thirty minutes— experience alone suggesting the proper 
moment of removal. When taken out, the plate does not at first appear to have received a 
definite impression— some short processes, however, develope it in the most miraculous 
beauty. All language must fall short of conveying any just idea of the truth, and this will 
not appear so wonderful when we reflect that the source of vision itself has been, in this 
instance, the designer. Perhaps, if we imagine the distinctness with which an object is 
reflected in a positively perfect mirror, we come as near the reality as by any other 
means. For, in truth, the Daguerreotyped plate is infinitely (we use the term advisedly) is 
infinitely more accurate in its representation than any painting by human hands. If we 
examine a work of ordinary art, by means of a powerful microscope, all traces of 
resemblance to nature will disappear-but the closest scrutiny of the photogenic drawing 
discloses only a more absolute truth, a more perfect identity of aspect with the thing rep 
resented. The variations of shade, and the gradations of both linear and aerial perspective 
are those of truth itself in the supremeness of its perfection. 

The results of the invention cannot, even remotely, be seen— but all experience, in 
matters of philosophical discovery, teaches us that, in such discovery, it is the unforeseen 
upon which we must calculate most largely. It is a theorem almost demonstrated, that the 
consequences of any new scientific invention will, at the present day exceed, by very 
much, the wildest expectations of the most imaginative. Among the obvious advantages 
derivable from the Daguerreotype, we may mention that, by its aid, the height of 



inaccessible elevations may in many cases be immediately ascertained, since it will 
afford an absolute perspective of objects in such situations, and that the drawing of a 
correct lunar chart will be at once accomplished, since the rays of this luminary are found 
to be appreciated by the plate. 

Transcription by David Phillips 

- THE END -- 



THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

What o'clock is it? 
Old Saying. 

EVERYBODY knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the world is-or, alas, 
was-the Dutch borough of Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of 
the main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there are perhaps very few 
of my readers who have ever paid it a visit. For the benefit of those who have not, 
therefore, it will be only proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is 
indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public sympathy in behalf of the 
inhabitants, I design here to give a history of the calamitous events which have so lately 
occurred within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty thus self- 
imposed will be executed to the best of my ability, with all that rigid impartiality, all that 
cautious examination into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should ever 
distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian. 

By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am enabled to say, 
positively, that the borough of Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in 
precisely the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of this origin, 
however, I grieve that I can only speak with that species of indefinite definiteness which 
mathematicians are, at times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The 
date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its antiquity, cannot be less than any 
assignable quantity whatsoever. 

Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I confess myself, with sorrow, 
equally at fault. Among a multitude of opinions upon this delicate point-some acute, 
some learned, some sufficiently the reverse-I am able to select nothing which ought to be 
considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of Grogswigg-nearly coincident with that of 
Kroutaplenttey-is to be cautiously preferred.-It runs:-Vondervotteimittis-Vonder, lege 
Donder- Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz-Bleitziz obsol:-pro Blitzen." This derivative, to 
say the truth, is still countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the 
summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not choose, however, to 
commit myself on a theme of such importance, and must refer the reader desirous of 
information to the "Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris," of Dundergutz. See, also, 
Blunderbuzzard "De Derivationibus," pp. 27 to 5010, Folio, Gothic edit.. Red and Black 
character. Catch-word and No Cypher; wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the 
autograph of Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell. 

Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the foundation of 
Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name, there can be no doubt, as I said before, 
that it has always existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the borough can 
remember not the slightest difference in the appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, 
the very suggestion of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the village is 



in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a mile in circumference, and entirely 
surrounded by gentle hills, over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to 
pass. For this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe there is anything 
at all on the other side. 

Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved throughout with flat tiles), 
extends a continuous row of sixty little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, 
must look, of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards from the front 
door of each dwelling. Every house has a small garden before it, with a circular path, a 
sun-dial, and twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely alike, that 
one can in no manner be distinguished from the other. Owing to the vast antiquity, the 
style of architecture is somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly 
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks, red, with black ends, so that 
the walls look like a chess-board upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, 
and there are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves and over the main 
doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. 
On the roof is a vast quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout, is 
of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a trifling variety of pattern for, 
time out of mind, the carvers of Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more 
than two objects-a time -piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly well, and 
intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever they find room for the chisel. 

The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture is all upon one plan. The 
floors are of square tiles, the chairs and tables of black- looking wood with thin crooked 
legs and puppy feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only time-pieces 
and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real time-piece, which makes a prodigious 
ticking, on the top in the middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each 
extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the time-piece, again, is a little 
China man having a large stomach with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the 
dial-plate of a watch. 

The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking fire-dogs. There is 
constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the 
good woman of the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old lady, with 
blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple 
and yellow ribbons. Her dress is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind 
and very short in the waist-and indeed very short in other respects, not reaching below 
the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick, and so are her ankles, but she has a fine 
pair of green stockings to cover them. Her shoes-of pink leather-are fastened each with a 
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In her left hand she has a 
little heavy Dutch watch; in her right she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By 
her side there stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its tail, which "the 
boys" have there fastened by way of a quiz. 

The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden attending the pig. They are each 
two feet in height. They have three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching 



down to their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes with big silver 
buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in 
his mouth, and a little dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and 
then a look and a puff. The pig-which is corpulent and lazy-is occupied now in picking 
up the stray leaves that fall from the cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt 
repeater, which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him look as 
handsome as the cat. 

Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed chair, with crooked legs 
and puppy feet like the tables, is seated the old man of the house himself. He is an 
exceedingly puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge double chin. His 
dress resembles that of the boys-and I need say nothing farther about it. All the 
difference is, that his pipe is somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater 
smoke. Like them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To say the truth, 
he has something of more importance than a watch to attend to-and what that is, I shall 
presently explain. He sits with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave 
countenance, and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon a certain 
remarkable object in the centre of the plain. 

This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town Council. The Town 
Council are all very little, round, oily, intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat 
double chins, and have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger than 
the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my sojourn in the borough, they 
have had several special meetings, and have adopted these three important resolutions: 

"That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:" 

"That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:" and- 

"That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages." 

Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the steeple is the belfry, 
where exists, and has existed time out of mind, the pride and wonder of the village-the 
great clock of the borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which the 
eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the leather-bottomed arm-chairs. 

The great clock has seven faces-one in each of the seven sides of the steeple-so that it 
can be readily seen from all quarters. Its faces are large and white, and its hands heavy 
and black. There is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty is the 
most perfect of sinecures-for the clock of Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to 
have anything the matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a thing was 
considered heretical. From the remotest period of antiquity to which the archives have 
reference, the hours have been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was 
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the borough. Never was such a 
place for keeping the true time. When the large clapper thought proper to say "Twelve 
o'clock!" all its obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and responded 
like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond of their sauer-kraut, but then they 
were proud of their clocks. 



All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less respect, and as the belfry- 
man of Vondervotteimittiss has the most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly 
respected of any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough, and the very 
pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence. His coat-tail is very far longer-his 
pipe, his shoe-buckles, his eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger-than those of any other 
old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only double, but triple. 

I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss: alas, that so fair a picture 
should ever experience a reverse! 

There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that "no good can come from 
over the hills"; and it really seemed that the words had in them something of the spirit of 
prophecy. It wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when there 
appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the ridge of the eastward. Such an 
occurrence, of course, attracted universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat 
in a leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of dismay upon the 
phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the clock in the steeple. 

By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll object in question was 
perceived to be a very diminutive foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a 
great rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was really the most finicky 
little personage that had ever been seen in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a 
dark snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide mouth, and an 
excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed anxious of displaying, as he was grinning 
from ear to ear. What with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his 
face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done up in papillotes. His 
dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a 
vast length of white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black stockings, and 
stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black satin ribbon for bows. Under one 
arm he carried a huge chapeau-de-bras, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times as 
big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from which, as he capered down the 
hill, cutting all manner of fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the 
greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!-here was a sight for the honest burghers 
of Vondervotteimittiss! 

To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an audacious and sinister kind 
of face; and as he curvetted right into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps 
excited no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day would have 
given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric handkerchief which hung so 
obtrusively from the pocket of his swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a 
righteous indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a fandango here, 
and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the remotest idea in the world of such a thing 
as keeping time in his steps. 

The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to get their eyes 
thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I 



say, right into the midst of them; gave a chassez here, and a balancez there; and then, 
after a pirouette and a pas-de-zephyr, pigeon- winged himself right up into the belfry of 
the House of the Town Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a 
state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at once by the nose; gave it a 
swing and a pull; clapped the big chapeau de-bras upon his head; knocked it down over 
his eyes and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it so long and so 
soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you 
would have sworn that there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the 
devil's tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of Vondervotteimittiss. 

There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this unprincipled attack might 
have aroused the inhabitants, but for the important fact that it now wanted only half a 
second of noon. The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and pre- 
eminent necessity that every body should look well at his watch. It was evident, however, 
that just at this moment the fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no 
business to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had any time to 
attend to his manoeuvres, for they had all to count the strokes of the bell as it sounded. 

"One!" said the clock. 



"Von!" echoed every little old gentleman in every leather-bottomed arm-chair in 
Vondervotteimittiss. "Von!" said his watch also; "von!" said the watch of his vrow; and 
"von!" said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on the tails of the cat and 
pig- 



"Two!" continued the big bell; and 

"Doo!" repeated all the repeaters. 

"Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!" said the bell. 

"Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!" answered the others. 

"Eleven!" said the big one. 

"Eleben!" assented the little ones. 

"Twelve!" said the bell. 

"Dvelf ! " they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their voices. 

"Und dvelf it is!" said all the little old gentlemen, putting up their watches. But the big 
bell had not done with them yet. 

"Thirteen!" said he. 



"Der Teufel!" gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale, dropping their pipes, and 
putting down all their right legs from over their left knees. 

"Der Teufel!" groaned they, "Dirteen! Dirteen!!-Mein Gott, it is Dirteen o'clock!!" 

Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All Vondervotteimittiss flew at 
once into a lamentable state of uproar. 

"Vot is cum'd to mein pelly?" roared all the boys-"rve been ongry for dis hour!" 

"Vot is com'd to mein kraut?" screamed all the vrows, "It has been done to rags for this 
hour!" 

"Vot is cum'd to mein pipe?" swore all the little old gentlemen, "Bonder and Blitzen; it 
has been smoked out for dis hour! "-and they filled them up again in a great rage, and 
sinking back in their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the whole valley 
was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke. 

Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it seemed as if old Nick 
himself had taken possession of every thing in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks 
carved upon the furniture took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the mantel- 
pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and kept such a continual striking of 
thirteen, and such a frisking and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to 
see. But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up any longer with the 
behavior of the little repeaters tied to their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the 
place, scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and caterwauling and 
squalling, and flying into the faces, and running under the petticoats of the people, and 
creating altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is possible for a 
reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters still more distressing, the rascally 
little scape-grace in the steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now 
and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the smoke. There he sat in 
the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain 
held the bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising such a clatter that 
my ears ring again even to think of it. On his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was 
scraping, out of all time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the 
nincompoop! of playing "Judy O'Flannagan and Paddy O'Rafferty." 

Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in disgust, and now appeal for aid to 
all lovers of correct time and fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and 
restore the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting that little fellow 
from the steeple. 

THE END 



THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



The garden like a lady fair was cut, 

That lay as if she slumbered in delight, 

And to the open skies her eyes did shut. 

The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right 

In a large round, set with the flowers of light. 

The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew. 

That hung upon their azure leaves did shew 

Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue. 

—Giles Fletcher 

FROM his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison along. Nor do I 
use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I mean it as synonymous with 
happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed bom for the purpose of foreshadowing 
the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet-of exemplifying by individual 
instance what has been deemed the chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of 
Ellison I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man's very nature lies some 
hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An anxious examination of his career has given 
me to understand that in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity 
arises the wretchedness of mankind-that as a species we have in our possession the as yet 
unwrought elements of content-and that, even now, in the present darkness and madness 
of all thought on the great question of the social condition, it is not impossible that man, 
the individual, under certain unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, may be happy. 

With opinions such as these my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and thus it is worthy 
of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was, in great 
measure, the result of preconcert. It is indeed evident that with less of the instinctive 
philosophy which, now and then, stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison 
would have found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary success of his life, into 
the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for those of pre-eminent endowments. 
But it is by no means my object to pen an essay on happiness. The ideas of my friend 
may be summed up in a few words. He admitted but four elementary principles, or more 
strictly, conditions of bliss. That which he considered chief was (strange to say!) the 
simple and purely physical one of free exercise in the open air. "The health," he said, 
"attainable by other means is scarcely worth the name." He instanced the ecstasies of the 
fox-hunter, and pointed to the tillers of the earth, the only people who, as a class, can be 
fairly considered happier than others. His second condition was the love of woman. His 
third, and most difficult of realization, was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an 



object of unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal, the extent of 
attainable happiness was in proportion to the spirituality of this object. 

Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by 
fortune. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that order 
to which the acquisition of knowledge is less a labor than an intuition and a necessity. His 
family was one of the most illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most 
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but on the attainment of his 
majority, it was discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of fate had been played 
in his behalf which startle the whole social world amid which they occur, and seldom fail 
radically to alter the moral constitution of those who are their objects. 

It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison's coming of age, there had died, 
in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentleman had amassed a princely 
fortune, and, having no immediate connections, conceived the whim of suffering his 
wealth to accumulate for a century after his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing 
the various modes of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest of 
blood, bearing the name of Ellison, who should be alive at the end of the hundred years. 
Many attempts had been made to set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto 
character rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government was aroused, 
and a legislative act finally obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations. This act, 
however, did not prevent young Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first 
birthday, as the heir of his ancestor Seabright, of a fortune of four hundred and fifty 
millions of dollars.* 

* An incident, similar in outline to the one here imagined, occurred, not very long ago, in 
England. The name of the fortunate heir was Thelluson. I first saw an account of this 
matter in the "Tour" of Prince Puckler Muskau, who makes the sum inherited ninety 
millions of pounds, and justly observes that "in the contemplation of so vast a sum, and 
of the services to which it might be applied, there is something even of the sublime." To 
suit the views of this article I have followed the Prince's statement, although a grossly 
exaggerated one. The germ, and in fact, the commencement of the present paper was 
published many years ago-previous to the issue of the first number of Sue's admirable 
"Juif Errant," which may possibly have been suggested to him by Muskau's account. 

When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth inherited, there were, of 
course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal. The magnitude and the 
immediate availability of the sum bewildered all who thought on the topic. The possessor 
of any appreciable amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a 
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have been 
easy to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his 
time-or busying himself with political intrigue-or aiming at ministerial power-or 
purchasing increase of nobility-or collecting large museums of virtu- or playing the 
munificent patron of letters, of science, of art-or endowing, and bestowing his name upon 
extensive institutions of charity. But for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession 
of the heir, these objects and all ordinary objects were felt to afford too limited a field. 



Recourse was had to figures, and these but sufficed to confound. It was seen that, even at 
three per cent., the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less than thirteen 
millions and five hundred thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and 
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per 
day; or one thousand five hundred and forty-one per hour; or six and twenty dollars for 
every minute that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly broken up. 
Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr. Ellison 
would divest himself of at least one-half of his fortune, as of utterly superfluous 
opulence-enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of his superabundance. To 
the nearest of these he did, in fact, abandon the very unusual wealth which was his own 
before the inheritance. 

I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his mind on a point 
which had occasioned so much discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at 
the nature of his decision. In regard to individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. 
In the possibility of any improvement, properly so called, being effected by man himself 
in the general condition of man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little faith. Upon the 
whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back, in very great measure, upon 
self. 

In the widest and noblest sense he was a poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true 
character, the august aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. The 
fullest, if not the sole proper satisfaction of this sentiment he instinctively felt to lie in the 
creation of novel forms of beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his early education, or in 
the nature of his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism all his ethical 
speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led him to believe that the most 
advantageous at least, if not the sole legitimate field for the poetic exercise, lies in the 
creation of novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened he became 
neither musician nor poet-if we use this latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it 
might have been that he neglected to become either, merely in pursuance of his idea that 
in contempt of ambition is to be found one of the essential principles of happiness on 
earth. Is it not indeed, possible that, while a high order of genius is necessarily ambitious, 
the highest is above that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that 
many far greater than Milton have contentedly remained "mute and inglorious?" I believe 
that the world has never seen-and that, unless through some series of accidents goading 
the noblest order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never see- that full 
extent of triumphant execution, in the richer domains of art, of which the human nature is 
absolutely capable. 

Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more profoundly 
enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than those which invested 
him, it is not impossible that he would have become a painter. Sculpture, although in its 
nature rigorously poetical was too limited in its extent and consequences, to have 
occupied, at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces 
in which the common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it capable of 
expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest, the truest, and most natural, if not 



altogether the most extensive province, had been unaccountably neglected. No definition 
had spoken of the landscape-gardener as of the poet; yet it seemed to my friend that the 
creation of the landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most magnificent of 
opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the display of imagination in the 
endless combining of forms of novel beauty; the elements to enter into combination 
being, by a vast superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In the 
multiform and multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he recognised the most direct and 
energetic efforts of Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of 
this effort-or, more properly, in its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on 
earth-he perceived that he should be employing the best means-laboring to the greatest 
advantage-in the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as poet, but of the august 
purposes for which the Deity had implanted the poetic sentiment in man. 

