THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE w THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE INCLUDING THE CHOICEST OF HIS CRITICAL ESSAYS. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IN THIS COUNTRY. Foe s Cottage at Fordkam. WITH A STUDY ON HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS, FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. SKETCHES OF POE S SCHOOL NEAR LONDON, NOW FIRST IDENTIFIED, PORTRAITS AND F AC-SIMILES. 5E/onDon : CHATTO AND WINDUS, PUBLISHERS. (SUCCESSORS TO JOHN CAM DEN HOTTEN.) PRELIMINARY, | HE present edition of the Works of Edgar Allan Poe is more complete than any yet published in this country. It not only gives the whole of the poems and stories which have been left us by this fine genius, but it also contains some critical essays which will be new to English readers. It is well known that Poe spent some years of his life in a school at Stoke Newington, near London,* but neither his biographers nor any of the pilgrims his admirers who visit this quiet Quaker suburb in memory of the poet, have ever been able to identify " the quaint old house with Elizabethan gables" which he describes in one of his " Tales of Mystery." By a fortunate circumstance the publisher of the present volume stumbled upon an abstract of the leases granted by the Lord of the Manor sixty years since, and amongst the entries is : " The Eev. John Bransly of the School in Church Street, and Ground in Edward s Lane, 21 years lease with 10 additional, expires 25 March, Yearly Rent 1837." 55 As " Bransby" was the name mentioned by Poe, this gave the clue at once, and the house was soon identified, but not as having " Elizabethan gables," described in the story partly autobiographical of " William Wilson." The actual house is a roomy old structure of Queen Anne s time, and remains inter nally in very nearly the same state as when the poet was there. It is still a school, at present under the care of a Mr. Dod; and * Poe came to England with his adopted parents, Mr. and Mrs. Allan, of Baltimore. They paid a lengthened visit to the old country, being concerned in the disposal of some property here. M611779 iv PRELIMINARY. although the thirteen acres of play -ground which existed in Poe s time have long since been parcelled out to other tenements, or have been built upon, we were fortunate in being able to secure a good sketch of the house, together with a drawing made whilst Poe was at the school of the ancient manor gateway, formerly a conspicuous object in the ground. The acres were fenced in by a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass. This prison-like rampart formed the limit of the domain; the scholars saw beyond it but thrice a- week once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two tutors, they were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighbouring fields; and twice during Sunday, when they were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. The portrait of Poe s schoolmaster, which we also give, is interesting when taken in connection with the poet s graphic description of the venerable clergyman in " William Wilson." " Dr. Bransby," as Poe styles him, was the lecturer of the parish church, and his pupils were wont to regard him with wonder and perplexity from their remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit. That reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast could that be he who of late, with sour visage and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy? A word may be said about Poe s portrait. It is taken from a likeness which he gave to a friend a short time before his decease, and is considered by those who remember the poet an excellent representation of him when living. J. C. H. PICCADILLY, 26 Oct., 1872, CONTENTS. EDGAR ALLAN" POE : HIS LIFE AND WORKS, FROM THE FRENCH OP CHARLES BAUDELAIRE .... MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE BAVEN - . . . .25 LENORE . - . . . - 28 HYMN ...... 29 A VALENTINE - - - - 29 THE COLISEUM - - - . ; 30 To HELEN - - - . . * 31 To . . . -. 33 ULALUME - - . 34 THE BELLS - - 36 AN ENIGMA - 39 ANNABEL LEE - - - 40 To MY MOTHER - . 41 THE HAUNTED PALACE - - ."* 41 THE CONQUEROR WORM . - . . .43 To P s. S. D. - - - - . 44 To ONE IN PARADISE .... 44 THE VALLEY OF UNREST - - - . 45 THE CITY IN THE SEA - - 46 THE SLEEPER - , -, - 47 SILENCE . . . . 49 vl CONTENTS. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM .... DREAM-LAND ... To ZANTE - . EULALIE - - ELDORADO - ISRAFEL FOR ANNIE - - To - . . BRIDAL BALLAD ..... To F ...... SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" .... POEMS WPJTTEN IN YOUTH. SONNET To SCIENCE - AL AARAAF - To THE RIVER ... TAMERLANE .... To - . . A DREAM - - - ROMANCE - . . FAIRY-LAND - .... THE LAKE To SONG - - - . v To M. L. S. - TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION. THE GOLD BUG . - - 105 THE FACTS IN THE CASE or M. VALDEMAR - - 138 MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE ; . . 147 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM ... 157 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE - - - 172 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET - - - - 204 THE PURLOINED LETTER . ^848 THE BLACK CAT - - - -266 THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH - - - 275 CONTENTS. PAGE THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO - 280 THE OVAL PORTRAIT - .... 287 THE ASSIGNATION . 290 * THE TELL-TALE HEART - . . . 300 -/WILLIAM WILSON - - .-, . . 305 BERENICE . . . . 324 ELEONORA - - - . " - 331 LIGEIA . . . - 337 SHADOW. A PARABLE - . . - 351 SILENCE. A FABLE - ... 354 A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS - - 357 KING PEST - - - - 367 THE MAN OF THE CROWD - 378 ." THOU ART THE MAN "- .... 36 HUMOROUS TALES AND SKETCHES. THE SPECTACLES . 403 THE Due DE L OMELETTE - - 425 LIONIZING - 429 NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD . 434 SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY - - 443 WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING 458 THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. - - 463 How TO WRITE A "BLACKWOOD" ARTICLE * 480 X-ING A PARAGRAB - - 489 DIDDLING CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES - 495 THE ANGEL OF THE ODD - - 505 MELLONTA TAUTA 514 THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP - 526 THE BUSINESS MAN - - : - - - - 536 CRITICAL ESSAYS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT (MRS. BROWNING) - 547 R. H. HORNE - - 569 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY .... 588 viii CONTENTS. PAflB CHARLES LEVER - . . -591 CHARLES DICKENS . . . 600 LONGFELLOW S BALLADS - k V . . . 617 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE . . - . 628 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE - . ... 641 THE PHILOSOPHY or COMPOSITION ... 660 PHILOSOPHY or FURNITURE . . . . 671 EDGAR ALLAN POE: HIS LIFE AND WORKS, FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.* " Unhappy Master, whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burdeu bore U-ill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of Never nevermore ! " The Raven. I. | OT long ago, there was brought before one of our tribunals a criminal whose forehead was tattooed with the singu larly strange device Never a, chance. Thus as a book bears its title, he carried above his eyes the etiquette-law of his life, and the cross-examination proved this curious writing to be cruelly veracious. There are, in the history of literature, many analogous destinies of actual damnation, many men who bear the word Luckless written in mysterious characters in the sinuous folds of their foreheads. The blind angel of Expiation hovers for ever around them, punishing them with rods for the edifica tion of others. It is in vain that their lives exhibit talents, virtues or graces. Society has for them a special anathema, ac cusing them even of those infirmities which its own persecutions have generated. What would Hoffmann not have done to dis arm Destiny 1 what Balzac not attempted to compel Fortune 1 Does there, then, exist some diabolic Providence which prepares misery from the cradle ; which throws, and throws with premedi tation, these spiritual and angelic natures into hostile ranks, as martyrs were once hurled into the arena 1 Can there, then, be holy souls destined to the sacrificial altar, compelled to march to death and glory across the very ruins of their lives 1 Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls I Vainly they may * Translated by H. Curwen. 2 EDGAR ALLAN POE, struggle, vainly conform themselves to the world, to its foresight, to its cunning ; let them grow perfect in prudence, batten up every entry, nail down every window, against the shafts of Fate ; still the Demon will enter by a key-hole ; some fault will arise from the very perfection of their breastplate ; some superlative quality will be the germ of their damnation : " L aigle, pour le briser, du haut du firmament, Sur leur front decouvert lachera la tortue, Car ils doivent perir in^vetablement." Their destiny is written in their very constitution ; sparkling with a sinister brilliancy in their looks and in their gestures ; circulat ing through their arteries in every globule of their blood. A famous author of our time has written a book to prove that the poet can find a happy home neither in democratic nor aristo cratic society not a whit the more in a republic than in a monarchy, absolute or limited and who was able peremptorily to reply to him"? I bring to-day a new legend to support his theory; to-day, I add a new saint to the holy army of martyrs, for I have to write the history of one of those illustrious unfortunates, over- rich, with poetry and passion, who came after so many others, to serve ia this dull wor]d the rude apprenticeship of genius among inferior souls. A lamentable tragedy this Life of Edgar Poe ! His death a horrible unravelling of the drama, where horror is besmutched with trivialities ! All the documents I have studied strengthen me in the conviction that the United States was for Poe only a vast prison through which he ran, hither and thither, with the feverish agitation of a being created to breathe in a purer world - only a wild barbarous country barbarous and gas-lit and that his interior life, spiritual as a poet, spiritual even as a drunkard, was but one perpetual effort to escape the influence of this anti pathetical atmosphere. There is no more pitiless dictator than that of " Public Opinion " in democratic societies ; beseech it not for charity, nor indulgence, nor any elasticity whatsoever, in the application of its laws to the varied and complex cases of moral , life. We might say that from the impious love of liberty has been born a new tyranny the tyranny of fools which, in its insensible ferocity, resembles the idol of Juggernaut. One biographer tells us gravely, and with the best possible intention in the world, that B Y CHARLES BA UDELAIRE. 3 Poe, if he had willed to regulate his genius, to apply his creative faculties in a manner more appropriate to the American soil, might have become a money-making author ; another an out spoken cynic this that beautiful as Poe s genius was, it would have been better for him to have possessed only talent, since talent can pile up a banker s balance much more readily than genius ; a third, a friend of the poet, a man who has edited many reviews and journals, confesses that it was difficult to employ Poe, and that he was compelled to pay him less than the others, because he wrote in a style too far removed from the vulgar. How this " savours of the shop," as Joseph de Maistre would say. Some have even dared more, and, uniting the dullest unintelli- gence of his genius to the ferocity of the hypocritical trading-class, insulted him to the uttermost, after his untimely end, rudely hectoring his poor speechless corpse ; particularly Mr. Rufus Griswold, who, to quote here George Graham s vengeful saying, then " committed an immortal infamy." Poe, feeling, perhaps, the sinister foreboding of a sudden death, had nominated Griswold and Willis as his literary executors, to set his papers in order, to write his life and to restore his memory. The first the pedagogue vampire has defamed his friend at full length in an enormous article wearisome and crammed with hatred which was prefixed to the posthumous edition of Poe s works ; are there then no regulations in America to keep the curs out of the cemeteries ? Mr. Willis, however, has proved, on the contrary, that kindliness and respect go hand in hand with true wit, and that charity, which is ever a moral duty, is also one of the dictates of good taste. . Talk of Poe with an American he will, perhaps, confess his genius, perhaps even show a personal pride in it ; but, with that sardonic superiority which betokens your positive man, he will tell you of the poet s disordered life ; of his alcoholized breath, ready to have taken light at any candle-flame ; of his vagabond habits ; he will reiterate that the poet was an erratic and strange being, an orbit-less planet, rolling incessantly from Baltimore to New York, from New York to Philadelphia, from Phila delphia to Boston, from Boston to Baltimore, from Baltimore to Richmond; and, if deeply moved by these preludes of a grievous history, you try to make him understand that the individual was not alone blameworthy, that it must have been difficult to write or think at ease in a country where jliere are a million sovereigns, 12 4 EDGAR ALLAN POE, a country without, strictly speaking, a metropolis, and without an aristocracy, his eyes will open fiercely, and, sparkling with rage, drivel of suffering patriotism will foam to his lips, and America, by his mouth, will hurl curses at its old mother, Europe, and at the philosophy of ancient days. I repeat once more my firm conviction that Edgar Poe and his country were never upon a level. The United States is a gigantic and infantine country, not unnaturally jealous of the old conti nent. Proud of its material development, abnormal and almost monstrous, this new comer into history has a naive faith in the all- powerfulness of industry, being firmly convinced, moreover, like some unfortunates among ourselves, that it will finish by devour ing the devil himself. Time and money are there held in such extraordinary esteem ; material activity, exaggerated almost to the proportions of a national mania, leaves room in their minds for little that is not of the earth. Poe, who came of a good race, and who, moreover, declared the great misfortune of his country to be its lack of an aristocracy, expected, as he often argued, that in a nation without an aristocracy, the worship of the beauti ful would but corrupt itself, lessen and disappear ; who accused his fellow-citizens, in their emphatic and costly luxury, of all the symptoms of bad taste that characterize the parvenu ; who con sidered Progress, the grand idea of modern times, as the ecstasy of silly idlers, and who styled the modern perfection of the human dwelling an eyesore and a rectangular abomination ; Poe, I say, was there a singularly solitary brain. Believing only in the im mutablein the eternity of nature, he enjoyed a cruel privilege truly in a society amorous of itself the grand common-sense of Machiavelli, who marches before the student like a column of fire across the deserts of history. What would he have written, what have thought, if he had heard the sentimental theologian, out of love for the human race, suppress hell itself ; the rag-shop philosopher propose an insurance company to put an end to wars by the subscription of a half-penny per head ; the abolition of capital punishment and orthography, those two correlative follies, and a host of sick persons writing, with the ear even close to the belly, fantastic grumblings as flatulent as the element which dictated them 1 If you add to this impeccable vision of the True, an actual infirmity under certain circumstances, and exquisite delicacy of taste, revolting from everything out of exact proportion, BY CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. 