"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In his explanation of this 
phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving what has always seemed to me an 
enigma:-I mean the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such combination 
of scenery exists in nature as the painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to 
be found in reality as have glowed on the canvas of Claude. In the most enchanting of 
natural landscapes, there will always be found a defect or an excess-many excesses and 
defects. While the component parts may defy, individually, the highest skill of the artist, 
the arrangement of these parts will always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no 
position can be attained on the wide surface of the natural earth, from which an artistical 
eye, looking steadily, will not find matter of offence in what is termed the "composition" 
of the landscape. And yet how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are justly 
instructed to regard nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition. Who 
shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the lily of 
the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or portraiture, that here nature is to be 
exalted or idealized rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or sculptural 
combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach the living and 
breathing beauty. In landscape alone is the principle of the critic true; and, having felt its 
truth here, it is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has led him to pronounce it 
true throughout all the domains of art. Having, I say, felt its truth here; for the feeling is 
no affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute demonstrations than 
the sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that 
such and such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter constitute and alone constitute 
the true beauty. His reasons, however, have not yet been matured into expression. It 
remains for a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to investigate and 
express them. Nevertheless he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions by the voice of all 
his brethren. Let a "composition" be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its mere 
arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to every artist in the world; by 
each will its necessity be admitted. And even far more than this:-in remedy of the 
defective composition, each insulated member of the fraternity would have suggested the 
identical emendation. 

I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature susceptible of 
exaltation, and that, therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point, was a 



mystery I had been unable to solve. My own thoughts on the subject had rested in the 
idea that the primitive intention of nature would have so arranged the earth's surface as to 
have fulfilled at all points man's sense of perfection in the beautiful, the sublime, or the 
picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been frustrated by the known geological 
disturbances-disturbances of form and color-grouping, in the correction or allaying of 
which lies the soul of art. The force of this idea was much weakened, however, by the 
necessity which it involved of considering the disturbances abnormal and unadapted to 
any purpose. It was Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He thus 
explained:-Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the first intention. We 
have then the primitive arrangement of the earth's surface adapted to his blissful estate, as 
not existent but designed. The disturbances were the preparations for his subsequently 
conceived deathful condition. 

"Now," said my friend, "what we regard as exaltation of the landscape may be really 
such, as respects only the moral or human point of view. Each alteration of the natural 
scenery may possibly effect a blemish in the picture, if we can suppose this picture 
viewed at large-in mass-from some point distant from the earth's surface, although not 
beyond the limits of its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve a 
closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general or more distantly 
observed effect. There may be a class of beings, human once, but now invisible to 
humanity, to whom, from afar, our disorder may seem order-our unpicturesqueness 
picturesque, in a word, the earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more especially than our 
own, and for whose death- refined appreciation of the beautiful, may have been set in 
array by God the wide landscape-gardens of the hemispheres." 

In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a writer on landscape- 
gardening who has been supposed to have well treated his theme: 

"There are properly but two styles of landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. 
One seeks to recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means to the 
surrounding scenery, cultivating trees in harmony with the hills or plain of the 
neighboring land; detecting and bringing into practice those nice relations of size, 
proportion, and color which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to 
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural style of gardening, is seen 
rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities-in the prevalence of a healthy 
harmony and order-than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial 
style has as many varieties as there are different tastes to gratify. It has a certain general 
relation to the various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and retirements of 
Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed old English style, which bears some 
relation to the domestic Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be 
said against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of pure art in a 
garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of 
order and design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered balustrade, calls 
up at once to the eye the fair forms that have passed there in other days. The slightest 
exhibition of art is an evidence of care and human interest." 



"From what I have already observed," said Ellison, "you will understand that I reject the 
idea, here expressed, of recalling the original beauty of the country. The original beauty 
is never so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, every thing depends on the 
selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said about detecting and bringing into 
practice nice relations of size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses of 
speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase quoted may mean any 
thing, or nothing, and guides in no degree. That the true result of the natural style of 
gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities than in the creation 
of any special wonders or miracles, is a proposition better suited to the grovelling 
apprehension of the herd than to the fervid dreams of the man of genius. The negative 
merit suggested appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate 
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue which consists in the mere avoidance 
of vice appeals directly to the understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in rule, the 
loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can be apprehended in its results alone. Rule 
applies but to the merits of denial-to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the 
critical art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build a "Cato," but we are in vain 
told how to conceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno." The thing done, however; the wonder 
accomplished; and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists of the 
negative school who, through inability to create, have scoffed at creation, are now found 
the loudest in applause. What, in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their 
demure reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort admiration from 
their instinct of beauty. 

"The author's observations on the artificial style," continued Ellison, "are less 
objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is 
just; as also is the reference to the sense of human interest. The principle expressed is 
incontrovertible-but there may be something beyond it. There may be an object in 
keeping with the principle-an object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed by 
individuals, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm to the landscape-garden far 
surpassing that which a sense of merely human interest could bestow. A poet, having 
very unusual pecuniary resources, might, while retaining the necessary idea of art or 
culture, or, as our author expresses it, of interest, so imbue his designs at once with extent 
and novelty of beauty, as to convey the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen 
that, in bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of interest or design, 
while relieving his work of the harshness or technicality of the worldly art. In the most 
rugged of wildernesses- in the most savage of the scenes of pure nature-there is apparent 
the art of a creator; yet this art is apparent to reflection only; in no respect has it the 
obvious force of a feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty design to be 
one step depressed-to be brought into something like harmony or consistency with the 
sense of human art-to form an intermedium between the two:-let us imagine, for 
example, a landscape whose combined vastness and definitiveness-whose united beauty, 
magnificence, and strangeness, shall convey the idea of care, or culture, or 
superintendence, on the part of beings superior, yet akin to humanity-then the sentiment 
of interest is preserved, while the art intervolved is made to assume the air of an 
intermediate or secondary nature-a nature which is not God, nor an emanation from God, 



but which still is nature in the sense of the handiwork of the angels that hover between 
man and God." 

It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a vision such as this-in the 
free exercise in the open air ensured by the personal superintendence of his plans-in the 
unceasing object which these plans afforded-in the high spirituality of the object-in the 
contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly to feel-in the perennial springs with 
which it gratified, without possibility of satiating, that one master passion of his soul, the 
thirst for beauty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman, not unwomanly, whose 
loveliness and love enveloped his existence in the purple atmosphere of Paradise, that 
Ellison thought to find, and found, exemption from the ordinary cares of humanity, with a 
far greater amount of positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De 
Stael. 

I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the marvels which my 
friend did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but am disheartened by the difficulty 
of description, and hesitate between detail and generality. Perhaps the better course will 
be to unite the two in their extremes. 

Mr. Ellison's first step regarded, of course, the choice of a locality, and scarcely had he 
commenced thinking on this point, when the luxuriant nature of the Pacific Islands 
arrested his attention. In fact, he had made up his mind for a voyage to the South Seas, 
when a night's reflection induced him to abandon the idea. "Were I misanthropic," he 
said, "such a locale would suit me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and 
the difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm of charms; but as yet 
I am not Timon. I wish the composure but not the depression of solitude. There must 
remain with me a certain control over the extent and duration of my repose. There will be 
frequent hours in which I shall need, too, the sympathy of the poetic in what I have done. 
Let me seek, then, a spot not far from a populous city-whose vicinity, also, will best 
enable me to execute my plans." 

In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for several years, and I was 
permitted to accompany him. A thousand spots with which I was enraptured he rejected 
without hesitation, for reasons which satisfied me, in the end, that he was right. We came 
at length to an elevated table-land of wonderful fertility and beauty, affording a 
panoramic prospect very little less in extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison's opinion 
as well as my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that mountain in all the true 
elements of the picturesque. 

"I am aware," said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after gazing on this 
scene, entranced, for nearly an hour, "I know that here, in my circumstances, nine-tenths 
of the most fastidious of men would rest content. This panorama is indeed glorious, and I 
should rejoice in it but for the excess of its glory. The taste of all the architects I have 
ever known leads them, for the sake of 'prospect,' to put up buildings on hill-tops. The 
error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods, but especially in that of extent, startles, 
excites-and then fatigues, depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be better-for 



the constant view nothing worse. And, in the constant view, the most objectionable phase 
of grandeur is that of extent; the worst phase of extent, that of distance. It is at war with 
the sentiment and with the sense of seclusion-the sentiment and sense which we seek to 
humor in 'retiring to the country.' In looking from the summit of a mountain we cannot 
help feeling abroad in the world. The heart-sick avoid distant prospects as a pestilence." 

It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our search that we found a locality 
with which Ellison professed himself satisfied. It is, of course, needless to say where was 
the locality. The late death of my friend, in causing his domain to be thrown open to 
certain classes of visiters, has given to Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not 
solemn celebrity, similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree, to that which so 
long distinguished Fonthill. 

The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visiter left the city in the early 
morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores of a tranquil and domestic 
beauty, on which grazed innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green 
of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into that of merely 
pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a sense of retirement-this again in a 
consciousness of solitude. As the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow, the 
banks more and more precipitous; and these latter were clothed in rich, more profuse, and 
more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand 
turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance than 
a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted circle, 
having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of ultramarine satin, and no 
floor-the keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by 
some accident having been turned upside down, floated in constant company with the 
substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. The channel now became a gorge- 
although the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it merely because the language 
has no word which better represents the most striking-not the most distinctive-feature of 
the scene. The character of gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the 
shores; it was lost altogether in their other traits. The walls of the ravine (through which 
the clear water still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a hundred and occasionally 
of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much toward each other as, in a great 
measure, to shut out the light of day; while the long plume-like moss which depended 
densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of 
funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and intricate, and seemed often as if 
returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. He 
was, moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange. The thought of nature still 
remained, but her character seemed to have undergone modification, there was a weird 
symmetry, a thrilling uniformity, a wizard propriety in these her works. Not a dead 
branch-not a withered leaf-not a stray pebble-not a patch of the brown earth was 
anywhere visible. The crystal water welled up against the clean granite, or the 
unblemished moss, with a sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the eye. 

Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom deepening every 
moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped 



from heaven, into a circular basin of very considerable extent when compared with the 
width of the gorge. It was about two hundred yards in diameter, and girt in at all points 
but one-that immediately fronting the vessel as it entered-by hills equal in general height 
to the walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly different character. Their sides sloped 
from the water's edge at an angle of some forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from 
base to summit-not a perceptible point escaping-in a drapery of the most gorgeous 
flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the sea of odorous and 
fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but so transparent was the water that the 
bottom, which seemed to consist of a thick mass of small round alabaster pebbles, was 
distinctly visible by glimpses-that is to say, whenever the eye could permit itself not to 
see, far down in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On these latter 
there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The impressions wrought on the 
observer were those of richness, warmth, color, quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, 
daintiness, voluptuousness, and a miraculous extremeness of culture that suggested 
dreams of a new race of fairies, laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the 
eye traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction with the water to its 
vague termination amid the folds of overhanging cloud, it became, indeed, difficult not to 
fancy a panoramic cataract of rubies, sapphires, opals, and golden onyxes, rolling silently 
out of the sky. 

The visiter, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the ravine, is delighted 
but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which he had supposed to be already 
far below the horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an 
otherwise limitless vista seen through another chasm-like rift in the hills. 

But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and descends into a 
light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in vivid scarlet, both within and 
without. The poop and beak of this boat arise high above the water, with sharp points, so 
that the general form is that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with 
the proud grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of satin- 
wood; but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden to be of good cheer- 
that the fates will take care of him. The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the 
canoe, which lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers 
what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the fairy 
bark. It slowly swings itself around until its prow points toward the sun. It advances with 
a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it creates seem to 
break about the ivory side in divinest melody-seem to offer the only possible explanation 
of the soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager 
looks around him in vain. 

The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is approached, so that its 
depths can be more distinctly seen. To the right arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and 
luxuriantly wooded. It is observed, however, that the trait of exquisite cleanness where 
the bank dips into the water, still prevails. There is not one token of the usual river debris. 
To the left the character of the scene is softer and more obviously artificial. Here the bank 
slopes upward from the stream in a very gentle ascent, forming a broad sward of grass of 



a texture resembling nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of green which would 
bear comparison with the tint of the purest emerald. This plateau varies in width from ten 
to three hundred yards; reaching from the river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high, which 
extends, in an infinity of curves, but following the general direction of the river, until lost 
in the distance to the westward. This wall is of one continuous rock, and has been formed 
by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipice of the stream's southern bank, but 
no trace of the labor has been suffered to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, 
and is profusely overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the 
eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of the top and bottom lines of the wall is fully 
relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height, growing singly or in small groups, both 
along the plateau and in the domain behind the wall, but in close proximity to it; so that 
frequent limbs (of the black walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent 
extremities into the water. Farther back within the domain, the vision is impeded by an 
impenetrable screen of foliage. 

These things are observed during the canoe's gradual approach to what I have called the 
gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; 
a new outlet from the bay is discovered to the left-in which direction the wall is also seen 
to sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye 
cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to the left, 
until both are swallowed up by the leaves. 

The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and here the shore 
opposite the wall is found to resemble that opposite the wall in the straight vista. Lofty 
hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with vegetation in wild luxuriance, 
still shut in the scene. 

Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the voyager, after many 
short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of 
burnished gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now 
fast- sinking sun with an effulgence that seems to wreath the whole surrounding forest in 
flames. This gate is inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the river at 
right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of the water still 
sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall following it as before, while a 
stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one, makes its way, with a 
slight ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser 
channel and approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically 
expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast 
amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming 
river throughout the full extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Amheim 
bursts upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing melody; there is an oppressive sense 
of strange sweet odor,-there is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender 
Eastern trees-bosky shrubberies-flocks of golden and crimson birds-lily-fringed lakes- 
meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses-long intertangled lines of 
silver streamlets-and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, 
semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by miracle in mid-air, glittering in the red 



sunlight with a hundred oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the phantom 
handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii and of the Gnomes. 

THE END 



THE DUG DE L'OMLETTE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



And stepped at once into a cooler clime. 
Cowper 

KEATS fell by a criticism. Who was it died of "The Andromache"?* Ignoble souls!-De 
L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en est breve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius! 

*Montfleury. The author of the Parnasse Reforme makes him thus speak in Hades:- 
"L'homme done qui voudrait savoir ce dont Je suis morte, qu'il ne demande pas si'l fut de 
fievre ou de podagre ou d'autre chose, mais qui'l entende que ce fut de 'L Andromache.'" 

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the 
Chaussee DAntin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, 
to the Due De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. 

That night the Due was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau he reclined languidly on 
that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his king-the notorious 
ottoman of Cadet. 

He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his 
Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft 
music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what 
inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Due?- "Horreur!-chien!- 
Baptiste!-roiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, 
et que tu as servi sans papier!" It is superfluous to say more:-the Due expired in a 
paroxysm of disgust. 

"Ha! ha! ha!" said his Grace on the third day after his decease. 

"He! he! he!" replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur. 

"Why, surely you are not serious," retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned-c'est vrai-but, 
my good sir, consider!-you have no actual intention of putting such-such barbarous 
threats into execution." 

"No what?" said his majesty-"come, sir, strip!" 

"Strip, indeed! very pretty i' faith! no, sir, I shall not strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Due 
De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and 



Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons 
ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put together by Rombert-to 
say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper-not to mention the trouble I should have in 
drawing off my gloves?" 

"Who am I?-ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee, just now, from a 
rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per 
invoice. Belial sent thee,-my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest 
were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre 
is a shroud of no scanty dimensions." 

"Sir!" replied the Due, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!- Sir! I shall take the 
earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!- Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime 
au revoir!"-and the Due was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was 
interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his 
eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, 
he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts. 

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien comme il faut. It was 
not its length nor its breadth,-but its height-ah, that was appalling !-There was no 
ceiling-certainly none- but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's 
brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red 
metal-its upper end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi les nues. From its nether extremity 
swung a large cresset. The Due knew it to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so 
intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such-Gheber never imagined such- 
Mussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a bed of 
poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo. The Due muttered a 
slight oath, decidedly approbatory. 

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled with statues 
of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout 
ensemble French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was not colossal. But then 
there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, 
closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty-in a blush. 

But the paintings !-Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!-a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has 
beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here, for did he not paint the — ? and was he not 
consequently damned? The paintings-the paintings! O luxury! O love!-who, gazing on 
those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that 
besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and the porphyry walls? 

But the Due's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with 
magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai 
que de toutes ces choses il a pense beaucoup-mais! The Due De L'Omelette is terror- 
stricken; for, through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! 
gleams the most ghastly of all fires! 



Le pauvre Due! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never- 
dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through 
the alchemy of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the 
hopeless and the damned! And there, too!-there!-upon the ottoman !-who could he be?- 
he, the petitmaitre-no, the Deity-who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his 
pale countenance, si amerement? 

Mais il faut agir-that is to say, a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace 
hated a scene-De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a table-some 
points also. The Due s'echapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, 
offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence! 

Mais il joue!-how happy a thought!-but his Grace had always an excellent memory. He 
had dipped in the "Diable" of Abbe Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas 
refuser un jeu d'ecarte." 

But the chances-the chances! True-desperate: but scarcely more desperate than the Due. 
Besides, was he not in the secret?-had he not skimmed over Pere Le Brun?-was he not a 
member of the Club Vingt-un? "Si je perds," said he, "je serai deux fois perdu-I shall be 
doubly dammed-voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si je gagne, je 
reviendrai a mes ortolans-que les cartes soient preparees!" 

His Grace was all care, all attention-his Majesty all confidence. A spectator would have 
thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not 
think; he shuffled. The Due cut. 

The cards were dealt. The trump is turned-it is-it is-the king! No-it was the queen. His 
Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette placed his hand upon his heart. 

They play. The Due counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is 
taking wine. The Due slips a card. 

"C'est a vous a faire," said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from 
the table en presentant le Roi. 

His Majesty looked chagrined. 

Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Due assured 
his antagonist in taking leave, "que s'il n'eut ete De L'Omelette il n'aurait point 
d'objection d'etre le Diable." 

THE END 



THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1845 



OF course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary 
case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not- 
especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep 
the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for 
investigation —through our endeavors to effect this -a garbled or exaggerated account 
made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations, 
and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief. 

It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts —as far as I comprehend them myself. 
They are, succinctly, these: 

My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of 
Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the 
series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most 
unaccountable omission: —no person had as yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It 
remained to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any 
susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was 
impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, 
the encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to 
be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity —the last in especial, from the 
immensely important character of its consequences. 

In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I 
was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the 
"Bibliotheca Forensica," and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the 
Polish versions of "WAUanstein" and "Gargantua." M. Valdemar, who has resided 
principally at Harlaem, N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for 
the extreme spareness of his person —his lower limbs much resembling those of John 
Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness 
of his hair —the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His 
temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric 
experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but 
was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to 
anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and in 
regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always 
attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months 
previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared him in a 



confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching 
dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted. 

When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very natural 
that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to 
apprehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would be 
likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his 
interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded 
his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of 
sympathy with what I did. His disease was if that character which would admit of exact 
calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally arranged 
between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period 
announced by his physicians as that of his decease. 

It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the 
subjoined note: 

My DEAR P-, 

You may as well come now. D— and F— are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to- 
morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the time very nearly. 

VALDEMAR 

I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I 
was in the dying man's chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the 
fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; 
the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been 
broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was 
barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his 
mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness -took 
some palliative medicines without aid —and, when I entered the room, was occupied in 
penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. 
Doctors D— and F— were in attendance. 

After pressing Valdemar's hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a 
minute account of the patient's condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a 
semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes 
of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, 
while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into another. 
Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion to the ribs 
had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. 
The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had discovered a 
month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. 
Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on 
this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the 



opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow 
(Sunday). It was then seven o'clock on Saturday evening. 

On quitting the invalid's bed-side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D— and F— 
had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my 
request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night. 

When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his approaching 
dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed 
himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at 
once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether 
at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these 
people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until 
about eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some 
acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L— 1,) relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been 
my design, originally, to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by 
the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a 
moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast. 

Mr. L— 1 was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that 
occurred, and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most 
part, either condensed or copied verbatim. 

It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient's hand, I begged him to 
state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L— 1, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely 
willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition. 

He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, "Yes, I wish to be "I fear you have mesmerized" — 
adding immediately afterwards, deferred it too long." 

While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual 
in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand 
across his forehead; but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect 
was induced until some minutes after ten o'clock, when Doctors D— and F— called, 
according to appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as 
they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I 
proceeded without hesitation -exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward 
ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer. 

By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous, and at intervals 
of half a minute. 

This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this 
period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying 
man, and the stertorous breathing ceased —that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer 



apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient's extremities were of an icy 
coldness. 

At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. 
The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination 
which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to 
mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and 
with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but 
continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I 
had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly 
easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the 
bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The head was very slightly elevated. 

When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen 
present to examine M. Valdemar's condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him 
to be an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians 
was greatly excited. Dr. D — resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while 
Dr. F — took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L— 1 and the nurses remained. 

We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o'clock in the morning, when 
I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F— went 
away —that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the 
breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to 
the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as 
marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death. 

As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into 
pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such 
experiments with this patient had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had 
little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although 
feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few 
words of conversation. 

"M. Valdemar," I said, "are you asleep?" He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor 
about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third 
repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed 
themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and 
from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words: 

"Yes; —asleep now. Do not wake me! —let me die so!" 

I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the 
direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again: 

"Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?" 



The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before: 

"No pain --I am dying." 

I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or 
done until the arrival of Dr. F— , who came a little before sunrise, and expressed 
unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and 
applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, 
saying: 

"M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?" 

As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying 
man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the 
question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly: 

"Yes; still asleep --dying." 

It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be 
suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death 
should supervene -and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few 
minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my 
previous question. 

While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The 
eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally 
assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the 
circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each 
cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure 
put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the 
breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had 
previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the 
mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I 
presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed 
horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this 
moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed. 

I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be 
startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed. 

There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him to 
be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory 
motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the 
expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice — 
such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three 
epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example. 



that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, 
for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. 
There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might 
fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation -as well adapted to convey some idea 
of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears —at least 
mine —from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second 
place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself 
comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch. 

I have spoken both of "sound" and of "voice." I mean to say that the sound was one of 
distinct —of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct —syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke — 
obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had 
asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said: 

"Yes; —no; —I have been sleeping —and now -now -I am dead. 

No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, 
shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to 
convey. Mr. L— 1 (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and 
could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render 
intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently —without the 
utterance of a word —in endeavors to revive Mr. L— 1. When he came to himself, we 
addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar's condition. 

It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no 
longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I 
should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain 
to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the 
mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I 
addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no 
longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he 
seemed utterly insensible —although I endeavored to place each member of the company 
in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an 
understanding of the sleep-waker's state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at 
ten o'clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L— 1. 

In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely 
the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening 
him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so 
doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been 
arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar 
would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution. 

From this period until the close of last week —an interval of nearly seven months —we 
continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar's house, accompanied, now and then, by 



medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper- waker remained exactly as I have last 
described him. The nurses' attentions were continual. 

It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or 
attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter 
experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles —to so much of 
what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling. 

For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the 
customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival 
was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, 
that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out- flowing of a 
yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor. 

It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient's arm, as heretofore. I 
made the attempt and failed. Dr. F— then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I 
did so, as follows: 

"M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?" 

There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or 
rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before;) 
and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth: 

"For God's sake! —quick! —quick! —put me to sleep —or, quick! —waken me! —quick! —I 
say to you that I am dead!" 

I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I 
made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of 
the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I 
soon saw that I should be successful -or at least I soon fancied that my success would be 
complete —and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken. 

For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could 
have been prepared. 

As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of "dead! dead!" absolutely 
bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once — 
within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk —crumbled —absolutely rotted 
away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly 
liquid mass of loathsome —of detestable putridity. 

THE END 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1839 



Son coeur est un luth suspendu; 
Shot qu 'on le touche il resonne. 
De Beranger. 

DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when 
the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, had been passing alone, on horseback, 
through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of 
the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it 
was —but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded 
my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half- 
pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the 
sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me — 
upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain —upon the bleak 
walls -upon the vacant eye-like windows —upon a few rank sedges —and upon a few 
white trunks of decayed trees —with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to 
no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium — 
the bitter lapse into everyday life-the hideous dropping off of the reveller upon opium — 
the bitter lapse into everyday life -the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an 
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart —an unredeemed dreariness of thought which 
no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it —I 
paused to think —what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of 
Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that 
crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory 
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural 
objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies 
among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different 
arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be 
sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, 
acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn 
that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down -but with a shudder even 
more thrilling than before —upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, 
and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a sojourn of some 
weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; 
but many years had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached 
me in a distant part of the country —a letter from him —which, in its wildly importunate 
nature, had admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous 



agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness —of a mental disorder which oppressed 
him —and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, 
with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his 
malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said —it the apparent 
heart that went with his request —which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I 
accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very singular summons. 

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet really knew little of my 
friend. His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that 
his very ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of 
temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and 
manifested, of late, in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in 
a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the orthodox and 
easily recognisable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable 
fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honoured as it was, had put forth, at no 
period, any enduring branch; in other words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of 
descent, and had always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain. It was 
this deficiency, I considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the 
character of the premises with the accredited character of the people, and while 
speculating upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, 
might have exercised upon the other —it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, 
and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with the 
name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge the original title of the 
estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation of the "House of Usher" —an appellation 
which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the family and 
the family mansion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment —that of looking 
down within the tarn —had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no 
doubt that the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition -for why should I 
not so term it? —served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, 
is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have been 
for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image 
in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy -a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I 
but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which oppressed me. I had so 
worked upon my imagination as really to believe that about the whole mansion and 
domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity-an 
atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from 
the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn —a pestilent and mystic vapour, 
dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued. 

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the 
real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive 
antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole 
exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from 
any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had f Allan; and there appeared 



to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling 
condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the 
specious totality of old wood- work which has rotted for long years in some neglected 
vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of 
extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a 
scrutinising observer might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, 
extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag 
direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A servant in waiting 
took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, 
thence conducted me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my 
progress to the studio of his master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I 
know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. While 
the objects around me —while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the 
walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which 
rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accustomed 
from my infancy -while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all this —I still 
wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring 
up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His countenance, I 
thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with 
trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the 
presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows were long, 
narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be 
altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way 
through the trellised panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent 
objects around the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the 
chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the 
walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books 
and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I 
felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable 
gloom hung over and pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance. Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at full length, 
and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an 
overdone cordiality —of the constrained effort of the ennuye man of the world. A glance, 
however, at his countenance, convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for 
some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of 
awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had 
Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity of 
the wan being before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the character of 
his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, 
liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a 
surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of 



nostril unusual in similar formations; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of 
prominence, of a want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; 
these features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made up 
altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of 
the prevailing character of these features, and of the expression they were wont to 
convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of 
the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eve, above all things startled and even 
awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild 
gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, 
connect its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity. 

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence —an inconsistency; 
and I soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an 
habitual trepidancy -an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had 
indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, 
and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament. 
His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a 
tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species 
of energetic concision —that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow- sounding 
enunciation -that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which 
may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the 
periods of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of 
the solace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he 
conceived to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family 
evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy —a mere nervous affection, he 
immediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host 
of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered 
me; although, perhaps, the terms, and the general manner of the narration had their 
weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food 
was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odours of all 
flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but 
peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him with 
horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. "I shall perish," said he, 
"I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I 
dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the 
thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable 
agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect — 
in terror. In this unnerved-in this pitiable condition —I feel that the period will sooner or 
later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim 
phantasm, FEAR." 



I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another 
singular feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious 
impressions in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he 
had never ventured forth —in regard to an influence whose supposititious force was 
conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be re-stated —an influence which some 
peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, had, by dint of long 
sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit-an effect which the physique of the gray walls 
and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought 
about upon the morale of his existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which 
thus afflicted him could be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin —to the 
severe and long-continued illness —indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution-of a 
tenderly beloved sister -his sole companion for long years —his last and only relative on 
earth. "Her decease," he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, "would leave 
him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers." While he 
spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion 
of the apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I regarded her 
with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread —and yet I found it impossible to 
account for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her 
retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively 
and eagerly the countenance of the brother -but he had buried his face in his hands, and I 
could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated 
fingers through which trickled many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled 
apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections 
of a partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily 
borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; 
but, on the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her 
brother told me at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the 
destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus 
probably be the last I should obtain -that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by 
me no more. 

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or myself: and 
during this period I was busied in earnest endeavours to alleviate the melancholy of my 
friend. We painted and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild 
improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and still intimacy admitted 
me more unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the 
futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive 
quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one 
unceasing radiation of gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent alone with 
the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of 



the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or led 
me the way. An excited and highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over 
all. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my cars. Among other things, I hold 
painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last 
waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and 
which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, 
because I shuddered knowing not why; —from these paintings (vivid as their images now 
are before me) I would in vain endeavour to educe more than a small portion which 
should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by the 
nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an 
idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least —in the circumstances then 
surrounding me —there arose out of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac 
contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which 
felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of 
Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit 
of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture 
presented the interior of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low 
walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the 
design served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth 
below the surface of the earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast extent, 
and no torch, or other artificial source of light was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays 
rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendour. 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all 
music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of stringed 
instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon 
the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his 
performances. But the fervid facility of his impromptus could not be so accounted for. 
They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild fantasias 
(for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the 
result of that intense mental coUectedness and concentration to which I have previously 
alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial excitement. The 
words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more 
forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic current of its 
meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part 
of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were 
entitled "The Haunted Palace," ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus: 

I. 

In the greenest of our valleys. 
By good angels tenanted. 
Once fair and stately palace — 
Radiant palace -reared its head. 



In the monarch Thought's dominion 
It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair. 



11. 



Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow; 

(This -all this —was in the olden 

Time long ago) 

And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odour went away. 

III. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 

Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tuned law. 

Round about a throne, where sitting 

(Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

IV. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door. 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 

And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing. 

In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 



V. 



But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
And, round about his home, the glory 
That blushed and bloomed 



Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 

VI. 

And travellers now within that valley, 
Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 
While, like a rapid ghastly river. 
Through the pale door, 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 
And laugh —but smile no more. 

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a train of thought 
wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher's which I mention not so much on 
account of its novelty, (for other men have thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity 
with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience 
of all vegetable things. But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring 
character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I 
lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, 
however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the gray stones of the home of 
his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in 
the method of collocation of these stones —in the order of their arrangement, as well as in 
that of the many fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood 
around —above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its 
reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence —the evidence of the sentience — 
was to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain 
condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result 
was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which 
for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made him what I now 
saw him —what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none. 

Our books —the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental 
existence of the invalid -were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character 
of phantasm. We pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of Cresset; 
the Belphegor of Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean 
Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean 
D'Indagine, and of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the 
City of the Sun of Campanella. One favourite volume was a small octavo edition of the 
Directorium Inquisitorum, by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were 
passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old African Satyrs and AEgipans, over which 
Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was found in the perusal 
of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic —the manual of a forgotten 
church —the Vigilae Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae. 



I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence 
upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady 
Madeline was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, 
(previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of 
the building. The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one 
which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution (so he 
told me) by consideration of the unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of 
certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote 
and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that when I 
called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon the stair case, on 
the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but 
a harmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary 
entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault 
in which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, half 
smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was 
small, damp, and entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great depth, 
immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my own sleeping 
apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of 
a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or some other highly 
combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway 
through which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive 
iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp 
grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of horror, we 
partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the 
tenant. A striking similitude between the brother and sister now first arrested my 
attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words 
from which I learned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies 
of a scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances, however, 
rested not long upon the dead -for we could not regard her unawed. The disease which 
had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a 
strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, 
and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We 
replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made our way, 
with toll, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the 
features of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His 
ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber 
with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if 
possible, a more ghastly hue —but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The 
once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of 
extreme terror, habitually characterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, when I 



thought his unceasingly agitated mind was labouring with some oppressive secret, to 
divulge which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to 
resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing upon 
vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to some 
imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified-that it infected me. I felt 
creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic 
yet impressive superstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after 
the placing of the lady Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of 
such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch -while the hours waned and waned away. I 
struggled to reason off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavoured to 
believe that much, if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence of the 
gloomy furniture of the room —of the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into 
motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and 
rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An 
irrepressible tremour gradually pervaded my frame; and, at length, there sat upon my 
very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a 
struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense 
darkness of the chamber, hearkened —I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit 
prompted me —to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of 
the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of 
horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I 
should sleep no more during the night), and endeavoured to arouse myself from the 
pitiable condition into which I had fAUan, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the 
apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase 
arrested my attention. I presently recognised it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he 
rapped, with a gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance 
was, as usual, cadaverously wan —but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in 
his eyes —an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanour. His air appalled me — 
but anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even 
welcomed his presence as a relief. 

"And you have not seen it?" he said abruptly, after having stared about him for some 
moments in silence —"you have not then seen it? —but, stay! you shall." Thus speaking, 
and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it 
freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a 
tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its 
beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there were 
frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of 
the clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent 
our perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering from all points 



against each other, without passing away into the distance. I say that even their exceeding 
density did not prevent our perceiving this —yet we had no glimpse of the moon or stars - 
-nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces of the huge 
masses of agitated vapour, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were 
glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous 
exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion. 