5 an insatiate love for the beautiful, which had assumed the power of a morbid passion, you altogether cease to be astonished that to such a man life had become a hell, that such a life speedily arrived at an untimely end nay, you will admire his enthusiasm for bearing with it for so long a time. II. The family of Poe was one of the most respectable in Baltimore. His maternal grandfather had served as a quartermaster-general in the war of independence, and had gained the friendship and high esteem of La Fayette, who, during his last journey through the States, had specially sought out the general s widow, to express his gratitude for the services her husband had rendered. His great grandfather had married the daughter of the English admiral, MacBride, who was allied with the noblest English houses. David Poe, the general s son and Edgar s father, falling violently in love with an English actress, Elizabeth Arnold, then famous for her beauty, ran away with her and married her, and, to bring their destinies still more intimately together, took to the stage, appear ing with his wife on the boards of the different theatres in the chief towns of the Union. The young couple died at Richmond almost at the same time, leaving three little children, the youngest of whom was Edgar, in the most helpless and abandoned condition. Edgar Poe was born at Baltimore, in the year 1813, I give this date upon his own authority, for his writings protest against the statement of Griswold, who places the birth in 1811. If ever, to borrow an expression from our poet, the " Spirit of Eomance," a spirit sinister and stormy presided at a birth, it was certainly at his. Poe was the veritable offspring of passion and adventure. Mr. Allan, a wealthy merchant, took a great fancy to the unfor tunate little lad, whom nature had dowered with a charming man ner, and, being childless, adopted him as a son, to be henceforth known as Edgar Allan Poe. He was thus brought up in happy circumstances, and in the legitimate hope of succeeding to one of those fortunes which give a lofty altitude to the character. He accompanied his adopted parents upon a journey through England, Scotland and Ireland, but before returning to their native country, they entrusted him to the care of Dr. Bransby, who kept a school of some importance at Stoke-Newington, a northern suburb of London. Poe has himself, in William Wilson, described this 6 EDGAR ALLAN POE, quaint old house, with its Elizabethan gables, and all his schoolboy impressions. He returned to Richmond in 1822, and continued his studies in America under the best masters of the neighbourhood. At the University of Charlottesville, which he entered in 1825, he dis tinguished himself, not only by an intelligence quasi-miraculous, but also by a sinister abundance of passions a precocity truly American which was finally the cause of his expulsion. We must note in passing that Poe had akeady at Charlottesville manifested the most remarkable aptitude for the physical and mathematical sciences. Later on he made a frequent use of these in his strange stories, drawing from them resources altogether unexpected. But I have reason to believe that it was not to this order of composi tions that he attached the most importance, and that perhaps on account of this precocious aptitude he was not far from consider ing them as facile juggleries, when compared with works of pure imagination. Some unfortunate gaming debts led to a temporary coolness on the part of his adopted father, and Edgar a very curious fact, and one proving, say what they will, a strong dose of chivalry in his impressionable brain conceived the project of aiding the Greeks in their struggle against the tyranny of the Turks. What became of him in the East, what he did there, whether he ever really had a chance of studying the classic borders of the Mediterranean, why he was found at St. Petersburgh, without a passport, and, politically comprised, compelled to appeal to the American ambassador to escape the penalty of the Russian laws, and for aid to return home all this is still a mystery : we know nothing of it : this is a void which he alone could have filled up. Edgar Poe s life, his youth, his adventures in Russia, and his correspondence have for long been announced in the American journals, but have not yet appeared. Returning to America in 1829 he expressed a wish to enter the military college at West Point; he was, in fact, admitted, and there, as elsewhere, he gave signs of an intelligence admirably endowed, but at the same time undisciplined : and, at the end of some few months, he was dismissed. At this moment an event occurred in his adopted family which had the gravest consequence upon the whole of his after life. Mrs. Allan, for whom he felt a truly filial affection, died, and Mr. Allan married a lady of extreme youth. A domestic quarrel thereupon took place, into which I cannot enter, B Y CHAKLES BA UDELAIRE. 7 since it has been clearly explained by no one of his biographers. There is, however, no ground for astonishment that he was hence forth definitely separated from Mr. Allan, who, having children by his second marriage, completely cut off all hopes of succeeding to his fortune. Shortly after quitting Richmond Poe had published a small volume of poems ; this was, indeed, a brilliant first attempt. For all who could feel and appreciate English poetry, there was already that extra-terrestrial accent, that calmness of melancholy, that de licious solemnity, which characterizes the master-singers. Misery now for some time made him a soldier, and it is to be presumed that he employed the dull leisure of a garrison life in preparing materials for his future compositions weird compo sitions they are, which seem to have been created to show that weirdness is an integral part of the beautiful. Soon embarking in a literary career, where alone beings of a certain order are able to breathe, Poe would have died of extreme misery, but for a lucky chance which gave him the opportunity of bread-earning. The proprietor of a small magazine announced two prizes one for the best story, the other for the best poem, h singularly clear and beautiful handwriting attracted the attention of a Mr. Kennedy, who presided over the committee of selection, and inspired him with the desire of personally examining the manuscripts. He de clared at once that Poe had gained both the prizes, but one only was allotted to him. The president was anxious to see the unknown author, and the editor of the magazine introduced him to a young man of striking beauty, dressed in rags and a tattered coat, but toned to the chin, possessing the air of a true gentleman, looking at once haughty, and very hungry. Kennedy kindly did what lay in his power, introducing him to the notice of Mr. Thomas White who had founded the Southern Literary Messenger at Richmond, White was a man of audacious literary enterprise, but without any literary talent whatever. Poe soon became essential as an assist ant, and, at the age of two-and-twenty, found himself the editor of a review, the entire destinies of which depended upon his personal efforts. He speedily established its prosperity, and many years afterwards the Southern Literary Messenger acknowledged that to this eccentric outcast, to this incorrigible drunkard, its numerous sub?cribers and its profitable notoriety were mainly due. In this journal many of the stones which are hereafter presented to our 8 EDGAR ALLAN POE, readers, made their first appearance. For nearly two years Poe, with a marvellous ardour, astonished his public by series of com positions of a kind altogether novel, and by critical articles, the vivacity, the terseness, the severe reasoning of which were admirably adapted to enforce attention. Other articles discussed literature in its every branch, and the young writer s thorough and broad education now stood him in good stead. It is worth our while to learn, that for these important duties, this indefatigable labour, he received five hundred dollars, that is about one hundred and eight pounds sterling, per annum. " Immediately? says Griswold, as if he meant to convey, " Believing himself now rich enough the young fool!" he married a young lady, beautiful, charming, and of an heroic nature, but without a farthing, adds this same Griswold with a sneer of disdain. The young lady was his cousin, Virginia Clernm. In spite of the services rendered to his journal, White quarrelled with his editor before two years had elapsed. The reason of their separation is evidently to be found in the attacks of hypochondria, and the fitful outbursts of intoxication, to which the poet was sub jectcharacteristic incidents which darkened his spiritual sky, like those gloomy clouds which suddenly give to the most romantic landscape an air of melancholy apparently irreparable. Hencefor ward we watch the unfortunate poet striking his tent, like a nomad of the desert, and, carrying his light penates hither and thither through the principal cities of the union. Everywhere, in a brilliant manner, he edited reviews, or contributed to them, scattering broadcast, with a miraculous rapidity, critical and philo sophical articles, and stories teeming with a magic beauty, which appeared in a collected form, under the title of Tales of the Gro tesque and Arabesque a remarkable and intentional title, for arabesque and grotesque ornamentation repulses the human figure ; and we shall see that, in most respects, the works of Poe are extra, or superhuman. We learn next, by scandalous paragraphs cruelly inserted in the papers, that Poe and his wife, in a state of utter destitution, were taken dangerously ill at Fordham. Here his de voted wife died, and shortly after her death the poet experienced his first attack of delirium tremens. A new paragraph suddenly appeared in one of the papers in that one which was bitterest against him which, condemning his contempt of the world, and his disgust for it, made one of those sidling attacks upon his charac- BY CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. ter on the part of public opinion, against which he had always to de fend himself of all the sterilely fatiguing struggles the most sterile. He now, doubtless, did gain money, almost enough to support life ; but I have proofs that he had always the most discouraging* difficulties to surmount. At this time he dreamt, like so many other writers, of starting a review for himself of being, as it were, at home ; and indeed he had suffered sufficiently to justify an ardent desire for a definite haven for his thoughts. To arrive at this end, to procure a sufficient sum of money, he had recourse to lecturing a branch of speculation which the college of France has put in the power of all literary men, the author publishing his lecture only after he has first derived all possible prior benefits. Poe had already given at New York a lecture called Eureka his cosmogenic poem, which had even originated a stormy discussion. He now determined to lecture in his own country Virginia, ex pecting, as he wrote Willis, to make a circuit in the east and south, where he trusted to the support of his literary friends, and of his old fellow-students at Charlottesville and West Point. He visited in turn the principal towns of Virginia ; and the people of Pdchmond again saw him whom they had known formerly as so young, so poor, so forlorn. Now he appeared handsome, elegant, correct as genius itself. I even believe that for some time he had pushed his condescension so far as to join a temperance society. He chose a theme as large as it was elevated The Principles of Poetry, and he developed it with that lucidity which was one of his privileges. He believed the true poet that he was that the aim of poetry is of the same nature as its principle that it ought never to have in view anything but itself. The happy reception with which he was welcomed, flooded his poor heart with pride and joy ; he showed himself so enchanted with it that he even talked of definitely establishing himself at Richmond, and ending his days in the spot which childhood had rendered dear to him. However, he had business at New York, and he started on the 4th October, complaining of weakness and shiverings. Feeling himself worse on arriving at Baltimore at six in the evening, he caused his luggage to be moved to the station from which he meant to leave for Philadelphia, and then entered a tavern to take some exciting stimulant. There, unfortunately, he came across old acquaintances, and stopped late. On the following morning in the pale shadows of the early day, a corpse was found, id EDGAR ALLAN P0, upon the high-way a corpse with life still stirring within it, but marked already with the royal stamp of death. On this body, which was recognized by none, were found neither papers nor t.money. They bore it straightway to the hospital, and there died Edgar Poe, on the evening of Sunday, the 7th October, 1849, at the age of thirty-seven, conquered by delirium tremens, the terrible guest who had haunted his brain once or twice previously. Thus disappeared from this world one of our greatest literary heroes, the man of genius who in the Black Cat had written these pro phetic words : " What disease is like Alcohol !" This death was almost a suicide a suicide prepared from an early period ; at all events it caused all the scandal of one. The clamour of the public was deafening, and virtue gave full utterance to her emphatic cant, freely and voluptuously. The more indul gent funeral orations could only give way to that inevitable trades folk morality, which was careful not to neglect so admirable an opportunity. Mr. Griswold defamed sternly ; Mr. Willis, sincerely afflicted, was more than befitted the occasion. Alas, and alas ! he who had stormed the most arduous heights of the aesthetic, who had plunged into the least explored depths of the human intellect, who, across a life resembling a tempest where no hopes of calm came ever, had discovered new means and ways unknown to dazzle the imagination, to charm all minds thirsting for the beautiful, bad just a few hours since died in the wards of a hospital what a destiny ! So much grandeur, so great a misery, to raise a whirlwind of commonplace moralities, to become the food and the theme of virtuous journalists : Ut dedamatio jias. These spectacles are in no wise novel ; rarely, indeed, is the funeral of a young and illustrious artist aught else than a meeting- ground for scandals. Society, moreover, bears no love to their despairing unfortunates, and whether it be that they trouble her feast-days, or that she innocently looks upon them as so many remorses, society is incontestably right. Who cannot recall the declamations of all Paris at the death of Balzac, who nevertheless died with due propriety. And more recently still just one year back from the day I pen these lines when a writer virtuous above suspicion, endowed with the loftiest intelligence, and unlike this other, always admirably lucid, went discreetly without disturbing a single being so discreetly, indeed, that his discretion resembled Y CHARLES BA UDELAIRE. i j contempt to set his soul free in the blackest alley he could find what nauseous homilies were there what refined assassinations ! One celebrated journalist, to whom Jesus shall never teach a generous manner, found the adventure lively enough to be cele brated in the grossest jest. Among the many enumerations of the Rights of Man that the wisdom, of the nineteenth century has recommended so complacently and so often, two most important ones have been forgotten, these two are the right of contradicting oneself, and the right of going hence. But society looks upon him who goes as an insolent fellow ; she would willingly chastise the sorry human remains, just as that hapless soldier, stricken with vampirism, whom the sight of a corpse exasperated to madness, and yet we might say that, under the pressure of certain circum stances, after a serious examination of certain incompatibilities, with a firm belief in certain dogmas and metempsychoses, we might say without emphasis or word-play that a suicide is some times the most reasonable action in a life. Thus, a company of phantoms have banded themselves together, numerous already, each member of which comes back to us boasting of his actual repose, converting us to his own persuasion ! Once for all let us avow that the melancholy end of the author of Eureka excited some exceptional pity, without which the world would be no longer tenable. Mr. Willis, as I have said, spoke honestly and even with emotion, of the good relations there had always existed between Poe and himself. John ISTeal and George Graham endeavoured to call Griswold to some sense of shame. Mr. Longfellow all honour to him, since Poe had cruelly mal treated him knew how, in a manner worthy of a poet, to praise Poe s great powers as a poet and a prose writer. An unknown pen declared that American literature had lost