"You must not -you shall not behold this!" said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, 
with a gentle violence, from the window to a seat. "These appearances, which bewilder 
you, are merely electrical phenomena not uncommon —or it may be that they have their 
ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement; -the air is 
chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favourite romances. I will read, 
and you shall listen; —and so we will pass away this terrible night together." 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the "Mad Trist" of Sir Launcelot Canning; 
but I had called it a favourite of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, 
there is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for 
the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately 
at hand; and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the 
hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental disorder is full of similar 
anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, 
indeed, by the wild over- strained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or apparently 
hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have congratulated myself upon the 
success of my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, 
having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds 
to make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the 
narrative run thus: 

"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withal, 
on account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to 
hold parley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, 
feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his 
mace outright, and, with blows, made quickly room in the plankings of the door for his 
gauntleted hand; and now pulling there-with sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore 
all asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow- sounding wood alarumed and 
reverberated throughout the forest. 

At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment, paused; for it appeared to 
me (although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me) —it appeared to 
me that, from some very remote portion of the mansion, there came, indistinctly, to my 
ears, what might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and 
dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so 
particularly described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested 
my attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary 



commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, 
which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the story: 

"But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and 
amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon 
of a scaly and prodigious demeanour, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a 
palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining 
brass with this legend enwritten — 

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; 

Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win; 

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon, which fell before 
him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so 
piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise 
of it, the like whereof was never before heard." 

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement —for there could 
be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what 
direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but 
harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound —the exact counterpart of 
what my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's unnatural shriek as described by 
the romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of the second and most extraordinary 
coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror 
were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any 
observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that 
he had noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, 
during the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanour. From a position fronting my 
own, he had gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the 
chamber; and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips 
trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast —yet I 
knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a 
glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea -for he 
rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly 
taken notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded: 

"And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking 
himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon 
it, removed the carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously over 
the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth 
tarried not for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a 
mighty great and terrible ringing sound." 



No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than -as if a shield of brass had indeed, at 
the moment, fAUan heavily upon a floor of silver became aware of a distinct, hollow, 
metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I 
leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I 
rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and 
throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand 
upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile 
quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, 
as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the 
hideous import of his words. 

"Not hear it? -yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long -long —long —many minutes, many 
hours, many days, have I heard it -yet I dared not —oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I 
am! -I dared not -I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that 
my senses were acute? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the 
hollow coffin. I heard them —many, many days ago —yet I dared not —I dared not speak! 
And now -to-night -Ethelred —ha! ha! —the breaking of the hermit's door, and the death- 
cry of the dragon, and the clangour of the shield! —say, rather, the rending of her coffin, 
and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered 
archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not 
hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not 
distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? MADMAN!" here he sprang 
furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up 
his soul -"MADMAN! I TELL YOU THAT SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE 
DOOR!" 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a 
spell —the huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the 
instant, ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust —but then without 
those doors there DID stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of 
Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle 
upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and 
reeling to and fro upon the threshold, then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward 
upon the person of her brother, and in her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him 
to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all 
its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path 
a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could wi have issued; for the 
vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, 
setting, and blood-red moon which now shone vividly through that once barely- 
discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the 
building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened — 
there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind —the entire orb of the satellite burst at once 
upon my sight —my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder —there was a 
long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters —and the deep and 



dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the "HOUSE OF 
USHER." 

THE END 



THE GOLD-BUG 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1843 



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 negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted before the 
reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to 
abandon what he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his young 
"Massa Will." It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be 
somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a 
view to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer. 



The winters in the latitude of Sullivan's Island are seldom very severe, and in the fall of 
the year it is a rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of 
October, 18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset 
I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I had not 
visited for several weeks —my residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of 
nine my 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 scarabaeus 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 scarabaei 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 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 antennae 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 bum? 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 scarabaeus, 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 scarabaeus must be the queerest scarabaeus 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 scarabaeus caput hominis, or something of that kind 
—there are many titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the antennae you spoke 
of?" 

"The antennae!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the 
subject; "I am sure you must see the antennae. 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 antennae 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 
comer 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 to 
pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this 
mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, 
he shook my hand with even more than his usual cordiality. 

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) 
when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good 
old negro look so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befAUan 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 ain't! —he ain't 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 bout de matter -Massa Will say noffin at all 
ain't 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 d-d 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 ain't bin noffin onpleasant since den — 't was fore den I'm feared — 't was 
de berry day you was dare." 

"How? what do you mean?" 

"Why, massa, I mean de bug —dare now." 

"The what?" 

"De bug —I'm berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de head by dat goole- 
bug." 

"And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?" 

"Claws enoff, massa, and mouff too. I nabber did see sich a d— d bug -he kick and he bite 
ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go gin 
mighty quick, I tell you —den was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn't like de look ob 
de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn't take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch 
him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff 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 don't tink noffin about it -I nose it. What make him dream bout de goole so much, if 
tain't 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 tonight, 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 negro. 

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all apparently new, lying in 
the bottom of the boat in which we were to embark. 

"What is the meaning of all this, Jup?" I inquired. 

"Him syfe, massa, and spade." 

"Very true; but what are they doing here?" 

"Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for him in de town, and 
de debbil's own lot of money I had to gib for em." 



But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your 'Massa Will' going to do with 
scythes and spades?" 

"Dat's more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don't blieve 'tis more dan he know, too. 
But it's all cum ob de bug." 

Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed 
to be absorbed by "de bug," I now stepped into the boat and made sail. With a fair and 
strong breeze we soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a 
walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon when 
we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with 
a nervous empressement which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions already 
entertained. His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared 
with unnatural lustre. After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not 
knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the scarabaeus 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 scarabaeus. 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 scarabaeus!" 

"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 scarabaeus, 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 agreement 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 d— d 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 scarabaeus, 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 mainland, 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 negro, 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 negro like you, to take hold of a harmless little dead 
beetle, why you can carry it up by this string -but, if you do not take it up with you in 
some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel." 

"What de matter now, massa?" said Jup, evidently shamed into compliance; "always want 
for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only funnin' anyhow. Me feered de bug! what I keer 
for de bug?" Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, 
maintaining the insect as far from his person as circumstances would permit, prepared to 
ascend the tree. 

In youth, the tulip-tree, or Liriodendron Tulipiferum, the most magnificent of American 
foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth, and often rises to a great height without lateral 
branches; but, in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short 
limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension, in the present 
case, lay more in semblance than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely as 
possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his hands some projections, and resting 
his naked toes upon others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at 
length wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to consider the whole 
business as virtually accomplished. The risk of the achievement was, in fact, now over, 
although the climber was some sixty or seventy feet from the ground. 

"Which way mus go now, Massa Will?" he asked. 

Keep up the largest branch —the one on this side," said Legrand. The negro obeyed him 
promptly, and apparently with but little trouble; ascending higher and higher, until no 
glimpse of his squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped 
it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo. 

"How much fudder is got for go?" 

"How high up are you?" asked Legrand. 

"Ebber so fur," replied the negro; "can see de sky fru de top ob de tree." 

"Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the trunk and count the limbs 
below you on this side. How many limbs have you passed?" 

"One, two, tree, four, fibe -I done pass fibe big limb, massa, 'pon dis side." 

"Then go one limb higher." 



In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the seventh limb was 
attained. 

"Now, Jup," cried Legrand, evidently much excited, "I want you to work your way out 
upon that limb as far as you can. If you see 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 of heaven shall I do?" asked Legrand, seemingly in the greatest 
distress. 

"Do!" said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, "why come home and go to bed. 
Come now! -that's a fine fellow. It's getting late, and, besides, you remember your 
promise." 

"Jupiter," cried he, without heeding me in the least, "do you hear me?" 

"Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain." 

"Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it very rotten." 

"Him rotten, massa, sure nuff," replied the negro in a few moments, "but not so berry 
rotten as mought be. 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 nigger." 

"You infernal scoundrel!" cried Legrand, apparently much relieved, "what do you mean 
by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as you let that beetle fall! —I'll break your 
neck. Look here, Jupiter! do you hear me?" 

"Yes, massa, needn't hollo at poor nigger dat style." 

"Well! now listen! —if you will venture out on the limb as far as you think safe, and not 
let go the beetle, I'll make you a present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down." 



"I'm gwine, Massa Will —deed I is," replied the negro very promptly -"mos out to the 
eendnow." 

"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 dar ain't 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 left hand what I chops de wood wid." 

"To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the same side as your left hand. 
Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye of the skull, or the place where the left eye has 
been. Have you found it?" 

Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked, 

"Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de skull, too? -cause de 
skull ain't 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 dar 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 scarabaeus hung quite clear of any 
branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have f Allan 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 one to digging as 
quickly as possible. 

To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at any time, and, at that 
particular moment, would most willingly have declined it; for the night was coming on, 
and I felt much fatigued with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, 
and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend's equanimity by a refusal. Could I have 
depended, indeed, upon Jupiter's aid, I would have had no hesitation in attempting to get 
the lunatic home by force; but I was too well assured of the old negro's disposition, to 
hope that he would assist me, under any circumstances, in a personal contest with his 
master. I made no doubt that the latter had been infected with some of the innumerable 
Southern superstitions about money buried, and that his phantasy had received 
confirmation by the finding of the scarabaeus, 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 negro opened his eyes 
and mouth to the fullest extent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees. 

"You scoundrel," said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from between his clenched teeth 
-"you infernal black villain! -speak, I tell you! —answer me this instant, without 
prevarication! which —which is your left eye?" 

"Oh, my golly, Massa Will! ain't dis here my lef eye for sartain?" roared the terrified 
Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right organ of vision, and holding it there with a 
desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master's attempt at a gouge. 

"I thought so! -I knew it! -hurrah!" vociferated Legrand, letting the negro go, and 
executing a series of curvets and caracols, much to the astonishment of his valet, who, 
arising from his knees, looked, mutely, from his master to myself, and then from myself 
to his master. 

"Come! we must go back," said the latter, "the game's not up yet;" and he again led the 
way to the tulip-tree. 

"Jupiter," said he, when we reached its foot, come here! was the skull nailed to the limb 
with the face outward, or with the face to the limb?" 

"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 let the beetle fall?" —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 negro indicated. 



"That will do --we must try it again." 

Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I saw, certain 
indications of method, removed the peg which marked the spot where the beetle fell, to a 
spot about three inches to the westward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape- 
measure from the nearest point of the trunk to the peg, as before, and continuing the 
extension in a straight line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, removed, by 
several yards, from the point at which we had been digging. 

Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the former instance, was now 
described, and we again set to work with the 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 trellis- work 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, from a confused heap of gold and of jewels, a glow 
and a glare that absolutely dazzled our eyes. 

I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. Amazement was, of 
course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement, and spoke very few 
words. Jupiter's countenance wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, 
in the nature of things, for any negro's visage to assume. He seemed stupefied —thunder- 
stricken. 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! Ain't you shamed ob yourself, nigger? —answer me 
dat!" 

It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and valet to the expediency 
of removing the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion, that 
we might get every thing housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should be 
done; and much time was spent in deliberation —so confused were the ideas of all. We, 
finally, lightened the box by removing two thirds of its contents, when we were enabled, 
with some trouble, to raise it from the hole. The articles taken out were deposited among 
the brambles, and the dog left to guard them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon 
any pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our return. We then 
hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but after excessive 
toil, at one o'clock in the morning. Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do 
more just then. 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 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 ear rings; —rich chains —thirty of these, if I 
remember; —eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; —five gold censers of great 
value; —a prodigious golden punch-bowl, ornamented with richly chased vine-leaves and 
Bacchanalian figures; with two sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other 
smaller articles which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables exceeded three 
hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this estimate I have not included one 
hundred and ninety-seven superb gold watches; three of the number being worth each 
five hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, and as 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 scarabaeus. 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 scarabaeus and that this skull, not only in outline, but in size, 
should so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence 
absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The 
mind struggles to establish a connection -a sequence of cause and effect -and, being 
unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this 
stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more 
than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there had been no 
drawing on the parchment when I made my sketch of the scarabaeus. 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 it 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. On 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 —and then 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 on a sea-coast, and 
not far from the boat was a parchment —not a paper —with a skull depicted on 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 
scarabaeus?" 

"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 scarabaeus, there was no 
skull apparent on 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 on 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, on the parchment, the skull which I saw designed on 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 on either paper or vellum, so that the characters 
shall become visible only when subjected to the action of fire. Zaire, 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 on 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, on 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 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 on the figure of the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical 
signature. I say signature; because its position on 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 on 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 on 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 on 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 continuously 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 is 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. On taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now." 

Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted It 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;]8*:+*8!83(88)5*!; 

46(;88*96*?;8)*+(;485);5* !2:*+(;4956*2(5*-4)8^8*; 4069285);)6 

!8)4++;l(+9;48081;8:8+l;48!85;4)485!528806*81(+9;48;(88;4(+?3 

4;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 on my solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I 
should be unable to earn them." 

"And yet," said Legrand, "the solution is by no means so difficult as you might be led to 
imagine from the first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one 
might readily guess, form a cipher —that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from 
what is 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 on, 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 is removed by the signature. The pun on 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. 
92 "5. 
: 3 " 4. 
?"3. 

-. " 1. 

"Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e. Afterwards, the succession 
runs thus: aoidhnrstuycfglmwbkpqxz. E however predominates so 
remarkably that an individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the 
prevailing character. 

"Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the groundwork for something more than a 
mere guess. The general use which may be made of the table is obvious —but, in this 
particular cipher, we shall only very partially require its aid. As our predominant 
character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the e of the natural alphabet. To 
verify the supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples —for e is doubled 
with great frequency in English —in such words, for example, as 'meet,' 'fleet,' 'speed, 
'seen,' 'been,' 'agree,' &c. In the present instance we see it doubled 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 the most usual; let 
us see, therefore, whether they 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.' On inspection, we find no less 
than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may, therefore, assume that 
the semicolon represents t, that 4 represents h, and that 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 semicolon 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 

tee, 

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.' 

"To avoid confusion, it is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in a 
tabular form. It will stand thus: 

5 represents a 

!"d 

8"e 

3"g 
4"h 
6"i 



+ "0 

("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 twenty-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 
hostel'?" 

"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 overacute 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 on this hint, I 
made the division thus: 

'A good glass in the bishop's hostel in the devil's —twenty-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 reinstituted my inquiries among the older negroes of the place. 
At length one of the most aged of the women said that she had heard of such a place as 



Bessop's Castle, and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a castle, nor 
a tavern, but a high rock. 

"I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some demur, she consented to 
accompany me to the spot. We found it without much difficulty, when, dismissing her, I 
proceeded to examine the place. The 'castle' consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs 
and rocks —one of the latter being quite remarkable for its height as well as for its 
insulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then felt much at a loss as 
to what should be next done. 

"While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face of 
the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit on 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, 'twenty-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 on it 
unless in one particular position. This fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded 
to use the glass. Of course, the 'twenty-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 twenty- 
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. 

"On 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 on 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 on 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 the left 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 convictions that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, we might 
have had all our labor in vain." 

"I presume the fancy of the skull, of letting fall a bullet through the skull's eye —was 
suggested to Kidd by the piratical flag. No doubt he felt a kind of poetical consistency in 
recovering his money through this ominous insignium." 

"Perhaps so; still I cannot help thinking that common-sense had quite as much to do with 
the matter as poetical consistency. To be visible from the devil's-seat, it was necessary 
that the object, if small, should be white; and there is nothing like your human skull for 
retaining and even increasing its whiteness under exposure to all vicissitudes of weather." 

"But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle —how excessively 
odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist on letting fall the bug, instead of a 
bullet, from the skull?" 

"Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident suspicions touching my 
sanity, and so resolved to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a little bit of sober 
mystification. For this reason I swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the 
tree. An observation of yours about its great weight suggested the latter idea." 



"Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles me. What are we to make 
of the skeletons found in the hole?" 

"That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself. There seems, however, 
only one plausible way of accounting for them -and yet it is dreadful to believe in such 
atrocity as my suggestion would imply. It is clear that Kidd —if Kidd indeed secreted this 
treasure, which I doubt not -it is clear that he must have had assistance in the labor. But, 
the worst of 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?" 

THE END 



THE HAPPIEST DAY, THE HAPPIEST HOUR 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



1827 



The happiest day-the happiest hour 
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known, 
The highest hope of pride and power, 
I feel hath flown. 

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween; 
But they have vanish'd long, alas! 
The visions of my youth have been- 
But let them pass. 

And, pride, what have I now with thee? 
Another brow may even inherit 
The venom thou hast pour'd on me 
Be still, my spirit! 

The happiest day-the happiest hour 
Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen. 
The brightest glance of pride and power, 
I feel-have been: 

But were that hope of pride and power 
Now offer'd with the pain 
Even then I felt-that brightest hour 
I would not live again: 

For on its wing was dark alloy. 
And, as it flutter'd-fell 
An essence-powerful to destroy 
A soul that knew it well. 