its strongest head. Sick at heart, and unutterably wretched was Mrs. Clemm, for Edgar was at once to her as son and daughter. A terrible destiny, says Willis, from whom I borrow these details, almost word for word, a terrible destiny was that one she watched over and pro tected ; for Edgar Poe was an embarrassing being, besides the fact that he wrote with a fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the common intellectual level to be highly paid, he was always plunged in monetary distresses, and often he and his sick wife stood in urgent need of the common necessaries of life. Willis saw one day a lady, old, sweet-countenanced, and grave, 1 2 EDGAR ALLAN FOE, enter his office. It was Mrs. Clemm in search of work for her dear Edgar. The biographer tells us that he was sincerely struck, not only at the exact appreciation she displayed of the talent of her son, but also by her whole appearance her voice, low and sad, her manners, maybe of the past, but beautiful and commanding. During several years, he adds, we watched this indefatigable servitor to genius, poorly and insufficiently clad, going from journal to journal, to sell now a poem, now an article, saying some times that he was ill the only explanation, the only reason, the invariable excuse that she gave when her son was momentarily struck with one of those attacks of literary sterility so common to nervous writers ; and never allowing her lips to breathe a syllable that could be interpreted as a doubt, as a lessening of confidence in the genius and the will of her well-beloved. When her daughter died she attached herself to the survivor with a maternal ardour doubly strengthened ; living with him, taking tender care of him, watching over him, defending him against Jife and against himself. If ever, concludes Willis, with just and lofty reason, "if ever woman s devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this pure, disinterested, and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit say for him who inspired it V Other detractors of Poe have in effect remarked that he possessed seductions so powerful that they could only be virtues. We may divine how terrible the news was to this unfortunate mother. She wrote to Willis a letter of which \ve quote a few lines: " I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie. . . . Can you give me any circumstances or particulars ? . . . Oh ! do not desert your friend in this bitter affliction. . . . Ask Mr. to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor Eddie. ... I need not ask you to notice his death, and to speak well of him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he was to me his poor desolate mother. . . ." This woman appears to me grand and more than antique. Stricken with an irreparable blow, she thinks only of the reputa tion of him who was all in all to her, arid it does not sufficiently content her to say that he was a genius, but all the world must know that he was a man dutiful and affectionate. It is evi dent that this mother torch and hearth-side lightened by a ray from the highest heavens has been sent as an example to our B Y CHARLES BA UD EL A IRE. 1 3 race, too little careful of heroism and devotion, of all that is noblest in duty. Were it not a justice to inscribe before the poet s works the name of her who was the moral sun of his life ? to embalm in his glory the name of that woman whose tenderness knew how to soothe his wounds, and whose image will incessantly hover above the martyrology of literature *\ III. The life of Poe, his morals, his manners, his physical being, all that constituted his personal surroundings, appear as at once gloomy and brilliant. His person, singularly entrancing, was like his works, marked with an indefinable stamp of melancholy. Moreover he was remarkably well endowed in all respects. As a youth he had dis played a rare aptitude for all physical exercises, and though made with the feet and hands of a woman, bearing throughout indeed this character of feminine delicacy, he was more than robust, and capable of marvellous feats of strength. He had in early youth gained a swimming wager for a distance surpassing the ordinary measurement of the possible. We might say that Nature endows those of whom she expects great things with an energetic tempera ment, just as she gives a strong vitality to the trees which stand as symbols of grief and mourning. These men, with an outward appearance sometimes almost pitiable, are built as athletes, good for orgie or for toil, quick to excess and capable of astonishing sobriety. There are some points relative to Poe upon which there is a unanimous agreement, for example his high natural distinction, his eloquence and his beauty, of which, as they say, he was perhaps a little vain. His manner, a strange blending of haughtiness and sweetness, was full of firmness. Physiognomy, walk, gestures, every motion of his head, declared him, especially in his happiest days, as a chosen creature. All his being breathed a penetrating solemnity. He was really marked by nature like those figures of chance by-passers, which at once attract the eye of an observer, and preoccupy his memory. Even the pedantic and sour Griswold avows that when he went to pay Poe a visit, and when he found him pale and still stricken with the death and illness of his wife, he was struck beyond measure, not only at the perfection of his man ners, but still more with his aristocratic physiognomy, and the i 4 EDGAR ALLAN POE, perfumed atmosphere of his chamber, in other respects modestly enough furnished. Griswold ignores that the poet, more than other men, possesses that marvellous privilege attributed to the women of France and Spain, of knowing how to deck themselves with a mere nothing, and that Poe, amorous of beauty in all things, would have found a means to transform a thatched cottage into a palace of a novel kind. Has he not written, in a spirit most ori ginal and most curious, of designs for furniture, of plans of country houses and gardens, and of remodelled landscapes ? There still exists a charming letter from Mrs. Frances Osgood, who was one of Foe s friends, giving us the most curious details upon his manners, his person, and his home-life. This lady who was herself a distinguished writer courageously denies all personal knowledge of the vices and the faults cast up at the poet s memory. " With men," she said to Griswold, " your views may be per fectly just, but to women he was different. . . I think no one can know him no one has known him personally certainly no woman without feeling a deep interest in him. I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred and fastidiously refined. . . . " My first meeting with the poet was at Aston-House. A few days previous Mr. Willis had handed me at the table d hote, that strange and thrilling poem entitled the Raven, saying that the author wanted my opinion of it. Its effect upon me was so singu lar, so like that of weird unearthly music that it was with a feeling almost of shame that I heard he desired an introduction. . . I shall never forget the morning when I was summoned to the drawing-room by Mr. Willis to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark eyes flashing with the electric light of feeling and of thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blending of sweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me calmly, gravely, almost coldly, yet with so marked an earnestness that I could not help being deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends. . . . And in his last words, ere reason had for ever left her imperial throne in that overtaxed brain, I have a touching memento of his undying faith and friendship. "It was in his own simple yet poetical home that to me the character of Edgar Foe appeared in its most beautiful light. Flayf ul, B Y CHARLES BA UDELA2RE. 1 5 affectionate, witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child for his young, gentle and idolized wife and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of his most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful arid courteous attention. At his desk beneath the romantic picture of the loved and lost Lenore, he would sit, hour after hour, patient, assiduous and uncomplain ing, tracing in an exquisitely clear chirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts the rare and radiant fancies, as they flashed through his wonderful and ever wakeful brain. I recollect one morning towards the close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light- hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them ; and I who could never resist her j affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own house than elsewhere, hastened to Amity Street. I found him just completing his series of papers entitled the Literati of New York. See, said he, displaying in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow paper (he always wrote thus for the press,) I am going to show you, by the difference of length in these, the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these one of you is rolled up and dis cussed. Come, Virginia, and help me ! And, one by one, they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed intermi nable. Virginia, laughing, ran to one corner of the room with one end, and her husband to the opposite with the other. And whose lengthened sweetness long drawn out is that V said I. Hear her, he cried, just as if her little vain heart didn t tell her it s herself ! " During that year, while travelling for my health, I maintained a correspondence with Mr. Poe,Hn accordance with the earnest en treaties of his wife, who imagined that my influence over him had a restraining and beneficial effect. ... Of the charming love and con fidence that existed between his wife and himself, always delight fully apparent to me, in spite of the many little poetical episodes, in which the impassioned romance of his temperament compelled him to indulge ; of this I cannot speak too earnestly too warmly. I believe she was the only woman he ever truly loved." In Poe s Tales there is no mention of love ; at least Ligeia, Ekonora are not, properly speaking, love-stories ; the principal idea upon which they hinge being quite other. Perhaps he believed that prose is not a language lofty enough for that strange and 16 EDGAR ALLAN POE, almost untranslatable sentiment; for his poems, on the other hand, are strongly saturated with it. There the divine passion appears magnificent, of the stars, yet always veiled with a mist of un changeable melancholy. In his articles he speaks sometimes of love, as of a thing at which his pen should tremble. In the Domain of Arnheim he affirms that the four elementary conditions of hap piness are, life in the open air, the love of a woman, forgetfulness of all ambition, and the creation of a new ideal of beauty. What corroborates the idea of Mrs. Osgood in regard to Poe s chivalrous respect for women is, that in spite of his prodigious talent for the grotesque and horrible, there is throughout his works not a single passage which treats of wantonness, or even of sensual enjoyment. His portraits of women are, so to speak, crowned with aureoles, they daze us from the midst of a supernatural mist, and are limned in the emphatic manner of a worshipper. As to the little romantic episodes, can there be any room for astonishment that a being so nervous, in whom the yearning for the beautiful was ever the chief characteristic, should, with a passionate ardour, have cultivated gallantry, that volcanic and musk-scented flower, for which the feverish brain of a poet has always been the chosen soil ] Of his singular personal beauty, of which so many biographers speak, the mind can, I think, form an approximate idea, in sum moning to its. aid all the vague notions, vague yet characteristic, contained in the word romantic, which serves generally to render the shades of beauty that consist above all in expression. Poe had a grand forehead, where certain bumps " betrayed the overflow of the faculties which they are supposed to represent such as con struction, comparison, causality and where the sense of ideality, par excellence the aesthetic sense, lorded it in haughty calmness. Yet in spite of these gifts, perhaps even on account of their exorbitant privileges, his profile was not exactly pleasant. As whenever one sense is excessive, a deficit could but result from the abundance, a poverty from the usurpation. He had large eyes, at once sombre and full of light, of an indecisive and gloomy colour approaching violet ; his nose was noble and solidly cut ; his mouth fine and sad, though slightly smiling ; his skin a clear brown ; the face generally pale ; the physiognomy a trifle distracted, and imperceptibly tinged with melancholy. His conversation was very remarkable, and essentially full of interest. He was not what we term a good talker a horrible thing B Y CHARLES BA UDELAIRE. 1 7 indeed besides, his speech, like his pen, detested coventionalities ; but a vast knowledge, an acquaintance with many tongues, deep studies, and impressions garnered in numerous countries, made this speech a powerful teacher. His eloquence, essentially poetic, full of method, yet soaring above every known method, an arsenal of images chosen from a world but little frequented by common minds, a prodigious art in drawing secret and novel deductions from an evident and absolutely acceptable proposition, in opening out astonishing perspectives, and, in a word, the art of ravishing, of causing his listeners to think, to dream, snatching them from the trammels of routine such were the dazzling powers of which many men have kept the memory. But sometimes it would happen at all events, they say so that the poet, indulging himself in a caprice, would brusquely recall his friends to earth again by some painful cynicism, brutally demolishing his spiritual fancy. It is, moreover, to be noted that he showed little difficulty in the choice of his listeners, and I think the reader will, without trouble, re collect many other grand and original intelligences to whom all company seemed good ; certain minds, alone in the midst of a crowd, and who, scattering their thoughts in a monologue, have little delicacy in the matter of their public. It is, in fact, a kind of brotherhood founded on contempt. Of his drunkenness celebrated and cast up at him with a per sistence which might make one believe that all the authors of the United States, Foe alone excepted, are angels of sobriety, it is still necessary to speak. Several versions are plausible : none ex clude the others. Above all, I am obliged to remark that Willis and Mrs. Osgood both affirm that a minimum quantity of wine or spirit sufficed to completely perturb his organization. It is easy, too, to suppose that a man so really solitary, so profoundly unfor tunate, who had often declared our social system a paradox and an imposture, a man who, tormented by a pitiless destiny, repeated often that society was but a rabble of miserable wretches (this saying is reported by Griswold, as scandalized as a man can be, who thinks the same thing, but dares not speak it) it is natural, say I, to suppose that this poet, thrown as a child into the hazards of free life, his brain circled tightly round with a toil bitter and continuous, should have occasionally sought the delight of for" getfulness in the flagon. Literary rancours, vertigoes from the crushing marvels of infinity, troubles of household poverty, 3 IS EDGAR ALLAN POE, insults to his misery, all, all were forgotten in the depths of intoxication as in a preparatory tomb. But, just as this explana tion may appear, I still mistrust it from the fact of its deplorable simplicity. I am told that he drank, not as a gourmand, but as a savage with that activity and time-economy altogether American, as if accom-^ plishing a homicidal function, as if he had within himself something that must be killed a worm that ivould not die. They say, too, that one day, when he was on the point of marrying a second time (the banns were published, but as he was being congratulated upon a union that was to prove in his hands the highest convictions of happiness and assured existence, he had said : " It is possible that you may have heard the banns ; but note this I shall never marry !") he went hopelessly drunk to scandalize the neighbourhood of her who should have been his wife, having this recourse to his vice to disembarrass himself of a perjury towards that poor dead spouse whose image always haunted his mind, and whom he had sung so Admirably in his Annabel Lee. 1 consider then, that, in a great number of cases, the infinitely important fact of premeditation is proved and established. On the other hand, I read in a long article in the Southern Lite rary Messenger the same review whose fortunes he had founded that the purity and the finish of his style, the firmness and severity of his thought, the ardour of his labour, were never in the slightest degree altered by this terrible habit ; that the production of the greater part of his excellent short pieces preceded, or followed, one of his drunken crises ; that, after the publication of Eureka^ ha sacrificed deplorably to his longing ; and that at New York, on the yery morning on which the Raven appeared, while the poet s name was on every lip, he crossed Broadway, stumbling outrageously, You must remark that the words preceded, or followed, imply that drunkenness could serve as a stimulant as well as a soothing draught. Now, it is incontestable that, like those fugitive and striking Impressions most striking in their repetition when they have been most fugitive which sometimes follow an exterior symptom, such at the striking of a clock, a note of music, or a forgotten perfume and which are themselves followed by an event similar to the event already known, and which occupy the same place in a chain pre viously revealed like those singular periodical dreams which frequent our sluuibvrs there exist in drunkenness not only the BY CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. 