THE END 



THE HAUNTED PALACE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1839 



In the greenest of our valleys 
By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace- 
Radiant palace-reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion- 
It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow, 

(This-all this-was in the olden 

Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley. 

Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically. 

To a lute's well- tuned law. 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

(Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well-befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door. 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 

And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing. 

In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
Assailed the monarch's high estate. 



(Ah, let us mourn !-for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 
And round about his home the glory 
That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley. 
Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms, that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody. 
While, like a ghastly rapid river. 
Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever 
And laugh-but smile no more. 

THE END 



THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



IN THE consideration of the faculties and impulses-of the prima mobilia of the human 
soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although 
obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally 
overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the 
reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses, 
solely through want of belief-of faith ;-whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the 
Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply because of its supererogation. 
We saw no need of the impulse-for the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. 
We could not understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the notion of 
this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;-we could not have understood in what manner it 
might be made to further the objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be 
denied that phrenology and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been concocted 
a priori. The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man, 
set himself to imagine designs-to dictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed, to his 
satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerable 
systems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally 
enough, that it was the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned to man 
an organ of alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels 
man, will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be God's will that man should 
continue his species, we discovered an organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with 
combativeness, with ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,-so, in short, with 
every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the 
pure intellect. And in these arrangements of the Principia of human action, the 
Spurzheimites, whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but followed, in 
principle, the footsteps of their predecessors: deducing and establishing every thing from 
the preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his Creator. 

It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if classify we must) upon 
the basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, 
rather than upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If 
we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, 
that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures, 
how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation? 

Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as an innate and 
primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something, which we may call 
perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a 
mobile without motive, a motive not motivirt. Through its promptings we act without 



comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may 
so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason 
that we should not. In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is 
none more strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely 
irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or 
error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone 
impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the 
wrong's sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a 
primitive impulse-elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts 
because we feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that 
which ordinarily springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will show 
the fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity 
of self-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; 
and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its development. It follows, 
that the desire to be well must be excited simultaneously with any principle which shall 
be merely a modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I 
term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but a strongly 
antagonistical sentiment exists. 

An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed. No 
one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to 
deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible 
than distinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not been tormented, for 
example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is 
aware that he displeases; he has every intention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and 
clear, the most laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue, 
it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow; he dreads and 
deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, that by 
certain involutions and parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is 
enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an 
uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the 
speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged. 

We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be 
ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for 
immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence 
the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It 
must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow, and why? There 
is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the 
principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but 
with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because 
unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The 
last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us,-of 
the definite with the indefinite-of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have 
proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails,-we struggle in vain. The clock 
strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer- note to the 



ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies-it disappears-we are free. The old energy 
returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late! 

We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss-we grow sick and dizzy. 
Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow 
degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable 
feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the 
vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this 
our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows into palpability, a shape, far more 
terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a 
fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the 
delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the 
sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall-this rushing 
annihilation- for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of 
all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever 
presented themselves to our imagination-for this very cause do we now the most vividly 
desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the 
most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, 
as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To 
indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection 
but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly 
arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the 
abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed. 

Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from the 
spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we feel that we should not. Beyond or 
behind this there is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, deem this 
perverseness a direct instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to 
operate in furtherance of good. 

I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question, that I may 
explain to you why I am here, that I may assign to you something that shall have at least 
the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of 
the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me 
altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that 
I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse. 

It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough 
deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected 
a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance of detection. At 
length, in reading some French Memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that 
occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The 
idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim's habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that 
his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent 
details. I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room 
candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there found. The next 



morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the Coroner's verdict was-"Death by the 
visitation of God." 

Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never 
once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I 
had left no shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect 
me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my 
bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was 
accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere 
worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from 
which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting 
and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an 
instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or 
rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive 
snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or 
the opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself 
pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the phrase, "I am safe." 

One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, 
half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus; "I am 
safe-I am safe- yes-if I be not fool enough to make open confession!" 

No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had had 
some experience in these fits of perversity, (whose nature I have been at some trouble to 
explain), and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully resisted their 
attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to 
confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him 
whom I had murdered-and beckoned me on to death. 

At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously- 
faster-still faster-at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every 
succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well 
understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my pace. I 
bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took 
the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out 
my tongue, I would have done it, but a rough voice resounded in my ears-a rougher grasp 
seized me by the shoulder. I turned-I gasped for breath. For a moment I experienced all 
the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and then some invisible 
fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The long imprisoned 
secret burst forth from my soul. 

They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and 
passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief, but pregnant 
sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell. 



Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate in 
a swoon. 

But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! To-morrow I shall be 
fetterless !-but where? 

THE END 



THE ISLAND OF THE FAY 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Nullus enim locus sine genio est. 
SERVIUS 

"LA MUSIQUE," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"* which in all our 
translations, we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in mockery of their spirit- 
"la musique est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui-meme; tous les autres veulent des 
temoins." He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity 
for creating them. No more than any other talent, is that for music susceptible of 
complete enjoyment, where there is no second party to appreciate its exercise. And it is 
only in common with other talents that it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in 
solitude. The idea which the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or has 
sacrificed in its expression to his national love of point, is, doubtless, the very tenable one 
that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively 
alone. The proposition, in this form, will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre 
for its own sake, and for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach 
of f Allan mortality and perhaps only one-which owes even more than does music to the 
accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation 
of natural scenery. In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth 
must in solitude behold that glory. To me, at least, the presence-not of human life only, 
but of life in any other form than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and 
are voiceless-is a stain upon the landscape-is at war with the genius of the scene. I love, 
indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, 
and the forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look 
down upon all,-I love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vast 
animate and sentient whole-a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect 
and most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek 
handmaiden is the moon, whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity, 
whose thought is that of a God; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost 
in immensity, whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the 
animalculae which infest the brain-a being which we, in consequence, regard as purely 
inanimate and material much in the same manner as these animalculae must thus regard 
us. 

* Moraux is here derived from moeurs, and its meaning is "fashionable" or more strictly 
"of manners." 

Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every hand- 
notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood-that space, and therefore 



that bulk, is an important consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which 
the stars move are those best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest 
possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such as, within a 
given surface, to include the greatest possible amount of matter;-while the surfaces 
themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser population than could be 
accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against 
bulk being an object with God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of 
matter to fill it. And since we see clearly that the endowment of matter with vitality is a 
principle-indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the operations 
of Deity ,-it is scarcely logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where 
we daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find cycle within cycle 
without end,-yet all revolving around one far-distant centre which is the God-head, may 
we not analogically suppose in the same manner, life within life, the less within the 
greater, and all within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring, through self- 
esteem, in believing man, in either his temporal or future destinies, to be of more moment 
in the universe than that vast "clod of the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to 
which he denies a soul for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in 
operation.* 

* Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise "De Situ Orbis," says "either the 
world is a great animal, or" etc. 

These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations among the 
mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge of what the everyday world 
would not fail to term fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes have been many, and 
far- searching, and often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many 
a dim, deep valley, or gazed into the reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been an 
interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and gazed alone. What 
flippant Frenchman was it who said in allusion to the well-known work of Zimmerman, 
that, "la solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude 
est une belle chose?" The epigram cannot be gainsayed; but the necessity is a thing that 
does not exist. 

It was during one of my lonely joumeyings, amid a far distant region of mountain locked 
within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarn writhing or sleeping within ail-that I 
chanced upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, 
and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub, that 
I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only should I look upon it-such 
was the character of phantasm which it wore. 

On all sides-save to the west, where the sun was about sinking- arose the verdant walls of 
the forest. The little river which turned sharply in its course, and was thus immediately 
lost to sight, seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green 
foliage of the trees to the east-while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to me as I lay 
at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly and continuously into the 
valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfall from the sunset fountains of the sky. 



About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one small circular 
island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the stream. 

So blended bank and shadow there 
That each seemed pendulous in air- 
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to say at what point 
upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal dominion began. 

My position enabled me to include in a single view both the eastern and western 
extremities of the islet; and I observed a singularly-marked difference in their aspects. 
The latter was all one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath 
the eyes of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, 
springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect- 
bright, slender, and graceful,- of eastern figure and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and 
parti-colored. There seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs 
blew from out the heavens, yet every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to 
and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.* 

* Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera.-P. Commire. 

The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade. A sombre, yet 
beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. The trees were dark in color, and 
mournful in form and attitude, wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral 
shapes that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep 
tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither 
among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had 
the aspect of graves, but were not; although over and all about them the rue and the 
rosemary clambered. The shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to 
bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied that 
each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the 
trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream; while other shadows 
issued momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus entombed. 

This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I lost myself 
forthwith in revery. "If ever island were enchanted," said I to myself, "this is it. This is 
the haunt of the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green 
tombs theirs?-or do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In 
dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by little, their 
existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their substance unto 
dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus 
blacker by what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs 
it?" 

As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and eddying 
currents careered round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling. 



white flakes of the bark of the sycamore-flakes which, in their multiform positions upon 
the water, a quick imagination might have converted into any thing it pleased, while I 
thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays about whom I had 
been pondering made its way slowly into the darkness from out the light at the western 
end of the island. She stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere 
phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude 
seemed indicative of joy-but sorrow deformed it as she passed within the shade. Slowly 
she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light. "The 
revolution which has just been made by the Fay," continued I, musingly, "is the cycle of 
the brief year of her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She 
is a year nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see that, as she came into the shade, her 
shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the dark water, making its blackness 
more black." 

And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the latter there was 
more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy. She floated again from out the light 
and into the gloom (which deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from her into 
the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made 
the circuit of the island, (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing 
into the light there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler and far 
fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage into the gloom there fell from her a 
darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length when the 
sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went 
disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and that she issued thence 
at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over an things and I beheld her magical figure no 
more. 

THE END 



THE LAKE. TO 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1827 



In spring of youth it was my lot 
To haunt of the wide world a spot 
The which I could not love the less- 
So lovely was the loneliness 
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that towered around. 

But when the Night had thrown her pall 
Upon that spot, as upon all. 
And the mystic wind went by 
Murmuring in melody- 
Then-ah then I would awake 
To the terror of the lone lake. 

Yet that terror was not fright. 

But a tremulous deUght- 

A feeling not the jewelled mine 

Could teach or bribe me to define- 

Nor Love-although the Love were thine. 

Death was in that poisonous wave. 

And in its gulf a fitting grave 

For him who thence could solace bring 

To his lone imagining- 

Whose solitary soul could make 

An Eden of that dim lake. 

THE END 



THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



The garden like a lady fair was cut 

That lay as if she slumbered in delight, 

And to the open skies her eyes did shut; 

The azure fields of heaven were 'sembled right 

In a large round set withflow'rs of light: 

The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew 

That hung upon their azure leaves, did show 

Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev'ning blue. 

GILES FLETCHER 

NO MORE remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young Ellison. He was 
remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion of good gifts ever lavished upon him 
by fortune. From his cradle to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along. 
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external sense. I mean it as 
synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak, seemed bom for the purpose 
of foreshadowing the wild doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet-of 
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the mere chimera of the 
perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the 
dogma-that in man's physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle, the 
antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of his career, has taught me to 
understand that, in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises 
the Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our possession the as yet 
unwrought elements of Content,-and that even now, in the present blindness and 
darkness of all idea on the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible that 
Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, may be 
happy. 

With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and thus is it especially 
worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was 
in great part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with less of the instinctive 
philosophy which, now and then, stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison 
would have found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his life, 
into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those of preeminent 
endowments. But it is by no means my present object to pen an essay on Happiness. The 
ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying 
laws, or rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered chief, was 
(strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one of free exercise in the open air. "The 
health," he said, "attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name." He 



pointed to the tillers of the earth-the only people who, as a class, are proverbially more 
happy than others-and then he instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second 
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was 
an object of unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal, the extent of 
happiness was proportioned to the spirituality of this object. 

I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts lavished 
upon him by Fortune. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was 
of that order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a necessity and an 
intuition. His family was one of the most illustrious of the empire. His bride was the 
loveliest and most devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but, upon 
the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was discovered that one of those 
extraordinary freaks of Fate had been played in his behalf which startle the whole social 
world amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the entire moral 
constitution of those who are their objects. It appears that about one hundred years prior 
to Mr. Ellison's attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. 
Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no very 
immediate connexions, conceived the whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a 
century after his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes of 
investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest of blood, bearing the 
name Ellison, who should be alive at the end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts 
had been made to set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character rendered 
them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government was aroused, and a decree finally 
obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison, 
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession, as the heir of his ancestor, 
Seabright, of a fortune of four hundred and fifty millions of dollars.* 

* An incident similar in outline to the one here imagined, occurred, not very long ago, in 
England. The name of the fortunate heir (who still lives,) is Thelluson. I first saw an 
account of this matter in the "Tour" of Prince Puckler Muskau. He makes the sum 
received ninety millions of pounds, and observes, with much force, that, "in the 
contemplation of so vast a sum, and of the services, to which it might be applied, there is 
something even of the sublime." To suit the views of this article, I have followed the 
Prince's statement-a grossly exaggerated one, no doubt. 

When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous wealth inherited, there 
were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude 
and the immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered all who thought 
upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable amount of money might have been 
imagined to perform any one of a thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those 
of any citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the 
fashionable extravagances of his time; or busying himself with political intrigues; or 
aiming at ministerial power, or purchasing increase of nobility, or devising gorgeous 
architectural piles; or collecting large specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent 
patron of Letters and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive 
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the 



young heir, these objects and all ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse 
was had to figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that even at three 
per cent, the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less than thirteen millions 
and five hundred thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and twenty- 
five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine hundred and eighty-six per day, or 
one thousand five hundred and forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every 
minute that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly broken up. Men 
knew not what to imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr. Ellison would 
divest himself forthwith of at least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous 
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of his superabundance. 

I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his mind upon a topic 
which had occasioned so much of discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished 
at the nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a poet. He 
comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august aims, the supreme majesty and 
dignity of the poetic sentiment. The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively 
felt to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his early 
education, or in the nature of his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the 
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which imperceptibly 
led him to perceive that the most advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the 
exercise of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel moods of purely 
physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he became neither musician nor poet; if we use 
this latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became neither 
the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his which I have already mentioned-the 
idea, that in the contempt of ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on 
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of genius is necessarily ambitious, 
the highest is invariably above that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus 
happen that many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained "mute and 
inglorious?" I believe the world has never yet seen, and that, unless through some series 
of accidents goading the noblest order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will 
never behold, that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer productions of Art, of 
which the human nature is absolutely capable. 

Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more profoundly 
enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under other circumstances than those which 
invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of 
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too limited in its extent and in its 
consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much of his attention. And I have now 
mentioned all the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the poetic 
sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of expatiating. I mean the most liberal 
public or recognized conception of the idea involved in the phrase "poetic sentiment." 
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the most natural and most 
suitable province, had been blindly neglected. No definition had spoken of the 
Landscape-Gardener, as of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the 
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the most magnificent of 
opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest field for the display of invention, or 



imagination, in the endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which 
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast superiority, the most 
glorious which the earth could afford. In the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor 
of the flower, he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of Nature at 
physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of this effort, or, still more 
properly, in its adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he perceived that 
he should be employing the best means- laboring to the greatest advantage-in the 
fulfilment of his destiny as Poet. 

"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth." In his explanation of this 
phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much towards solving what has always seemed to me an 
enigma. I mean the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute,) that no such combinations 
of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius has in his power to produce. No such 
Paradises are to be found in reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the 
most enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a defect or an excess- 
many excesses and defects. While the component parts may exceed, individually, the 
highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be susceptible of 
improvement. In short, no position can be attained, from which an artistical eye, looking 
steadily, will not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the composition of 
a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are justly 
instructed to regard Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition. 
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the 
lily of the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that "Nature is 
to be exalted rather than imitated," is in error. No pictorial or sculptural combinations of 
points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human 
beauty as it gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in saying, 

I've seen more living beauty, ripe and real. 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. 

In landscape alone is the principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it is but 
the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced him to pronounce it true 
throughout all the domains of Art. Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no 
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute demonstrations, than 
the sentiment of his Art yields to the artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, 
that such and such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form, constitute, and 
alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his reasons have not yet been matured into 
expression. It remains for a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to 
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his instinctive opinions, by 
the concurrence of all his compeers. Let a composition be defective, let an emendation be 
wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to every artist 
in the world; by each will its necessity be admitted. And even far more than this, in 
remedy of the defective composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest 
the identical emendation. 



I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone, is the physical Nature 
susceptible of "exaltation" and that, therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this 
one point, was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was Mr. Ellison 
who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as improvement or exaltation of the 
natural beauty, was really such, as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that 
each alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly effect a blemish in 
the picture, if we could suppose this picture viewed at large from some remote point in 
the heavens. "It is easily understood," says Mr. Ellison, "that what might improve a 
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a general and more distantly- 
observed effect." He spoke upon this topic with warmth: regarding not so much its 
immediate or obvious importance, (which is little,) as the character of the conclusions to 
which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which it might serve to corroborate 
or sustain. There might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, 
for whose scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more especially 
than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-garden of the whole 
earth. 

In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to quote some passages 
from a writer who has been supposed to have well treated this theme. 

"There are, properly," he writes, "but two styles of landscape-gardening, the natural and 
the artificial. One seeks to recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means 
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the hills or plain of the 
neighboring land; detecting and bringing into practice those nice relations of size, 
proportion and color which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to 
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural style of gardening, is seen 
rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities-in the prevalence of a beautiful 
harmony and order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial 
style has as many varieties as there are different tastes to gratify. It has a certain general 
relation to the various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and retirements of 
Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed old English style, which bears some 
relation to the domestic Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be 
said against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of pure art in a 
garden scene, adds to it a great beauty. This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of 
order and design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered balustrade, calls 
up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have passed there in other days. The slightest 
exhibition of art is an evidence of care and human interest." 

"From what I have already observed," said Mr. Ellison, "you will understand that I reject 
the idea, here expressed, of 'recalling the original beauty of the country.' The original 
beauty is never so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends upon 
the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in respect to the 'detecting and 
bringing into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color,' is a mere 
vagueness of speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which guides in no 
degree. That the true 'result of the natural style of gardening is seen rather in the absence 
of all defects and incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles,' 



is a proposition better suited to the grovelling apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid 
dreams of the man of genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains to 
that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, 
while that merit which consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the 
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier merit, which breathes 
and flames in invention or creation, can be apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies 
but to the excellences of avoidance-to the virtues which deny or refrain. Beyond these 
the critical art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain 
that we are told how to conceive a 'Tempest,' an 'Inferno,' a 'Prometheus Bound,' a 
'Nightingale,' such as that of Keats, or the 'Sensitive Plant' of Shelley. But, the thing done, 
the wonder accomplished, and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The 
sophists of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have scoffed at creation, 
are now found the loudest in applause. What, in its chrysalis condition of principle, 
affronted their demure reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort 
admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the sublime. 

"Our author's observations on the artificial style of gardening," continued Mr. Ellison, 
"are less objectionable. 'A mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.' 
This is just; and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally so. I repeat that the 
principle here expressed, is incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it. 
There may be an object in full keeping with the principle suggested-an object 
unattainable by the means ordinarily in possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, 
would lend a charm to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a 
merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of very unusual pecuniary 
resources, might possibly, while retaining the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, 
so imbue his designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey the 
sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in bringing about such result, he 
secures all the advantages of interest or design, while relieving his work of all the 
harshness and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildemesses-in the most savage 
of the scenes of pure Nature-there is apparent the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent 
only to reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling. Now, if we imagine 
this sense of the Almighty Design to be harmonized in a measurable degree, if we 
suppose a landscape whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and 
magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or superintendence, on the part of 
intelligences superior yet akin to humanity-then the sentiment of interest is preserved, 
while the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary Nature-a Nature 
which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but which still is Nature, in the sense that it 
is the handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God." 

It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical embodiment of a vision such as 
this-in the free exercise in the open air, which resulted from personal direction of his 
plans-in the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afford-in the contempt of 
ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect-and, lastly, it was in the 
companionship and sympathy of a devoted wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, 
an exemption from the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of positive 
happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Stael. 



THE MAN OF THE CROWD 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1840 



Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. 
LA BRUYERE. 

IT WAS well said of a certain German book that "er lasst sich nicht lesen"-it does not 
permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. 
Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them 
piteously in the eyes-die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the 
hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, 
alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown 
down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged. 

Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the large bow- 
window of the D — Coffee-House in London. For some months I had been ill in health, 
but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those 
happy moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui-moods of the keenest 
appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs-achlus os prin epeen- and the 
intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its everyday condition, as does the vivid yet 
candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was 
enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of 
pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth and a 
newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, 
now in poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the 
room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street. 

This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had been very much 
crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently 
increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides 
of population were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the evening I had 
never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, 
therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things 
within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without. 

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers 
in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended 
to details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, 
air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance. 



By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied, business-like demeanor, 
and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the press. Their brows were 
knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow- wayfarers they evinced 
no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a 
numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and 
gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very denseness of 
the company around. When impeded in their progress, these people suddenly ceased 
muttering; but redoubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone 
smile upon their lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed 
profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with confusion. There was nothing 
very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have noted. Their 
habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were 
undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers-the Eupatrids and 
the common-places of society-men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of their 
own-conducting business upon their own responsibility. They did not greatly excite my 
attention. 

The tribe of clerks was an obvious one; and here I discerned two remarkable divisions. 
There were the junior clerks of flash houses- young gentlemen with tight coats, bright 
boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of 
carriage, which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these 
persons seemed to be an exact facsimile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about 
twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the castoff graces of the gentry;-and this, I 
believe, involves the best definition of the class. 

The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steady old fellows," it was 
not possible to mistake. These were known by their coats and pantaloons of black or 
brown, made to sit comfortably, with white cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking 
shoes, and thick hose or gaiters. They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right 
ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that 
they always removed or settled their hats with both bands, and wore watches, with short 
gold chains of a substantial and ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of 
respectability-if indeed there be an affectation so honorable. 

There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily understood as 
belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets, with which all great cities are infested. I 
watched these gentry with much inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how 
they should ever be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their 
voluminousness of wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at 
once. 

The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily recognizable. They 
wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet 
waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously 
inornate clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still all were 
distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, and 



pallor and compression of lip. There were two other traits, moreover, by which I could 
always detect them: a guarded lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary 
extension of the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers. Very often, in 
company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, 
but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by 
their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two battalions-that of the dandies and 
that of the military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks and smiles; 
of the second, frogged coats and frowns. 

Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and deeper themes for 
speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every 
other feature wore only an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street 
beggars scowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven 
forth into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed 
a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every one 
beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation, some lost hope; 
modest young girls returning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking 
more tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, 
could not be avoided; women of the town of all kinds and of all ages-the unequivocal 
beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with 
the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth-the loathsome and utterly 
lost leper in rags-the wrinkled, bejewelled, and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last 
effort at youth-the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association, an adept in 
the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the 
equal of her elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable-some in shreds and 
patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes-some in whole 
although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty- 
looking rubicund faces-others clothed in materials which had once been good, and which 
even now were scrupulously well brushed-men who walked with a more than naturally 
firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, and whose eyes were 
hideously wild and red; and who clutched with quivering fingers, as they strode through 
the crowd, at every object which came within their reach; beside these, pic-men, porters, 
coal-heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and ballad-mongers, those who 
vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, 
and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the ear, and 
gave an aching sensation to the eye. 

As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for not only did the 
general character of the crowd materially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual 
withdrawal of the more orderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out 
into bolder relief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den), but 
the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the dying day, had now at 
length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was 
dark yet splendid-as that ebony to which has been likened the style of TertuUian. 



The wild effects of the hght enchained me to an examination of individual faces; and 
although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted before the window prevented 
me from casting more than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then 
peculiar mental state, I could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the 
history of long years. 

With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob, when suddenly 
there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or 
seventy years of age)-a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole 
attention, on account of the absolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even 
remotely resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that my 
first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retszch, had he viewed it, would have greatly 
preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief 
minute of my original survey, to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there 
arose confusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of 
caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of 
triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense-of supreme despair. I felt singularly 
aroused, startled, fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "is written within 
that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view-to know more of him. 
Hurriedly putting on all overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, I made my way into the 
street, and pushed through the crowd in the direction which I had seen him take; for he 
had already disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within sight of him, 
approached, and followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to attract his attention. 

I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in stature, very thin, 
and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he 
came, now and then, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although 
dirty, was of beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely 
buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a 
glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These observations heightened my curiosity, 
and I resolved to follow the stranger whithersoever he should go. 

It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city, soon ending in a 
settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd effect upon the crowd, the 
whole of which was at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of 
umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own 
part I did not much regard the rain-the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering the 
moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief about my mouth, I 
kept on. For half an hour the old man held his way with difficulty along the great 
thoroughfare; and I here walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. 
Never once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and by he passed 
into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite so much 
thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident. 
He walked more slowly and with less object than before- more hesitatingly. He crossed 
and re-crossed the way repeatedly, without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick, 
that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The street was a 



narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for nearly an hour, during which the 
passengers had gradually diminished to about that number which is ordinarily seen at 
noon in Broadway near the park-so vast a difference is there between a London populace 
and that of the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square, 
brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the stranger reappeared. 
His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in 
every direction, upon those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and 
perseveringly. I was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the 
square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him repeat 
the same walk several times-once nearly detecting me as he came around with a sudden 
movement. 

In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with far less 
interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast, the air grew cool; and the 
people were retiring to their homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed 
into a by-street comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he 
rushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put 
me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy bazaar, with 
the localities of which the stranger appeared well acquainted, and where his original 
demeanor again became apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among 
the host of buyers and sellers. 

During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place, it required 
much caution on my part to keep him within reach without attracting his observation. 
Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc overshoes, and could move about in perfect silence. 
At no moment did he see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, 
spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly 
amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not part until I had satisfied 
myself in some measure respecting him. 

A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting the bazaar. A 
shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a strong 
shudder come over his frame. He hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for 
an instant, and then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and peopleless 
lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started- 
the street of the D— Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect. It was still 
brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The 
stranger grew pale. He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, 
with a heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through a great 
variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the principal theatres. It 
was about being closed, and the audience were thronging from the doors. I saw the old 
man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the 
intense agony of his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon 
his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now took the course 
in which had gone the greater number of the audience but, upon the whole, I was at a loss 
to comprehend the waywardness of his actions. 



As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness and 
vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of some ten or 
twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one dropped off, until three only remained 
together, in a narrow and gloomy lane, little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a 
moment, seemed lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a 
route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from those we 
had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of London, where every thing 
wore the worst impress of the most deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. 
By the dim light of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements 
were seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious, that scarce the 
semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones lay at random, 
displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the 
dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we 
proceeded, the sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of 
the most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the 
old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death-hour. Once more he strode 
onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our 
sight, and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance-one of the 
palaces of the fiend. Gin. 

It was now nearly daybreak; but a number of wretched inebriates still pressed in and out 
of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, 
resumed at once his original bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without 
apparent object, among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before 
a rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was 
something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the countenance of 
the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his 
career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty 
London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, 
resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun 
arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most thronged mart 
of the populous town, the street of the D— Hotel, it presented an appearance of human 
bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, 
long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. 
But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out the turmoil 
of that street. And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto 
death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. 
He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained 
absorbed in contemplation. "The old man," I said at length, "is the type and the genius of 
deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to 
follow, for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is 
a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animae,'* and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies 
of God that "er lasst sich nicht lesen." 

* The "Hortulus Animae cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis" of Grunninger. 



THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP 

A Tale of the Late Bugaboo and Kickapoo Campaign 
by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, etfondez vous en eau! 
La moitie de ma vie a mis V autre au tomb eau. 
CORNEILLE 

I CANNOT just now remember when or where I first made the acquaintance of that truly 
fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one did 
introduce me to the gentleman, I am sure-at some public meeting, I know very well-held 
about something of great importance, no doubt-at some place or other, I feel convinced, 
whose name I have unaccountably forgotten. The truth is-that the introduction was 
attended, upon my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to 
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am constitutionally nervous- 
this, with me, is a family failing, and I can't help it. In especial, the slightest appearance 
of mystery-of any point I cannot exactly comprehend-puts me at once into a pitiable 
state of agitation. 

There was something, as it were, remarkable-yes, remarkable, although this is but a 
feeble term to express my full meaning-about the entire individuality of the personage in 
question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence singularly commanding. 
There was an air distingue pervading the whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and 
hinted at high birth. Upon this topic-the topic of Smith's personal appearance-I have a 
kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head of hair would have done honor 
to a Brutus,-nothing could be more richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a 
jetty black,-which was also the color, or more properly the no-color of his unimaginable 
whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these latter without enthusiasm; it is not too 
much to say that they were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all events, 
they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a mouth utterly unequalled. Here 
were the most entirely even, and the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From 
between them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing clearness, 
melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my acquaintance was pre-eminently 
endowed. Either one of such a pair was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. 
They were of a deep hazel exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was perceptible 
about them, ever and anon, just that amount of interesting obliquity which gives 
pregnancy to expression. 

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you 
could not have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This rare pecuharity set off to 



great advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush of conscious 
inferiority into the countenance of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, 
and may say that I never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were 
admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, indeed, the ne 
plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to be good. 
There was neither too much flesh nor too little,- neither rudeness nor fragility. I could not 
imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris, and there was just that due 
gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly 
proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the 
sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. 

But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty as reasons or 
blackberries, still I could not bring myself to believe that the remarkable something to 
which I alluded just now,-that the odd air of je ne sais quoi which hung about my new 
acquaintance,- lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the supreme excellence of his bodily 
endowments. Perhaps it might be traced to the manner,-yet here again I could not pretend 
to be positive. There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his carriage-a degree of 
measured and, if I may so express it, of rectangular precision attending his every 
movement, which, observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least little 
savor in the world of affectation, pomposity, or constraint, but which, noticed in a 
gentleman of his undoubted dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve, 
hauteur- of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the dignity of colossal 
proportion. 

The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my ear some few 
words of comment upon the man. He was a remarkable man-a very remarkable man- 
indeed one of the most remarkable men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with 
the ladies-chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage. 

"In that point he is unrivalled-indeed he is a perfect desperado-a downright fire-eater, 
and no mistake," said my friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling 
me with the mystery of his tone. 

"A downright fire-eater, and no mistake. Showed that, I should say, to some purpose, in 
the late tremendous swamp-fight, away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo 
Indians." [Here my friend opened his eyes to some extent.] "Bless my soul!-blood and 
thunder, and all that!-prodigies of valor!-heard of him of course?-you know he's the 
man-" 

"Man alive, how do you do? why, how are ye? very glad to see ye, indeed!" here 
interrupted the General himself, seizing my companion by the hand as he drew near, and 
bowing stiffly but profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought (and I think so still) that 
I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor beheld a finer set of teeth: but I must say 
that I was sorry for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and 
insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo 
and Kickapoo campaign. 



However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. 
C. Smith soon completely dissipated this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we 
had quite a long tete-a-tete, and I was not only pleased but really-instructed. I never heard 
a more fluent talker, or a man of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he 
forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then most at heart-I mean the 
mysterious circumstances attending the Bugaboo war-and, on my own part, what I 
conceive to be a proper sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in 
truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that the gallant soldier 
preferred topics of philosophical interest, and that he delighted, especially, in 
commenting upon the rapid march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I 
would, this was a point to which he invariably came back. 

"There is nothing at all like it," he would say, "we are a wonderful people, and live in a 
wonderful age. Parachutes and rail-roads-mantraps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are 
upon every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular trips (fare either 
way only twenty pounds sterling) between London and Timbuctoo. And who shall 
calculate the immense influence upon social life-upon arts-upon commerce-upon 
literature-which will be the immediate result of the great principles of electro-magnetics! 
Nor, is this all, let me assure you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The 
most wonderful-the most ingenious-and let me add, Mr.-Mr.-Thompson, I believe, is 
your name-let me add, I say the most useful-the most truly useful-mechanical 
contrivances are daily springing up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more 
figuratively, like-ah-grasshoppers-like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson-about us and ah- 
ah-ah-aroundus!" 

Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say that I left General Smith 
with a heightened interest in the man, with an exalted opinion of his conversational 
powers, and a deep sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age of 
mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been altogether satisfied, and I 
resolved to prosecute immediate inquiry among my acquaintances, touching the Brevet 
Brigadier General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous events quorum 
pars magna fuit, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign. 

The first opportunity which presented opportunity which presented itself, and which 
(horresco referens) I did not in the least scruple to seize, occurred at the Church of the 
Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where I found myself established, one Sunday, just at 
sermon time, not only in the pew, but by the side of that worthy and communicative little 
friend of mine. Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated, I congratulated myself, and with much 
reason, upon the very flattering state of affairs. If any person knew any thing about 
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person it was clear to me, was Miss 
Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals and then commenced, soto voce, a brisk tete-a- 
tete. 

"Smith!" said she in reply to my very earnest inquiry: "Smith!-why, not General John A. 
B. C.? Bless me, I thought you knew all about him! This is a wonderfully inventive age! 
Horrid affair that!-a bloody set of wretches, those Kickapoos!-fought like a hero- 



prodigies of valor- immortal renown. Smith!-Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C! 
Why, you know he's the man- 

"Man," here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice, and with a thump 
that came near knocking the pulpit about our ears; "man that is born of a woman hath but 
a short time to live; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!" I started to the 
extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the divine, that the wrath 
which had nearly proved fatal to the pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady 
and myself. There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and listened, in all 
the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the balance of that very capital discourse. 

Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole Theatre, where I felt sure 
of satisfying my curiosity at once, by merely stepping into the box of those exquisite 
specimens of affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda Cognoscenti. 
That fine tragedian. Climax, was doing lago to a very crowded house, and I experienced 
some little difficulty in making my wishes understood; especially as our box was next the 
slips, and completely overlooked the stage. 

"Smith!" said Miss Arabella, as she at comprehended the purport of my query; "Smith?- 
why, not General John A. B. C?" 

"Smith!" inquired Miranda, musingly. "God bless me, did you ever behold a finer 
figure?" 

"Never, madam, but do tell me-" 

"Or so inimitable grace?" 

"Never, upon my word!-But pray, inform me-" 

"Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?" 

"Madam!" 

"Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be so good as to look at 
that leg!" 

"The devil!" and I turned again to her sister. 

"Smith!" said she, "why, not General John A. B. C? Horrid affair that, wasn't it?-great 
wretches, those Bugaboos-savage and so on- but we live in a wonderfully inventive 
age!-Smith!-0 yes! great man!-perfect desperado-immortal renown-prodigies of valor! 
Never heard!" [This was given in a scream.] "Bless my soul! why, he's the man-" 

"-mandragora 



Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world 

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 

Which thou ow'dst yesterday!" 

here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a 
way that I couldn't stand, and I wouldn't. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went 
behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such a thrashing as I trust 
he will remember till the day of his death. 

At the soiree of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was confident that I should 
meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card- 
table, with my pretty hostess for a vis-a-vis, than I propounded those questions the 
solution of which had become a matter so essential to my peace. 

"Smith!" said my partner, "why, not General John A. B. C? Horrid affair that, wasn't it?- 
diamonds did you say?-terrible wretches those Kickapoos!-we are playing whist, if you 
please, Mr. Tattle- however, this is the age of invention, most certainly the age, one may 
say-the age par excellence-speak French?-oh, quite a hero- perfect desperado !-no 
hearts, Mr. Tattle? I don't believe it!- Immortal renown and all that!-prodigies of valor! 
Never heard! !-why, bless me, he's the man-" 

"Mann ?-Cap tain Mann!" here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest 
comer of the room. "Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel?-oh, I must hear- 
do tell-go on, Mrs. O'Trump !-do now go on!" And go on Mrs. O'Trump did-all about a 
certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and 
hung. Yes! Mrs. O'Trump, she went on, and I-I went off. There was no chance of hearing 
any thing farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. 

Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill-luck would not run against 
me forever, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that 
bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette. 

"Smith!" said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de zephyr, "Smith ?-why, not 
General John A. B. C? Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn't it?-dreadful 
creatures, those Indians !-do turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of you-man of great 
courage, poor fellow !-but this is a wonderful age for invention-0 dear me, I'm out of 
breath-quite a desperado- prodigies of valor-never heard! !-can't believe it-I shall have to 
sit down and enlighten you-Smith! why, he's the man-" 

"Man-Fred, I tell you!" here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. 
"Did ever anybody hear the like? It's Man-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man- 
Friday." Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner; and I was 
obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the 
title of a certain poetical drama of Lord Byron's. Although I pronounced, with great 



promptness, that the trae title was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-Fred yet when 
I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat 
from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas- 
Bleus. 

Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved to call at once upon my 
particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate; for I knew that here at least I should get 
something like definite information. 

"Smith!" said he, in his well known peculiar way of drawling out his syllables; "Smith!- 
why, not General John A. B. C? Savage affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn't it? 
Say, don't you think so?- perfect despera-a-ado-great pity, 'pon my honor! -wonderfully 
inventive age!-pro-o-digies of valor! By the by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a- 
a-n?" 

"Captain Mann be d-d!" said I; "please to go on with your story." 

"Hem!-oh well!-quite la meme cho-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith, eh? Brigadier- 
General John A. B. C? I say"-[here Mr. S. thought proper to put his finger to the side of 
his nose]-"I say, you don't mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and conscientiously, 
that you don't know all about that affair of Smith's, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A-B- 
C? Why, bless me, he's the ma-a-an-" 

"Mr. Sinivate," said I, imploringly, "is he the man in the mask?" 

"No-o-o!" said he, looking wise, "nor the man in the mo-o-on." 

This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so left the house at once in high 
dudgeon, with a firm resolve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his 
ungentlemanly conduct and ill breeding. 

In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted touching the information I 
desired. There was one resource left me yet. I would go to the fountain head. I would call 
forthwith upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a solution of this 
abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least, there should be no chance for equivocation. I 
would be plain, positive, peremptory-as short as pie-crust-as concise as Tacitus or 
Montesquieu. 

It was early when I called, and the General was dressing, but I pleaded urgent business, 
and was shown at once into his bedroom by an old negro valet, who remained in 
attendance during my visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for the 
occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a large and exceedingly odd 
looking bundle of something which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in 
the best humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way. 



"Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!" said the bundle, in one of the smallest, and 
altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in 
all the days of my existence. 

"Ahem! rather civil that I should observe." 

I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the farthest extremity of the 
room. 

"God bless me, my dear fellow!" here again whistled the bundle, "what-what-what-why, 
what is the matter? I really believe you don't know me at all." 

What could I say to all this-what could I? I staggered into an armchair, and, with staring 
eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder. 

"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently resqueaked the nondescript, 
which I now perceived was performing upon the floor some inexplicable evolution, very 
analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a single leg, however, 
apparent. 

"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it? Pompey, bring me that leg!" Here 
Pompey handed the bundle a very capital cork leg, already dressed, which it screwed on 
in a trice; and then it stood upright before my eyes. 

"And a bloody action it was," continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; "but then one 
mustn't fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere 
scratch. Pompey, I'll thank you now for that arm. Thomas" [turning to me] "is decidedly 
the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you must 
really let me recommend you to Bishop." Here Pompey screwed on an arm. 

"We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and 
bosom. Pettit makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow." 

"Bosom!" said I. 

"Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping is a rough process, after all; 
but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L'Orme's." 

"Scratch!" 

"Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly's at 
once; high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, 
when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle." 

"Butt end! ram down! ! my eye! !" 



"O yes, by the way, my eye-here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in! Those Kickapoos are 
not so very slow at a gouge; but he's a belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can't 
imagine how well I see with the eyes of his make." 

I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more nor less 
than my new acquaintance. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The 
manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the 
appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even 
this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up. 

"Pompey, you black rascal," squeaked the General, "I really do believe you would let me 
go out without my palate." 

Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth 
with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular- looking 
machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend. The 
alteration, however, in the entire expression of the General's countenance was 
instantaneous and surprising. When he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich 
melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction. 

"D-n the vagabonds!" said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change, "D- 
n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to 
cut off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn't Bonfanti's equal, however, in 
America, for really good articles of this description. I can recommend you to him with 
confidence," [here the General bowed,] "and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure 
in so doing." 

I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of him at once, with a 
perfect understanding of the true state of affairs- with a full comprehension of the 
mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet 
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man-the man that was used up. 

THE END 



THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 

by Edgar Allan Poe 



1842 



THE "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, 
or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal —the redness and the horror of blood. 
There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, 
with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the 
victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his 
fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the 
incidents of half an hour. 

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions 
were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted 
friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep 
seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent 
structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty 
wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought 
furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither 
of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The 
abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to 
contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to 
grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were 
buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there 
was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red 
Death." 

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the 
pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand 
friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. 

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it 
was held. There were seven —an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites 
form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on 
either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was 
very different; as might have been expected from the duke's love of the bizarre. The 
apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one 
at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel 
effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window 
looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These 
windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue 
of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was 



hung, for example, in blue -and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was 
purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was 
green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with 
orange —the fifth with white —the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely 
shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, 
falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber 
only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here 
were scarlet —a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any 
lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and 
fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or 
candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there 
stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that protected its 
rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were 
produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black 
chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the 
blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the 
countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to 
set foot within its precincts at all. 

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of 
ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when 
the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came 
from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and 
exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, 
the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their 
performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their 
evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the 
chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more 
aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or 
meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the 
assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness 
and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the 
clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty 
minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) 
there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and 
tremulousness and meditation as before. 

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke 
were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere 
fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. 
There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It 
was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. 

He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon 
occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to 
the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and 



piquancy and phantasm —much of what has been since seen in "Hemani." There were 
arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies 
such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, 
much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have 
excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of 
dreams. And these -the dreams —writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and 
causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, 
there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a 
moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff- 
frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away -they have endured but an 
instant —and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now 
again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, 
taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the 
tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none 
of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light 
through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to 
him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a 
muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in 
the more remote gaieties of the other apartments. 

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart 
of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding 
of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions 
of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. 
But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it 
happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of 
the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before 
the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many 
individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a 
masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the 
rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at 
length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and 
surprise —then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust. 

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no 
ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license 
of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and 
gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the 
hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the 
utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest 
can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume 
and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and 
gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which 
concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened 
corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all 
this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the 



mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was 
dabbled in blood —and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled 
with the scarlet horror. 

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and 
solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the 
waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of 
terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage. 

"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him —"who dares 
insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him —that we may 
know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!" 

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered 
these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly —for the prince 
was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand. 

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. 
At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of 
the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and 
stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with 
which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were 
found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard 
of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from 
the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same 
solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue 
chamber to the purple —through the purple to the green —through the green to the orange 
—through this again to the white —and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement 
had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening 
with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the 
six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon 
all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within 
three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of 
the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry - 
-and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly 
afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild 
courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black 
apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within 
the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave- 
cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, 
untenanted by any tangible form. 

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in 
the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, 
and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went 



out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness 
and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. 

THE END 



THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1841 



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, Urn-Burial. 

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 talents 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 preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and 
essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty of re-solution is 
possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch 
of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, 
as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze. A chess-player, 
for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in 
its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a 
treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at 
random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective 
intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of 
draughts than by all the elaborate 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 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 recherche movement, the result of some strong exertion of the 
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his 
opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the 



sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into 
error or hurry into miscalculation. 

Whist has long been 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 these more important undertakings where mind 
struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which 
includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived. 
These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought 
altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to 
remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at 
whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) 
are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and 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 chagrin. 
From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make 
another in the suit. He recognizes what is played through feint, by the 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 simple ingenuity; for while the 
analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man often remarkably incapable of 
analysis. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, 
and 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 found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly 
imaginative never otherwise than analytic. 

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

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

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

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

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamored of the 
Night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving 
myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself 
dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the 
morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building; lighted a couple of tapers 
which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of 
these we then busied our souls in dreams -reading, writing, or conversing, until warned 
by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm 



and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, 
seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental 
excitement which quiet observation can afford. 

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

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

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

"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the Theatre des Varietes." 

"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 role 
of Xerxes, in Crebillon'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 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, 
Stereo tomy, 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 'Musee,' the 
satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's change of name upon 
assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean 
the line 

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum. 

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from 
certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have 
forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fall to combine the ideas of Orion 
and Chantilly. That you did combine them I say 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 Theatre des Varietes." 

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 metal 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 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 nor top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced —and then 
suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony - 
-were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon 
reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention-the one a gruff 
voice, the other much shriller -a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the 
former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman's voice. 
Could distinguish the words 'sacre' 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 silversmith, 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, the 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 'sacre,' '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 
baking 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 sent 
home with the money. 

"Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in question, about 
noon, he accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her residence with the 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 'sacre' 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 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 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 fall. 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 firmament by a scrutiny too 
sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. 

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



The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one 
of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue 
St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it; as this quarter is at a great 
distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; for there 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 way, on one si 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 stopped in for a moment at the office of one of the dally papers. 

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Fe les menageais: -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 outre 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 fAUan 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 anything 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 hkens 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 praeternatural 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 re-fastened the sashes from the inside, as 
they were found fastened; —the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, 
to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, 
have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I 
stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and 
attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed 
spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my 
premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances 
attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, 
and, satisfied with the discovery, forebore 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 headboard 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 as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that 
here, at this point, terminated the clew. 'There must be something wrong,' I said, 'about 
the nail.' I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off 
in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. 
The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently 
been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of 
the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail, 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 
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 upper 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 
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 praetematural 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 juxta-position 
that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or 
harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to 
agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected." 

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

"You will see," he said, "that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that 
of ingress. It was my design to suggest 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 
that there was something excessively outre —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 fAllan 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 have 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 Sante." 

"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 Bomese 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 troisieme. 

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

"Come in," said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone. 

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

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

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

"I have no way of telling —but he can't be more than four or five years old. Have you got 
him here?" 

"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 on 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 
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 eves, 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 
jabbering s of the brute. 

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the 
chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. It must have closed the window 
as it passed through it. It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained 
for it a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our 
narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the 
Prefect of Police. 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 them 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 END 



THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET 

A Sequel to "The Murder in the Rue Morgue" 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

1850 



INTRODUCTION 

There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely 
coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it 
seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation; 
instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism. 

Novalis. Moral Ansichten. 

Upon the original publication of "Marie Roget," the footnotes 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. 

THERE ARE few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not occasionally 
been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences 
of so seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been 
unable to receive them. Such sentiments-for the half-credences of which I speak have 
never the full force of thought-such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by 



reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus of 
Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have 
the anomaly of the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of 
the most intangible in speculation. 

The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public, will be found to 
form, as regards sequence of time, the primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible 
coincidences, whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in 
the late murder of MARY CECILIA ROGERS, at New York. 

When, in an article entitled "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," I endeavored, about a year 
ago, to depict some very remarkable features in the mental character of my friend, the 
Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject. 
This depicting of character constituted my design; and this design was thoroughly 
fulfilled 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 revery. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in 
with his humor; and continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, 
we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the 
dull world around us into dreams. 

But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may readily be supposed that the 
part played by my friend, in the drama at the Rue Morgue had not failed of its impression 
upon the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name of Dupin had grown 
into a household word. The simple character of those inductions by which he had 
disentangled the mystery never having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other 
individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the affair was regarded as little 
less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier's analytical abilities acquired for him the credit 
of intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every inquirer of such 
prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all further agitation of a topic whose interest to 
himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of the 
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 Roget. 

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie, whose 
Christian and family name will at once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of 
the unfortunate "cigar-girl" was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Roget. 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 Pavee Saint Andree;* 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*(2) 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. 

* Nassau Street 

*(2) Anderson 

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious 
through the charms of the sprightly grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, 
when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the 
shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Roget 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 Pavee Saint Andree. 

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 Andre, and at a point not very far distant from the 
secluded neighborhood of the Barriere du Roule.*(2) 

* The Hudson 

*(2) Weehawken 

The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that murder had been committed), 
the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all her previous notoriety, conspired to 
produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can call to mind no 
similar occurrence producing so general and so intense an effect. For several weeks, in 
the discussion of this one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the 
day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the powers of the whole 
Parisian police were, of course, tasked to the utmost extent. 



Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the murderer would be 
able to elude, for more than a very brief period, the inquisition which was immediately 
set on foot. It was not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary to offer 
a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs. In the meantime the 
investigation proceeded with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous 
individuals were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual absence of all 
clew to the mystery, the popular excitement greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day 
it was thought advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length, the second 
week having elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the prejudice which always 
exists in Paris against the Police having given vent to itself in several serious emeutes, 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 had absorbed our whole 
attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad, or received a 
visitor, or more than glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily papers. 
The first intelligence of the murder was brought us by G— , in person. He called upon us 
early in the afternoon of the thirteenth of July, 18-, and remained with us until late in the 
night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to ferret out the assassins. 
His reputation-so he said with a peculiarly Parisian air-was at stake. Even his honor was 
concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was really no sacrifice which 
he would not be willing to make for the development of the mystery. He concluded a 
somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the tact of 
Dupin, and made him a direct and certainly a liberal proposition, the precise nature of 
which I do not feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper 
subject of my narrative. 

The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the proposition he accepted at 
once, although its advantages were altogether provisional. This point being settled, the 
Prefect broke forth at once into explanations of his own views, interspersing them with 
long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not yet in possession. He 
discoursed much and, beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional 



suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed 
armchair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the 
whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses sufficed to 
convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or 
eight leaden- footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of the Prefect. 

In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the evidence elicited, and, 
at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had 
been published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all that 
was positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus: 

Marie Roget left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavee St. Andree, about nine 
o'clock in the morning of Sunday, June the twenty second, 18-. In going out, she gave 
notice to a Monsieur Jacques St. Eustache,* and to him only, of her intention to spend the 
day with an aunt, who resided in the Rue des Dromes. The Rue des Dromes 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 Roget. 
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 Roget (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. 