19 entanglements of dreams, but whole series of reasonings, which have need to reproduce themselves, of the medium which has given them birth. If the reader has followed me without repugnance, he has already divined my conclusion. I believe that, in many cases, not certainly in all, the intoxication of Poe was a mnemonic means, a method of work, a method energetic and fatal, but appro priate to his passionate nature. The poet had learned to drink as a laborious author exercises himself in filling note-books. He could not resist the desire of finding again those visions, marvellous or awful those subtle conceptions which he had met before in a pre ceding tempest ; they were old acquaintances which imperatively attracted him, and to renew his knowledge of them, he took a road most dangerous, but most direct. The works that give us so much pleasure to-day were, in reality, the cause of his death. IV. Of the works of this singular genius I have very little to say ; the public will soon prove what it thinks of them. It would to me be difficult, but not impossible, to unravel his method, to explain his process, especially in that part of his works whose effect prin cipally lies in a skilfully-managed analysis. I could introduce the reader into the mystery of his fabrication, paying a special attention to that portion of American genius which caused him to rejoice over a conquered difficulty, a resolved enigma, a successful effort of strength, which urged him on to delight himself with a childish and almost perverse enjoyment in the world of probabilities and con jectures, to create canards to which his subtle aid gave all the appearances of reality. No one can deny that Poe was a marvellous juggler ; and I know that he gave his esteem especially to another portion of his works. I have a few, and very brief, important remarks to make. It was not by his material miracles, however they may have made his renown, that he won the admiration of thinkers, but by his love of the beautiful, by his knowledge of the harmonical conditions of beauty, by his profound and plaintive poetry, carefully wrought, nevertheless, and correct and transparent as a crystal jewel by his admirable style, pure and strange compact as the joints of a coat of mail complacent and minute, and the slightest turn of which served to push his reader towards the desired end and, above all, by that quite special genius, by that unique temperament 20 EDGAR ALLAN POE, which permitted him to paint and explain, in a manner, impeccable, entrancing, terrible, the exception in moral order. Diderot, to take one example of a hundred, is a blood-red author ; Poe is a writer of the nerves even something more and the best I know. With him every entry into a subject is attractive, without vio lence, like a whirlwind. His solemnity surprises the mind, and keeps it on the watch. We feel at once that something grave is at stake ; and slowly, little by little, a history is unfurled the interest of which rests upon some imperceptible deviation of the -intellect, upon an audacious hypothesis, upon an imprudent dose of nature in the amalgam of the faculties. The reader, thralled as if by vertigo, is constrained to follow the author in his entangling de ductions. No man, I repeat, has told, with greater magic the exceptions joi. human life and nature, the ardours of the curiosities of convales cence, the close of seasons charged with enervating splendours, sultry weather, humid and misty, where the south wind softens and distends the nerves, like the chords of an instrument ; where the eyes are filled with tsars that come not from the heart ; hallu cination at first giving place to doubt, soon convinced and full of reasons as a book ; absurdity installing itself in the intellect, and governing it with a crushing logic ; hysteria usurping the place of will, a contradiction established between the nerves and the mind, and mien out of all accord expressing grief by laughter. He analyses them where they are most fugitive ; he poises the imponderable, and describes in that minute and scientific manner, whose effects are terrible, all that imaginary world which floats around the ner vous man, and conducts him on to evil. The very ardour with which he threw himself into the grotesque, out of love for the grotesque, and into the horrible, out of love for the horrible, seems to verify the sincerity of his work, and the accord of the poet with the man. I have already remarked that in mr.ny men this ardour was often the result of a vast unoccupied vital energy, sometimes of a self-promoted chastity, and also of a profound back-driven sensibility. The supernatural delight that a man can experience in watching his own blood flow sudden, vio lent, useless movements, loud cries thrown into the air, with out any mental will are phenomena of the same order. Upon the heart of this literature where the air is rarified, the mind can feel that vague anguish, that fear prompt to tears, that B Y CHARLES BA UDELAIRE. 21 sickness of the heart, which dwells in places vast and strange. But the admiration is stronger ; and, then, art is so great ! all the accessories are there thoroughly appropriate to the characters. The silent solitude of nature, the bustling agitation of the city, are all described there, nervously and fantastically. Like our Eugene Delacroix, who has elevated his art to the height of grand poetry, Edgar Poe loves to move his figures upon a ground of green or violet, where the phosphorescence of putrefaction, and the odour of the hurricane, reveal themselves. Nature inanimate, so styled, participates of the nature of living beings, and, like it, trembles with a shiver, supernatural and galvanic. Space is fathomed by opium ; for opium gives a magic tinge to all the hues, and causes every noise to vibrate with the most sonorous magnificence. Some times glorious visions, full of light and colour, suddenly unroll themselves in its landscape ; and on the furthest horizon-line we see oriental cities and palaces, mist covered, in the distance, which the sun floods with golden showers. The characters of Poe, or rather the character of Poe, the man with sharpened faculties, the man with nerves relaxed, the man whose ardent and patient will bids a defiance to difficulties, whose glance is steadfastly fixed, with the rigidness of a sword, upon objects that increase the more, the more he gazes this man is Poe himself ; and his women, all luminous and sickly, dying of a thou sand unknown ills, and speaking with a voice resembling music, are still himself; or, at least, by their strange aspirations, by their knowledge, by their incurable melancholy, they participate strongly in the nature of their creator. As to his ideal woman his Titanide, she reveals herself under different names, scattering in his, alas ! too scanty poems, portraits, or rather modes of feeling beauty, which the temperament of the author brings together, and con founds in a unity, vague but sensible, and where, more delicately, perhaps, than elsewhere, glows that insatiable passion for the beau tiful which forms his greatest claim, that is to say, the essence of all his claims, to the affection and the respect of poets. MISCELLANEOUS YOUTHFUL POEMS. PREFACE TO THE POEMS. I HESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random " the rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, neverthe less, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion ; and the passions should be held in reverence ; they must not, they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compen sations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. E. A. P. THE RAVEN. NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating " Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" here I opened wide the door ; Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 26 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word. " Le- noref This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, i{ Le- nore !" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; ; Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night s Plutonian shore !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly few!, to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as " Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before," Then the bird said " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store THE RA FEN. 7 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of Never nevermore." But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore/ This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom s core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o er Slw shall press, ah, nevermore ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore. 5 * " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this Home by horror haunted tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead ? tell me tell me, I implore !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore/ " Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that Heaven that bends above usby that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 28 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up starting " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night s Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore," And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted nevermore ! LENORE. JH, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown for ever ! Let the bell toll ! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river ; And, Guy De Vere, hast tkou no tear I weep now or never more ! See ! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore ! Come ! let the burial rite be read the funeral song be sung ! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. " Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her that she died ! How shall the ritual, then, be read 1 the requiem how be sung By you by yours, the evil eye, by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young V Peccavimus; but rave not thus ! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong ! The sweet Lenore -hath " gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes The life still there, upon her hair the death upon her eyes. A VALENTINE. 29 " Avaunt ! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days ! Let no bell toll ! lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven." HYMN. I T morn at noon at twilight dim- Maria ! thou hast heard my hymn 1 In joy and woe in good and ill Mother of God, be with me still ! When the Hours flew brightly by, And not a cloud obscured the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy grace did guide to thine and thee ; Now, when storms of Fate o ercast Darkly my Present anr* my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! A VALENTINE. jOR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Lceda, Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lica Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines ! they hold a treasure Divine a talisman an amulet That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure The words the syllables ! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour ! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot* 36 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets as the name is a poet s, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto Mendez Ferdinando Still form a synonym for Truth. Cease trying ! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. [To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end The name will thus appear. ] THE COLISEUM. [ YPE 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 clays 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 spells more sure than e er Judsean 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, TO HELEN. 3* Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horne d moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! But stay ! these walls these ivy-clad arcades These mouldering plinths these sad and blackened shafts These vague entablatures this crumbling frieze These shattered cornices this wreck this ruin These stones alas ! these gray stones are they all- All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? " Not all" 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." TO HELEN. SAW thee once once only years ago : I must not say how many but not many. It was a July midnight ; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn d faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe- Fell on the upturn d faces of these roses 32 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death Fell on the upturn d faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon Fell on the upturn d faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn d alas, in sorrow ! Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses 1 No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven ! oh, God ! How my heart beats in coupling those two words !) Save only thee and me. I paused I looked And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) The pearly lustre of the moon went out : The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more : the very roses odours Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All all expired save thee save less than thou : Save only the divine light in thine eyes Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them they were the world to me. I saw but them saw only them for hours Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritt-en Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! How dark a woe ! yet how sublime a hope ! How silently serene a sea of pride ! How daring an ambition ! yet how deep How fathomless a capacity for love ! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; - 33 And thon, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide way. Only thine eyes remained. Ilieytvoutd not go they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me they lead me through the years They are my ministers yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle My duty, to be saved by their bright light. And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night ; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! TO . JOT long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words" denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words two foreign soft dissyllables Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit " dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has " the sweetest voice of all God s creatures,") Could hope to utter. And I ! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write I cannot speak or think Alas, I cannot feel ; for ; tis not feeling, 34 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, Amid unpurpled vapours, far away To where the prospect terminates thee only. ULALUME. [HE skies they were ashen and sober ; The leaves they were crisped and sere The leaves they were withering and sere- It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year ; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. Here once, through an alley Titaijic, Of cypress, I roamed with my soul Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriae rivers that roll As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere Our memories were treacherous and sere For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber (Though once we had journeyed down here) Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. ULALUME. 35 And now, as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn As the star-dials hinted of morn At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn Astarte s bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said " She is warmer than Dian : She rolls through an ether of sighs- She revels in a region of sighs : She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies To the Lethean peace of the skies Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said " Sadly this star I mistrust Her pallor I strangely mistrust : Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger ! Oh, fly ! let us fly ! for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they trailed in the dust In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied " This is nothing but dreaming; Let us on by this tremulous light 1 Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! Its Sybilic splendour is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night \ See ! it flickers up the sky through the night ! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright 23 36 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom And conquered her scruples and gloom ; And \ve passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb By the door of a legended tomb ; And I said " What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb V She replied " Ulalume Ulalume J Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried " It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed I journeyed down here That I brought a dread burden down here On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber This misty mid region of Weir Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." THE BELLS, i. the sledges with the bells Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells I 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 THE BELLS. 3? To the tintinabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. 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 all 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 I in. Hear the loud alarum bells- Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells I 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, 3 8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PO&. And a resolute endeavour 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 t 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 Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- In the clamour and the clangour 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 menac 3 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 AN ENIGMA. 39 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, Kolls 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. AN ENIGMA. [ELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, " Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet Trash of all trash ! how can a lady don it ! Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arran* 4 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Bubbles ephemeral and so transparent But this is, now, you may depend upon it Stable, opaque, immortal all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within t ANNABEL LEE. |T was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. /was a child and s7i<?was a child, In this kingdom by the sea : But we loved with a love that was more than love I and my ANNABEL LEE ; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. Arid this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE : ANNABEL LEE. 4* For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling my darling my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. TO MY MOTHER. 1ECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, The an gels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of " Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, In setting my Virginia s spirit free. My mother my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself ; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life. THE HAUNTED PALACE. |N the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace Eadiant 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,) 42 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odour went away* Wanderers in that happy valley. Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute s well-tuned law, Bound 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 CONQUEROR WORM, 43 THE CONQUEROR WORM. ! 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 returneth 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 the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbrued. Out out are the lights out all 1 And, over each quivering form, 44 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan. Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. TO F S S. O D. would st be loved? then let thy heart From its present pathway part not ! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love a simple duty. TO ONE IN PARADISE. jHOU 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, "On ! on !" but o er the Past (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast ! For, alas ! alas ! with me The light of Life is o er ! "No more no more no more" (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-Masted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar ! TO ONE IN PARADISE. 45 And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. THE VALLEY OF UNREST. it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell ; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley s restlessness. Nothing there is motionless Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides ! Ah. by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye- Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave \ They wave : from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep : from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. 46 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, THE CITY IN THE SEA. |O ! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the gopd 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 lie. 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 Ghams 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 ; THE CITY IN THE SEA. 47 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 SLEEPER. [jT midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave ; The lily lolls upon the wave ; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest ; Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps ! and lo ! where lies (Her casement open to the skies) Irene, with her Destinies 1 48 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Oh, lady bright ! can it be right This window open to the night 1 The wanton airs, from the tree -top, Laughingly through the lattice drop The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully so fearfully Above the closed and fringed lid Neath which thy slumb ring soul lies hid, That, o er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear 1 Why and what art thou dreaming here ] Sure thou art come o er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees ! Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dress ! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness ! The lady sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep ! Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the dim sheeted ghosts go by ! My love, she sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep ! Soft may the worms about her creep ! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged pannels fluttering back, Triumphant, o er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals i Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone THE SLEEPER. Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne er shall force an echo mere, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin ! It was the dead who groaned within. SILENCE. are some qualities some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence sea and shore Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o ergrown ; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless : his name s " No More." He is the corporate Silence : dread him not ! No power hath he of evil in himself ; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot !) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man,) commend thyself to God ! A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. { AKE this kiss upon the brow ! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream ; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a clay, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. 49 I stand amid the roar Of a surf -tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. How few ! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep while I weep ! O God ! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp 1 O God ! can I not save One from the pitiless wave 1 ? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? DREAM-LAND. Y a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named ]N"iGiiT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over ; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore ; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire ; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters lone and dead, Their still waters still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead, Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily, By the mountains near the river Murmuring lowly murmuring ever, DREAM-LAND. By the gray woods, by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encampr*- By the dismal tarns and pools "Where dwell the Ghouls, By each spot the most unholy In each nook most melancholy, There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion Tis a peaceful, soothing region For the spirit that walks in shadow Tis oh tis an Eldorado ! But the traveller, travelling through it } May not dare not openly view it ; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed ; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid ; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses, By a rout obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black fhrone reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. TO ZANTE. 1 AIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! How many memories of what radiant hours At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! 4-2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN How many scenes of what departed bliss ! How many thoughts of what entombed hopes 1 How many visions of a maiden that is No more no more upon thy verdant slopes ! No more ! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no more~* Thy memory no more! Accursed ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante ! " Isola d oro ! Fior di Levante !" EULALIE. DWELT alone |lj In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl j And never a flake That the vapour can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie s most unregarded curl- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie s most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines bright and strong, A starts within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eyo While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. ELDORADO. 53 ELDORADO. bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old This knight so bold And o er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow " Shadow," said he, "Where can it be This land of Eldorado?" " Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow. Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, ** If you seek for Eldorado P ISRAFEL.* |N Heaven a spirit doth dwell " Whose heart-strings are a lute ;" None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has sweetest voice of all God s creatu res, KOKAN. 54 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOR. And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured moon ) Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even. Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven, And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israf eli s fire Is owing to that lyre. By which he sits and sings-^- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings, But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty Where Love s a grown-up God Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song ; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest ! Merrily live, and long ! * i , The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love. With the fervour of thy lute Well may the stars be mute ! ISRAFEL. Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this Is a world of sweets and sours ; Our flowers are merely flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. FOR ANNIE. ii HANK Heaven ! the crisis-^- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last And the fever called " Living Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know, I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length But no matter ! I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composed. Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead Might start at beholding mej Thinking me dead. 56 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart : ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing ! The sickness the nausea The pitiless pain Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain With the fever called " Living" That burned in my brain . And oh ! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst : I have drank of a water That -quenches all thirst : Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed ; For man never slept In a different bed And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. FOR ANNIE. 57 My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses : For now, -while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odour About it, of pansies A rosemary odour, Commingled with pansies With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. -7 She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm- To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead 53 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead : But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie, TO . HEED not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute : I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by. BRIDAL BALLAD. | HE ring is on my hand, And the wreath is on my brow ; Satins and jewels grand Are all at my command, And I am happy now. And my lord he loves me well ; But, when first he breathed his vow, \ felt my bosom swell BRIDAL BALLAD. 59 For the words rang as a knell, And the voice seemed his who fell In the battle down the dell, And who is happy now, But he spoke to re-assure me, And he kissed my pallid brow, While a reverie came o er me, And to the church-yard bore me, And I sighed to him before me, Thinking him dead D Elormie, * Oh, I am happy now !* And thus the words were spoken, And this the plighted vow, And, though niy faith be broken, And, though my heart be broken, Behold the golden token That proves me happy now ! Would God I could awaken ! For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken, Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now. T O F . 1ELOVED ! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path- (Drear path, alas ! where grows Not even one lonely rose) My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose. And thus my memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea ome ocean throbbing far and free A 60 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. With storms but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o er that one bright island smile. SCENES FROM " POLITIAN f AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. I. ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione. LESSANDRA. Thou art sad, Castiglione, Castiglione. Sad ! not I. Oil, I m the happiest, happiest man in Rome ! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness ! what ails thee, cousin of mine ? Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? Gas. Did I sigh] I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A silly a most silly fashion I have When I am very happy. Did I sigh 1 ? (Sighing,) Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione, these Will ruin thee ! thou art already altered Thy looks are haggard nothing so wears away The constitution as late hours- and wine. Gas. (musing). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing not even deep sorrow- Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend. Aless. Do it ! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too fellows low born- Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio s heir And Alessandra s husband. Gas. I will drop them. Aless. Thou wilt thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage they are over plain SCENES FROM POLITIAN. " 61 For thy lofty rank and fashion much depends Upon appearances. Cos. I ll see to it. Aless. Then see to it ! pay more attention, sir, To a becoming carriage much thou wantest In dignity. Gas. Much, much, oh much I want In proper dignity. Aless. (haughtily}. Thou mockest me, sir ! Cas. (abstractedly). Sweet, gentle Lalage ! Aless. Heard I aright ? I speak to him he speaks of Lalage ! Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming 1 he s not well ! What ails thee, sir % Gas. (starting). Cousin ! fair cousin ! madam ! I crave thy pardon indeed I am not well Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. This air is most oppressive ! Madam the Duke ! Enter Di Broglio. Di Broglio. My son, I ve news for thee ! hey 1 what s the matter] (observing Alessandra.) P the pouts 1 Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her, You dog ! and make it up, I say, this minute ! I ve news for you both. Politian is expected Hourly in Rome Politian, Earl of Leicester ! We ll have him at the wedding. 7 Tis his first visit To the imperial city. Aless. What! Politian Of Britain, Earl of Leicester ] Li Brog. The same, my love. We ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young In years, but grey in fame. I have not sean him, But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth, And high descent. We ll have him at the wedding. Aless. I have heard much of this PoHtian. Gay, volatile and giddy is he not ] And little given to thinking. Di Brog. Far from it, love. 62 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOB. No branch, they say, of all philosophy So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as few are learned. Aless. J Tis very strange ! I have known men have seen Politian And sought his company. They speak of him As of one who entered madly into life, Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Cas. Ridiculous ! Now / have seen Politian And know him well nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer and a man shut out From common passions, Di Erog. Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian was a melancholy man 1 (JZxeunt. ) 11 . -^A Lady s apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. Lai. Jacinta ! is it thou *? Jac. (pertly}. Yes, ma am, I m here. Lai. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down ! let not my presence trouble you Sit down ! for I am humble, most humble. Jac. (aside). Tis time. (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elboivs upon the back, and regard ing her mistress with a contemptuous look, Lalaye continues to read.} Lai. "It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not J i this soil l n (Pauses turns over some leaves, and resumes.) " No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower But Ocean ever to refresh mankind SCENES FROM " POL1TIAN? 63 Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." Oh, beautiful ! most beautiful ! how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven ! O happy land ! (pauses.) She died ! the maiden died ! O still more happy maiden who couldst die ! Jacinta ! (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.) Again ! a similar tale Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea ! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play " She died full young " one Bossola answers him " I think not so her infelicity Seemed to have years too many" Ah, luckless lady 1 Jacinta ! (Still no answer.} Here s a far sterner story But like oh, very like in its despair Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history and her maids Lean over her and weep two gentle maids With gentle names Eiros and Charmion ! Rainbow and Dove! Jacinta ! Jac. (pcttithly). Madam, what is it ? Lai. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the library and bring me The Holy Evangelists 1 Jac. Pshaw ! (Exit.} Lai. If there be balm For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there ! Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble Will there be found " dew sweeter far than that Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." (lie-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the talle.) There, ma am, s the book. (Aside.) Indeed she is very troublesome. Lai. (astonished). What didst thou say, Jacinta 1 Have done aught To grieve thee or to vex thee ? I am sorry. For thou hast served me long and ever been Trustworthy and respectful, (Resumes her reading.) 64 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Jac. (aside.} I can t believe She has any more jewels no no she gave me all. Lai. What didst thou say, Jacinta 1 Now I bethink me Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo 1 and when is it to be 1 Can I do aught ? is there no farther aid Thou needest, Jacinta ? Jac. (aside). Is there no farther aid ! That s meant for me. I m sure, madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. Lai. Jewels ! Jacinta, now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels. Jac. Oh ! perhaps not ! But then I might have sworn it. After all There s Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he s sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you ; And at the best I m certain, madam, you cannot Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn ii (Exit.} (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table after a short pause raises it.) Lai. Poor Lalage ! and is it to come to this 1 Thy servant maid ! but courage ! tis but a viper Who thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! (Taking up the mirror.} Ha ! here at least s a friend too much a friend In earlier days a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true ! now tell me (for thou canst) A tale a pretty tale and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And Beauty long deceased remembers me Of Joy departed Hope, the Seraph Hope$ Inurned and intombed ! now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible. Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true I thou liest not I Thou hast no end to gain no heart to break SCENES FROM " POHT2AN." 65 Castiglione lied who said lie loved Tliou true lie false ! false ! false ! {While she apeafo, a monk enters her apartment, and ap proaches unobserved.} Monk. Refuge tliou hast, S \veet daughter ! in Heaven. Think of eternal things ! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! Lai. (arising hurriedly}. I cannot pray ! My soul is at war with God ! The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my sensesgo ! I cannot pray The sweet airs from the garden worry me ! Thy presence grieves me go ! -thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe ! Monk. Think of thy precious soul ! Lai. Think of my early days ! think of my father And mother in Heaven ! think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before the door ! Think of my little sisters ! think of them ! And think of me ! think of my trusting love And confidence his vows my ruin think think Of my unspeakable misery ! begone ! Yet stay ! yet stay ! what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence 1 Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne 1 Monk. I did. Lai. Tiswell. There is a vow were fitting should be made A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow.! Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well ! Lai. Father, this zeal is anything but well ! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing 1 A. crucifix whereon to register This sacred vow ] (He hands her his own.} Not that Oh ! no ! no ! no ! (Shuddering) Not that ! Not that ! I tell thce, holy man. Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright nie ! Stand back ! I have a crucifix myself, 66 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. I have a crucifix ! Methinks twere fitting The deed the vow the symbol of the deed And the deed s register should tally, father ! (Draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high. ) Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in Heaven ! Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter. And speak a purpose unholy thy lips are livid Thine eyes are wild tempt not the wrath divine ! Pause ere too late ! oh be not be not rash ! Swear not the oath oh swear it not ! Lai. Tis sworn! III. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar Baldazzar, Arouse thee now, Politian ! Thou must not nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not Give way unto these humours. Be thyself ! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, And live, for now thou cliest ! Politian. Not so, Baldazzar ! Surely I live. Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus. Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend. Command me, sir ! what wouldst thou have me do ] At thy behest I will shake oft that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother s milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir ! Bal To the field then to the field- To the senate or the field. Pol. Alas ! alas ! There is an imp would follow me even there ! SCENES FROM " POL1 TIAN. n 67 There is an imp hath followed me even there ! There is what voice was that ? Bal. I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And the echo of thine own. Pol. Then I but dreamed. Bal Give not thy soul t0 dreams : the camp the court Befit thee Fame awaits thee Glory calls And her the trump et-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices. Pol. It is a phantom voice ! Didst thou not hear it then? Bal. I heard it not. Pol. Thou heardst it not ! Baldazzar, speak no more To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh ! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities Of the populous Earth ! Bear with me yet awhile ! We have been boys together school-fellows And now are friends yet shall not be so long For in the eternal city thou shalt do me A kind and gentle office, and a Power A Power august, benignant and supreme Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties Unto thy friend. Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle I ivill not understand. Pol. Yet now as Fate Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas ! alas ! I cannot die, having within my heart So keen a relish for the beautiful As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air Is balmier now than it was wont to be Pdch melodies are floating in the winds A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth And with a holier lustre the quiet moon Sitteth in Heaven, Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say 5-2 68 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Thou nearest not now, Baldazzar 1 Bal. Indeed I hear not. Pol. Not hear if? listen now listen ! the faintest sound And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! A lady s voice ! and sorrow in the tone ! Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! Again ! again ! how solemnly it falls Into my heart of hearts ! that eloquent voice Surely I never heard yet it were well Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones In earlier days ! Bal I myself hear it now. Be still ! the voice, if I mistake not greatly, Proceeds from yonder lattice which you may see Very plainly through the window it belongs, Does it not 1 unto this palace of the Duke. The singer is undoubtedly beneath The roof of his Excellency and perhaps Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke As the betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir. Pol. Be still ! it comes again ! Voice "And is thy heart so strong (very faintly.) As for to leave me thus Who hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among 1 And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus ] Say nay say nay !" Sal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it In merry England never so plaintively Hist ! hist ! it comes again ! Voice " Is it so strong (more loudly.) As for to leave me thus Who hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among 1 And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus 1 Say nay say nay!" Bal Tis hushed and all is still ! SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 6$ Pol. All is not still. Bal. Let us go down. Pol. Go down, Baldtazzar, go .. The hour is growing late the Duke awaits us, Thy presence is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian 1 Voice " Who hath loved thee so long* (distinctly.) In wealth and woe among, And is thy heart so strong 1 Say nay say nay 1" Bal. Let us descend ! tis time. Politian, give These fancies to the wind. Eemember, pray, Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness Unto the Duke. Arouse thee ! and remember ! Pol. Remember ? I do. Lead on ! I do remember; (going.) Let us descend. Believe me I would give, Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice " To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear Once more that silent tongue. 5> Bal. Let me beg you, sir, Descend with me the Duke may be offended. Let us go down, I pray you. Voice (loudly). Say nay ! say nay ! Pol. (aside). Tis strange! tis very strange methought the voice Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay ! (Approaching the window.) Sweet voice ! I heed thee, and will surely stay. Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate, Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make Apology unto the Duke for me ; I go not down to-night. Bal. Your lordship s pleasure Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian. Pol Good night, my friend, good night. ?o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. IV. The gardens of a palace Moonlight, Lalage and Politian Ldlaye. And dost thou speak of love To me, Politian 1 dost thou speak of love To Lalage 1 ah woe ah woe is me ! This mockery is most cruel most cruel indeed ! Politian. Weep not ! oh, sob not thus ! thy bitter tears Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage Be comforted ! I know I know it all, And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, And beautiful Lalage ! turn here thine eyes ! Thou askest me if I could speak of love, Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. Thou askest me that and thus I answer thee Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (Kneeling.) Sweet Lalage, / love thee love thee love thee; Thro good and ill thro weal and woe I love thee. Not mother, with her first born on her knee, Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. Not on God s altar, in any time or clime, Burned there a holier fire than burneth now Within my spirit for thee. And do I love 1 ? (Arising.) Even for thy woes I love thee even for thy woes Thy beauty and thy woes. Lai. Alas, proud Earl, Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me ! How, in thy father s halls, among the maidens Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonoured Lalage abide 1 Thy wife, and with a tainted memory My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honours of thy house, And with thy glory ? Pol. Speak not to me of glory ! I hate I loathe the name ; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ) SCENES FROM 11 POLITIAN." 7 1 Do I not love 1 art thou not beautiful 1 What need we more 1 Ha ! glory ! now speak not of it : By all I hold most sacred and most solemn By all my wishes now my fears hereafter By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it underfoot. What matters it What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonoured and forgotten Into the dust so we descend together 1 Descend together and then and then perchance Lai. Why dost thou pause, Politian ? Pol. And then perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still Lai. Why dost thou pause, Politian 1 Pol. And still together together. Lai. Now, Earl of Leicester ! Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. Pol. Oh, Lalage ! ( Throwing himself upon his knee. ) And lovest thou me ? Lai. Hist ! hush ! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure past A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (Walks across and returns.) I was mistaken twas but a giant bough Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! Pol. My Lalage my love ! why art thou moved 1 Why dost thou turn so pale 1 Not Conscience self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night- wind Is chilly and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom. Lai Politian! Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy a land newfound 72 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. Miraculously found by one of Genoa A thousand leagues within the golden west 1 A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the wind* Of Heaven untrammelled flow which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come ? Pol 0, wilt thou wilt thou Fly to that Paradise my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me 1 There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes and thou shalt be No more a mourner but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever ; and I will kneel to thee And worship thee, and call thee my beloved. My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all ; oh, wilt thou wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me 1 ? LaL A deed is to be done Castiglione lives ! Pol. And he shall die ! (Exit.) Lai. (after a pause). And he shall die alas I Castiglione die 1 Who spoke the words 1 Where am I ? what was it he said 1 Politian ! Thou art not gone thou art not gone, Politian ! I feel thou art not gone yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not ; thou couldst not go With those words upon thy lips O, speak to me ! And let me hear thy voice one word one word, To say thou art not gone, one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha ! ha ! thou art not gone speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go ! 1 knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. Villain, thou art not gone thou mockest me ! And thus I clutch thee thus ! He is gone, he is gone- Gone gone. Where am I ? tis well tis very well ! SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" So that the blade be keen the blow be sure, ? Tis well, tis very well alas ! alas I V. (The suburbs. Politian alone. Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, And much I fear me ill it will not do To die ere I have lived! Stay stay thy hand, Azrael, yet awhile ! Prince of the Powers Of Darkness and the Tomb, pity me I O pity me ! let me not perish now, In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet yet a little while : Tis I who pray for life I who so late Demanded but to die! what sayeth the Count? Enter Baldazzar. Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself, He doth decline your cartel. Pol. What didst thou say ? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr conies Laden from yonder bowers! a fairer day, Or one more worthy Italy, methinks No mortal eyes have seen ! ivhat said the Count ? Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being aware Of any feud existing, or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself Cannot accept the challenge. Pol. It is most true All this is very true. When saw you, sir, When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, A heaven so cairn as this so utterly free From the evil taint of clouds ? and he did say ? Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir . The Count Castiglione will not fight, Having no cause or quarrel. 74 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PO&. Pol. Now this is true All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, And I have not forgotten it thou lt do me A piece of service ; wilt thou go back and say Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, Hold him a villain ? thus much, I prythee, say Unto the Count it is exceeding just He should have cause for quarrel. Bal My lord ! my friend Pol. (aside) . Tis he he comes himself ! (Aloud.) Thou reason- est well. I know what thou wouldst say not send the message- Well ! I will think of it I will not send it. Now prithee, leave me hither doth come a person With whom affairs of a most private nature I would adjust. Ual. I go to-morrow we meet, V Do we not ? at the Vatican. Pol. At the Vatican. (Exit Sal) Enter Castiglione. Cas. The Earl of Leicester here ! Pol I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, Dost thou not 1 that I am here. Cas. My lord, some strange, Some singular mistake misunderstanding Hath without doubt arisen : thou hast been urged Thereby, in heat of anger, to address Some words most unaccountable, in writing, To me, Castiglione ; the bearer being Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, Having given thee no offence. Ha ! am I right? Twas a mistake 1 undoubtedly we all Do err at times. Pol Draw, villain, and prate no more ! Cas. Ha ! draw ! and villain ! have at thee then at once, Proud Earl ! (Draws.) Pol (drawing). Thus to the expiatory tomb, Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee In the name of Lalage 1 SCENES FROM " POL1TIAN? 7$ Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage). OfLalage! Hold off thy sacred hand ! avaunt I say! Avaunt I will not fight thee indeed I dare not. Pol Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count \ Shall I be baffled thus 1 now this is well ; Didst say thou darest not ? Ha ! Cas. I dare not dare not Hold off thy hand with that beloved name So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee I cannot dare not. Pol. Now by my halidom I do believe thee ! coward, I do believe thee ! Cas. Ha ! coward ! this may not be ! (Chttches his sword, and staggers towards Politian, but his pur pose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl) Alas ! my lord, It is it is most true. In such a cause I am the veriest coward. O pity me ! Pol (greatly softened). Alas ! I do indeed I pity thee. Cas. And Lalage Pol Scoundrel ! arise and die / Cas. It needeth not be thus thus let me die Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting That in this deep humiliation I perish. For in the fight I will not raise a hand Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home (baring his bosom). Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon- Strike home. I will not fight thee. Pol Now s Death and Hell ! Am I not am I not sorely grievously tempted To take thee at thy word ] But mark me, sir : Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare For public insult in the streets before The eyes of the citizens. I ll follow thee Like an avenging spirit I ll follow thee Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest 76 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Before all Rome I ll taunt thee, villain I ll taunt thee, Dost hear 1 with cowardice thou wilt not fight me] Thou liest ! thou shaltf (Exit.) Cas. Now this indeed is just ! Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.* SONNET TO SCIENCE. [CIENCE ! true daughter of Old Time thou art ! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet s heart, Vultute, whose wings are dull realities 1 Hbw should he love thee 1 or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering (To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing] tlast thou not dragged Diana from her car 1 And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star 1 Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood> The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree ? AL AARAAF.f PART I. ! NOTHING earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty s eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy Private reasons some of which have reference to the sin of plagiar ism, and others to the date of Tennyson s first poems have induced me, after some hesitation, to re-publish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbatim without alteration from the original edition the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged. E. A. P. f A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in the heavens attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since, AL AARAAF. 77 ! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy s voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell O ! nothing of the dross of ours Yet all the beauty all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers- Adorn yon world afar, afar The wandering star. Twas a sweet time for Nesace for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns a temporary rest An oasis ia desert of the blest. Away away mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendour o er the unchained soul The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin d eminence To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour d one of God But, now, the ruler of an anchor d realm, She throws aside the sceptre leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty " into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro many a startled star, Like woman s hair mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) She look d into Infinity and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled , Fit emblems of the model of her world Seen but in beauty not impeding sight Of other beauty glittering thro the light A wreath that twined each starry form around^ And all the opal d air in colour bound. 73 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POS. All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers : of lilies such as rear d the head On the fair Capo Deucato,* and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of deep pride Of her who lov d a mortal and so died.t The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear d its purple stem around her knees : And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam d \ Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham d All other loveliness : its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp d from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remain eth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie : In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief Disconsolate linger grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten d, and more fair : Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : And Clytia pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run : And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth. And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, j| * On Santa Maura olim Deucadia. t Sappho. J This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated. Clytia The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better- known term, the turnsol which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day. B. de St. Pierre. || There is cultivated in the king s garden at Paris, a species of serpen tine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month of July you then per- AL AARAAF. 79 Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king : Arid Valisnerian lotus* thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone : And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zaritelf Isola d oro ! Fior di Levante ! And the Nelumbo budj that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river Fair flowers, and fairy ! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess song, in odours, up to Heaven : " Spirit ! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie ! Beyond the line of blue The boundary of the star Which turueth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride, and from their throne To be drudges till the last- To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part Who livest that we know In Eternity we feel- But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal 1 ceive it gradually open its petalsexpand them fade and die. St. Pierre. * There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet thus preserving its head above -water in the swellings of the river. t The Hyacinth. J It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood. And golden vials full of odours which are the prayers of the saints. Kev. St. /oft* o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Tlio the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream d for thy Infinity A model of their own* Thy will is done, Oh, God ! The star hath ridden high Thro many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye ; "And here, in thought, to thee In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne By winged Fantasy,! My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven." She ceas d and buried then her burning cheelc Abash d, amid the lilies there, to seek A shelter from the fervour of His eye ; For the stars trembled at the Deity. * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a human form. Vide Clarke s Sermons, vol. 1, page 2G, fol. edit. The drift of Milton s argument, leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine ; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church. Dr. Sumner s Notes on Milton s Christian Doctrine. This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was con demned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites. Vide Du Pm. Among Milton s minor poems are these lines : Dicite sacrorum prsesides nemorum Deoe, &c. Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers finxit humanum genus ? Eternus, incorruptus, sequrevus polo, Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. And afterwards, Non cui profundum Coecitas lumen dedit Dircceus augur vidit Imnc alto sinu, &c. f Seltsamen Tochter Jovis Seinem Schosskinde Der Phantasie. Goethe. AL AARAAF. She stirr d not breath d not for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air ! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere." Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call " Silence " which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings But ah ! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky ! " What tho in worlds which sightless* cycles run, Link d to a little system, and one sun- Where all my love is folly and the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath (Ah ! will they cross me in my angrier path ?) What tho in worlds which own a single sun The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets thro the upper Heaven. Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony sky Apart like fire-fliest in Sicilian night, And wing to other worlds another light ! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To the proud orbs that twinkle and so be To ev ry heart a barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man !" Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-mooned eve ! on Earth we plight Our faith to one love and one moon adore The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. As sprang that yellow star from downy hours Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, * Sightless too small to be seen. Ley ye. t I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the h r j-Hies; they will collect in a body and fly oif, from a common centre, into innumerable radii. WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. And bent o er sheeny mountain and dim plain Her way but left not yet her Therasseau* reign. , PART. ii. High on a mountain of enamelPd head- Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a mutter d " hope to be forgiven " What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven Of rosy head, that towering far away Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eveat noon of night, While the moon danc d with the fair stranger light- 1 * Uprear d upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th unburthen d air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten starsf their pavement, such as fall Thro the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die- Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown A window of one circular diamond, there, Look d out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallo w d all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th Empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit flapp d his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world : that greyish green That Nature loves the best for Beauty s grave Lurk d in each cornice, round each architrave * Therassea, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a tiaoar ent, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. If Some star which, from the ruin d roof Of shak d Olympus, by mischance did f all. Milton, AL AARAAP. 