* Payne 

On Monday it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue des Dromes; and 
when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy search was instituted at several 
points in the city and its environs. It was not, however, until the fourth day from the 
period of her disappearance that any thing satisfactory was ascertained respecting her. On 
this day (Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June) a Monsieur Beauvais,* who, with a friend, 
had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barriere du Roule, on the shore of the Seine 
which is opposite the Rue Pavee St. Andree, 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. 

* Crommelin 

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 excorations had 
been effected by this. The flesh of the neck was much swollen. There were no cuts 
apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so 
tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was completely buried in the flesh, 
and was fastened by a knot which lay just under the left ear. This alone would have 
sufficed to produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous 
character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it said, to brutal violence. The corpse 
was in such condition when found, that there could have been no difficulty in its 
recognition by friends. 

The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slip, about a 
foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It 
was wound three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The 
dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip eighteen 
inches wide had been torn entirely out-torn very evenly and with great care. It was found 
around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this muslin slip and 
the slip of lace the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being appended. The 
knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened was not a lady's, but a slip or 
sailors knot. 

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the Morgue (this 
formality being superfluous), but hastily interred not far from the spot at which it was 
brought ashore. Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed 
up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A 
weekly paper,* however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a 
re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what has been already noted. 
The clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased, and 
fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home. 

* The New York Mercury. 

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 Roget still lived-that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other 
unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which embody the 
suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal translations from L'Etoile,* a paper 
conducted, in general, with much ability. 

* The New York Brother Jonathon, edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq. 



"Mademoiselle Roget 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 
connection, in the Rue des Dromes. 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 in that day, after she left her mother's door.... Now, though we 
have no evidence that Marie Roget 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 
Barriere du Roule. This was, even if we presume that Marie Roget was thrown into the 
river within three hours after she left her mother's house, only three days from the time 
she left her home-three days to an hour. But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if 
murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to have 
enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight. Those who are 
guilty of such horrid crimes choose darkness rather than light... Thus we see that if the 
body found in the river was that of Marie Roget it could only have been in the water two 
and a half days, or three at the outside. All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or 
bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten 
days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even 
where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' 
immersion, it sinks again, if left 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 in 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 had no doubt the body was 
that of Marie Roget? 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 Roget, at 
seven o'clock, on Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in progress 
respecting her daughter. If we allow that Madame Roget, 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 Pavee St. Andree, 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 overhasty. 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 sepulture was absolutely declined by the family ,-and that no member of the 
family attended the ceremonial:- although, I say, all this was asserted by L'Etoile in 
furtherance of the impression it designed to convey-yet all this was satisfactorily 
disproved. In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion 
upon Beauvais himself. The editor says: 

"Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that, on one occasion, while a 
Madame B-was at Madame Roget's house, M. Beauvais, who was going out, told her that 
a gendarme was expected there, and that she, Madame B., must not say any thing to the 
gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him.... In the present posture of 
affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up in his head. A single 
step cannot be taken without M. Beauvais, for, go which way you will you run against 
him.... For some reason he determined that nobody shall have anything to do with the 
proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way, according 
to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been very much 
averse to permitting the relatives to see the body." 

By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais. 
A visitor at his office, a few days prior to the girl's disappearance, and during the absence 
of its occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and the name "Marie" 
inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand. 

The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from the newspapers, 
seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a gang of desperadoes-that by these she 
had been borne across the river, maltreated, and murdered. Le Commerciel,* however, a 
print of extensive influence, was earnest in combatting this popular idea. I quote a 
passage or two from its columns: 

* New York Journal of Commerce 



"We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so far as it has been 
directed to the Barriere 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 Barriere du Roule, or to the Rue des Dromes, 
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 Barriere du Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such arrangement. 
The fact that the body was found floating near the Barriere, 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 Barriere 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 
Roget." Fragments of dress were discovered on the brambles around. The earth was 
trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. Between 
the thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore 
evidence of some heavy burthen having been dragged along it. 

A weekly paper, Le Soleil,* had the following comments upon this discovery-comments 
which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole Parisian press: 

* Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post, edited by C. I. Peterson, Esq. 

"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 Barriere 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,* now also 
testified that he saw Marie Roget 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. 

* Adam 

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 outre 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 or 
motives could have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of them 
must. But the ease with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very 
plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the 
difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have 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,* 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. 

* See "Murder's in the Rue Morgue." 

"In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even at the begining 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 Barriere 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 Roget for the 
conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and respecting whom, 
solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman 
well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries from the body found, and 
then tracing a murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other individual 
than Marie; or if, starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her unassassinated- 
in either case we lose our labor; since it is Monsieur G-with whom we have to deal. For 
our own purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that our 
first step should be the determination of the identity of the corpse with the Marie Roget 
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 Roget 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 truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning, as it 
stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated, but it is material that we go behind the mere 
words, for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey. It 
was the design of the journalists to say that at whatever period of the day or night of 
Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that the assassins would have 
ventured to bear the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the 
assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was committed at such a 
position, and under such circumstances, that the bearing it to the river became necessary. 
Now, the assassination might have taken place upon the river's brink, or on the river 
itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to at any 
period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal. 
You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or as coincident with my 
own opinion. My design, so far, has no reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to 
caution you against the whole tone of L'Etoile's suggestion, by calling your attention to 
its ex-parte character at the outset. 

"Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions; having assumed 
that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have been in the water but a very brief time, 
the journal goes on to say: 



All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water 
immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient 
decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is 
fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again if 
let alone. 

"These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris, with the exception 
of Le Moniteur.* This latter print endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph 
which has reference to 'drowned bodies' only, by citing some five or six instances in 
which the 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. 

* The New York Commercial Advertiser, Edited by Col. Stone. 

"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 the sea. But, leaving this tide out of the question, it may be said 
that very few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, of their own accord. 
Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific 
gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own-that is to say, if he 
suffer his whole person to be immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper 
position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the walker on land, with the 
head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the 
surface. Thus circumstanced; we shall find that we float without difficulty and without 
exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of the body, and of the bulk of water 
displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate. An 
arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of its support, is an 
additional weight sufficient to immerse the whole head, while the accidental aid of the 
smallest piece of timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look about. Now, in 
the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown upward, while 



an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the 
immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while 
beneath the surface, of water into the lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and 
the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air 
originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which now fills them. This 
difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in 
the case 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 anything 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. 'AH 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 
struggle 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 Roget, 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 the 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 Roget 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 
unusual 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.* 

* "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. 

"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 readverting 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 any 
thing to do with the proceedings except himself.' It seems to be 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 encounters would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as 
possible, but as very far more 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 bom a parrot-in which case he would have been 
the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the 
already published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this paper and 
from that. 'The things had all evidently been there,' he says, 'at least three or four weeks, 
and there can be no doubt that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.' The 
facts here re- stated by Le Soleil, are very far indeed from removing my own doubts upon 
this subject, and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connection with 
another division of the theme. 

"At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations. You cannot fail to have 
remarked the extreme laxity of the examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of 
identity was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other points to be 
ascertained. Had the body been in any respect despoiled? Had the deceased any articles 
of jewelry about her person upon leaving home? If so, had she any when found? These 
are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and there are others of equal 
moment, which have met with no attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by 
personal inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have no suspicion of 
this person; but let us proceed methodically. We will ascertain beyond a doubt the 



validity of the affidavits in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this 
character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there be nothing wrong here, 
however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from our investigations. His suicide, however, 
corroborative of suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is, without such 
deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need cause us to 
deflect from the line of ordinary analysis. 

"In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this tragedy, and 
concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least usual error in investigations 
such as this is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the 
collateral or circumstantial events. It is the malpractice of the courts to confine evidence 
and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a true 
philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from 
the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely through 
its letter, that modem 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 meantime my friend occupied himself, with what 
seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper 
files. At the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts: 

"About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the present was caused by 
the disappearance of this same Marie Roget 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.* 

* New York Express 

"An evening journal of yesterday refers to a former mysterious disappearance of 
Mademoiselle Roget. 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 Mercure, Tuesday Morning, June 24.* 

* New York Herald 

"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-* 

* New York Courier and Inquirer 

"We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to fasten the crime 
of the late atrocity upon Mennais*; but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a 
legal inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more 
zealous than profound, we do not think it advisable to make them public."- Morning 
Paper, June 28. *(2) 

* Mennais was one of the parties originally arrested, but discharged through total lack of 
evidence. 

*(2) New York Courier and Inquirer 

"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 
Roget 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.* 



* New York Evening Post 

"On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service saw an empty boat 
floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed 
it under the barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence without the 
knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office. "-Le Diligence, 
Thursday, June 26.* 

* New York Standard 

Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I could 
perceive no mode in which any one of them could be brought to bear upon the matter in 
hand. I waited for some explanation from Dupin. 

"It is not my present design," he said, "to dwell upon the first and second of these 
extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show you the extreme remissness of the police, 
who, as far as I can understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any 
respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet it is mere folly to say 
that between the first and second disappearance of Marie there is no supposable 
connection. Let us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel between the 
lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are now prepared to view a second 
elopement (if 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 an elopement had been made by one individual, should have them made to 
her by another. And here let me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing 
between the first ascertained and the second supposed elopement is a few months more 
than the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted 
in his first villainy by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first 
moment of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether accomplished-or not 
yet altogether accomplished by him? Of all these things we know nothing. 

"You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was no elopement as 
imagined. Certainly not-but are we prepared to say that there was not the frustrated 
design? Beyond St. Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no 
honorable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there any thing said. Who, then, is the secret 
lover, of whom the relatives (at least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie 
meets upon the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that she 
hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid the solitary 
groves of the Barriere 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 Madam Roget 
on the morning of Marie's departure?-'! fear that I shall never see Marie again.' 



"But if we cannot imagine Madame Roget privy to the design of elopement, may we not 
at least suppose this design entertained by the giri? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be 
understood that she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Dromes, 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 Barriere 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 Dromes, 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 Dromes-I will tell St. Eustache not to call for me until dark-in this way, my absence 
from home for the longest possible period, without causing suspicion or anxiety, will be 
accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache 
call for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but if I wholly neglect to bid him 
call, my time for escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I return the 
earlier, and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to 
return at all-if I had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question-it 
would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache call; for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain 
that I have played him false-a fact of which I might keep him forever in ignorance, by 
leaving home without notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by 
then stating that I had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Dromes. But, as it is my 
design never to return- or not for some weeks-or not until certain concealments are 
effected- the gaining of time is the only point about which I need give myself any 
concern.' 

"You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in relation to this sad 
affair is, and was from the first, that the girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards. 
Now, the popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded. When 
arising of itself-when manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous manner-we should look 
upon it as analogous with that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of 
genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by its decision. But it is 
important that we find no palpable traces of suggestion. The opinion must be rigorously 
the public's own, and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to perceive and to 
maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that this 'public opinion,' in respect to a 
gang, has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed in the third of my 



extracts. All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful, 
and notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and floating in the river. 
But it is now made known that, at the very period, or about the very period, in which it is 
supposed that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that endured by the 
deceased, although less in extent, was perpetrated by a gang of young ruffians, upon the 
person of a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity should 
influence the popular judgment in regard to the other unknown? This judgment awaited 
direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was 
found in the river; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed. The 
connection of the two events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder 
would have been a failure of the populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, the 
one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing, evidence that the other, 
committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so committed. It would have been a 
miracle indeed, if, while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most 
unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang, in a similar locality, in 
the same city, under the same circumstances, with the same means and appliances, 
engaged in a wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the 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 Barriere du Roule. This thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of 
a public road. Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back 
and a footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a white petticoat; on the second, a silk 
scarf. A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The 
handkerchief bore the name 'Marie Roget'. Fragments of dress were seen on the branches 
around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of 
a violent struggle. 

"Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket was received 
by the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to indicate the precise scene 
of the outrage, it must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt. That 
it was the scene, I may or I may not believe-but there was excellent reason for doubt. 
Had the true scene been, as Le Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue 
Pavee St. Andree, 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 re-divert this attention. And thus, the thicket 
of the Barriere du Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the articles 
where they were found, might have been naturally entertained. There is no real evidence, 
although Le Soleil so supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a very 
few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof that they could not have 
remained there, without attracting attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the 
fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys. 'They were all 
mildewed down hard,' says Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of its predecessors, 'with the 
action of the rain and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over 



some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together 
within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and 
rotten, and tore on being opened.' In respect to the grass having 'grown around and over 
some of them,' it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the 
words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the 
articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party. But the grass will 
grow, especially in warm and damp weather (such as was that of the period of the 
murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly 
turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the 
upspringing grass. And touching that mildew upon which the editor of Le Soleil so 
pertinaciously insists, that he employs the word no less than three times in the brief 
paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he to be told 
that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which the most ordinary feature is its 
upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours? 

"Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in support of 
the idea that the articles had been 'for at least three or four weeks' in the thicket, is most 
absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is exceedingly 
difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the thicket specified for a 
longer period than a single week-for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next. 
Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the extreme difficulty of finding 
seclusion, unless at a great distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored or 
even an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be 
imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the 
dust and heat of this great metropolis-let any such one attempt, even during the week- 
days, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which 
immediately surround us. At every second step, he will find the growing charm dispelled 
by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards. He 
will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain. Here are the very nooks where the 
unwashed most abound-here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the heart 
the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less 
incongruous sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working 
days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now especially that, released 
from the claims of labor, or deprived of the customary opportunities of crime, the town 
blackguard seeks the precincts of the town, not through love of the rural, which in his 
heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities of 
society. He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the utter license of the 
country. Here, at the road-side inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he indulges 
unchecked by any eye except those of his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a 
counterfeit hilarity- the joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than 
what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the 
circumstance of the articles in question having remained undiscovered, for a longer 
period than from one Sunday to another, in any thicket in the immediate neighborhood of 
Paris, is to be looked upon as little less than miraculous. 



"But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the articles were placed in 
the thicket with the view of diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And 
first, let me direct your notice to the date of the discovery of the articles. Collate this with 
the date of the fifth extract made by myself from the newspapers. You will find that the 
discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications sent to the evening 
paper. These communications, although various, and apparently from various sources, 
tended all to the same point- viz., the directing of attention to a gang as the perpetrators of 
the outrage, and to the neighborhood of the Barriere 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 a footstool. And this thicket, so full of art, was in the immediate vicinity, within a 
few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely 
examining the shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a 
rash wager-a wager of one thousand to one-that a day never passed over the heads of 
these boys without finding at least one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and 
enthroned upon its natural throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have either 
never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature. I repeat-it is 
exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained in this thicket 
undiscovered, for a longer period than one or two days; and that thus there is good 
ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of Le Soleil, that they were, at a 
comparatively late date, deposited where found. 

"But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so deposited, than any 
which I have as yet urged. And, now, let me beg your notice to the highly artificial 
arrangement of the articles. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk 
scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the 
name 'Marie Roget.' Here is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a 
not over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But it is by no means a 
really natural arrangement. I should rather have looked to see the things all lying on the 
ground and trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would have been 
scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the 
stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. 'There was 
evidence,' it is said, 'of a struggle; and the earth was trampled, the bushes were broken,'- 
but the petticoat and the scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. 'The pieces of the 
frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part 
was the hem of the frock and it had been mended. They looked like strips torn off.' Here, 
inadvertently, Le Soleil has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces, as 
described, do indeed look like strips torn off; but purposely and by hand. It is one of the 
rarest of accidents that a piece is 'torn off,' from any garment such as is now in question. 



by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming 
tangled in them, tears them rectangularly-divides them into two longitudinal rents, at 
right angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters-but it is 
scarcely possible to conceive the piece 'torn off.' I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a 
piece off from such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will be, in almost 
every case, required. If there be two edges to the fabric- if, for example, it be a pocket- 
handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one force 
serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is of a dress, presenting but one 
edge. To tear a piece from the interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected 
by a miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could accomplish it. But, 
even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary, operating, the one in two 
distinct directions, and the other in one. And this in the supposition that the edge is 
unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question. We thus see the 
numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces being 'torn off through the simple 
agency of 'thorns'; yet we are required to believe not only that one piece but that many 
have been so torn. 'And one part,' too, 'was the hem of the frock'! Another piece was 'part 
of the skirt, not the hem,'-that is to say, was torn completely out, through the agency of 
thorns, from the unedged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things which one may 
well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of 
reasonable ground for suspicion, than the one startling circumstance of the articles having 
been left in this thicket at all, by any murderers who had enough precaution to think of 
removing the corpse. You will not have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose 
it my design to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might have been a 
wrong here, or more possibly, an accident at Madame Deluc's. But, in fact, this is a point 
of minor importance. We are not engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to 
produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the 
minuteness with which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show the folly 
of the positive and headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and chiefly, to bring 
you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation of the doubt whether this 
assassination has, or has not, been the work of a gang. 

"We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting details of the surgeon 
examined at the inquest. It is only necessary to say that his published inferences, in 
regard to the number of the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally 
baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not that the matter might not have been 
as inferred, but that there was no ground for the inference:-was there not much for 
another? 

THE END