83 And every sculptur d cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem d earthly in the shadow of his niche Achaian statues in a world so rich 1 Priezes from Tadmor and Persepolis* Trom Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah !f Oh ! the wave ! Is now upon thee but too late to save ! Sound loves to revel in a summer night : Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco.J Of many a wild star-gazer long ago That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. And sees the darkness coming as a cloud Is not its form its voice most palpable and loud ? But what is this 1 it corneth and it brings A music with it tis the rush of wings A pause and then a sweeping, falling strain And Nesace is in her halls again. From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart ; And zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, " Je connois bien 1 admir- ation qu inspirent ces ruines mais un palais erige au pied d une chaiiie des rochers sterils pent il etre un chef d ceuvre des arts !" f "Oh ! the wave" Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation ; but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were un doubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In the valley of Siddim were five Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Stiabo thirteen (engulphed) but the last is out of all reason. It is said. [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maun- drell, Troilo, DArvieux] that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At any season, such re mains may be discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the " Asphaltites." Eyraco Chaldea. I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the dark ness as it stole over the horizon. 6-2 84 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PO&. Within the centre of that hall to breathe She paus d and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss d her golden hair And long d to rest, yet could but sparkle therd ! Young flowers* were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night and tree to tree ; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell ; Yet silence came upon material things Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang : " Neath blue-bell or streamer Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam awayt Bright beings ! that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro the shade, and! Come down to your brow Like eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now Arise ! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours- And shake from your tresses Encumber d with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too * Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Merry Wives of Windsor. f In Scripture is this passage "The sun shall not harm the e by day, nor the moon by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to it rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes. AL AARAAF. 85 (0 ! liow, without you, Love 1 Could angels be blest 1) Those kisses of true love That lull d ye to rest ! Up ! shake from your wing Each hindering thing : The dew of the night- It would weigh down your flight ; And true love caresses O ! leave them apart ! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. Ligeia ! Ligeia ! My beautiful one ! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, ! is it thy will On the breezes to toss 1 Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross,* Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there 1 Ligeia ! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep- But the strains still arise Which thy vigilance keep The sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances again In the rhythm of the shower * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. 86 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POJS. The murmur that springs* From the growing of grass Are the music of things But are modell d, alas ! Away, then my dearest, ! hie thee away To springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the beet Arouse them my maiden, On moorland and lea Go ! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, The musical number They slumber d to hear-^ For what can awaken An angel so soon, Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, * I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory : " The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe." h The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an ap pearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halero in whose mouth I admired its effect : ! were there an island, Tho ever so wild Where woman might smile, and JDso man be beguil d, &c. AL AARAAF. 87 As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull d him to rest V 1 Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th Empyrean thro , Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight-* Seraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light That fell, refracted, thro thy bounds, afar Death ! from eye of God upon that star : Sweet was that error sweeter still that death Sweet was that error ev n with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy To them twere the Simoom, and would destroy For what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood or that Bliss is Woe ? Sweet was their death with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate life Beyond that death no immortality But sleep that pondereth and is not " to be " And there oh ! may my weary spirit dwell Apart from Heaven s Eternity and yet how far from Hell !* What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn ? But two : they fell : for Heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their beating hearts. * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to he characteristic of heavenly enjoyment. Un no rompido sueno Un dia puro allegre libre Quiera Libre de amor de zelo De odio de esperanza de rezelo. Luis Ponce de Leon. Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delmum of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as the residence after life, is final death and annihilation. SS WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover O ! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known ] Unguided Love hath fallen mid " tears of perfect moan He was a goodly spirit he who fell : A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well A gazer on the lights that shine above A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love ! What wonder 1 for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty s hair And they, and ev ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of woe) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his love his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament : Kow turn d it upon her but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. " lanthe, dearest, see ! how dim that ray ! How lovely tis to look so far away ! She seem d not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls nor mourn d to leave, That eve that eve I should remember well The sun-ray dropp d, in Lemnos, with a spell On tli Arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall - And on my eye-lids oh the heavy light ! How drowsily it weigh d them into night ! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan ; But oh that light ! I slumber d Death, the while, Stole o er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept or knew that he was there, * There be tears of perfect moan for thee in Helicon. AL AARAAF. " The last spot of Earth s orb I trod upon Was a proud temple call d the Parthenon* More beauty clung around her column d wall Than ev n thy glowing bosom beats withal,t And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I as the eagle from his tower., And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view Tenantless cities of the desert too ! lanthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wish d to be again of men." " My Angelo ! and why of them to be ? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee And greener fields than in yon world above, And woman s loveliness and passionate love." " But, list, lanthe ! when the air so soft Fail d, as my pennon d spirit leapt aloft,t Perhaps my brain grew dizzy but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl d Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And roll d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, And fell not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto ! Nor long the measure of my falling hours. For nearest of all stars was thine to ours Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Daadalion on the timid Earth. " We came and to thy Earth but not to ua Be given our lady s bidding to discuss : * It was entire in 1687 the most elevated spot in Athens. 1 f Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. $ Pennon for pinion, Milton. 90 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE* We came, my love ; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod She grants to us, as granted by her God But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfmTd Never his fairy wing o er fairer world ! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o er the starry sea But when its glory swell d upon the sky, As glowing Beauty s bust beneath man s eyo, We paus d before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled as doth Beauty then !" Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. TO THE RIVER , ] AIR river ! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty the unhidden heart- The playful maziness of art In old Alberto s daughter ; But when within thy wave she looks Which glistens then, and trembles Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper resembles ; For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes, TAMERLANE. TAMERLANE. |IND solace in a dying hour ! Such, father, is not (now) my theme "I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell d in I have no time to dote or dream ; You call it hope that fire of fire ! It is but agony of desire : If I can hope oh God ! I can- Its fount is holier more divine-^ I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow d from its wild pride into shame/, yearning heart ! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell ! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours ! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Pangs, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness a knell. .1 have not always been as now : The fever d diadem on my brow I claim d and won usurpingly Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar this to me 1 The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. On mountain soil I first drew life : The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair. So late from Heaven that dew it fell ( Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder s roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child ! was swelling (0 ! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory ! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter d and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me : and the rush The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires with the captive s prayer The hum of suitors and the tone Of flattery round a sovereign s throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp d a tyranny which men Have deem d, since I have reach d to power, My innate nature be it so : But, father, there livM one who, then, Then in my boyhood when their fire Burn d with a still intenser glow (For passion must, with youth, expire) TAMERLANE. E en then who knew this iron hearfc In woman s weakness had a part. I have no words alas ! to tell The loveliness of loving well ! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are shadows on th unstable wind : Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters with their meaning melt To fantasies with none. 0, she was worthy of all love ! Love as in infancy was mine Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright- Pure as her young example taught : Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light 1 We grew in age and love together- Roaming the forest and the wild ; My breast her shield in wintry weather And when the friendly sunshine smil d, And she would mark the opening skies, / saw no Heaven but in Irer eyes. Young Love s first lesson is the heart : For mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears There was no need to speak the rest "No need to quiet any fears WORKS OF EDGAR\ALLAN FOE. Of her who ask d no reason why, But turn d on me her quiet eye ! Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone I had no being but in thee : The world, and all it did contain In the earth the air the sea Its joy its little lot of pain That was new pleasure the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night And dimmer nothings which were real (Shadows and a more shadowy light !) Parted upon their misty wings, And so, confusedly, became Thine image and a name a name! Two separate yet most intimate things. I was ambitious have you known The passion, father ? You have not : A. cottager, I mark d a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur d at such lowly lot But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro* The minute the hour the day oppress My mind with double loveliness. We walk d together on the crown Of a high mountain which look d down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills The dwindled hills ! begirt with boweri And shouting with a thousand rills. I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically in such guise TAMERLANE. 95 That she might deem it nought beside The moment s converse ; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly, A mingled feeling with my own ; The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seem d to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone, I wrapp d myself in grandeur then And donn d a visionary crown Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me But that, among the rabble men, Lion ambition is chain d down And crouches to a keeper s hand Not so in deserts where the grand The wild the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire. Look round thee now on Samarcand ! Is she not queen of Earth ? her pride Above all cities r \ in her hand Their destinies ? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone 1 Falling her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne And who her sovereign 1 Timour he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o er empires haughtily A diadem d outlaw ! 0, human love ! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven ! Which fall st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc-wither d plain, And, failing in thy power to bless, But leav st the heart a wilderness ! j>6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Idea ! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. "When Hope, the eagle that tower d, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly And homeward turn d his soften d eye. Twas sunset ; when the sun will part There conies a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The gloiy of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev ning mist So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits barken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly But cannot from a danger nigh. What tho the moon the white moon Shed all the splendour of her noon, Her smile is chilly and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one For all we live to know is known And all we seek to keep hath flown Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty which is all. 1 reach d my home my home no more For all had flown who made it so. I pass d from out its mossy door, And, tho my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known TAMERLANE. 0, 1 defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humbler hearta deeper woe. Father, I firmly do believe I know for Death who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro Eternity I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path Else how, when in the holy grove, I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellis d rays from Heaven, No mote may shun no tiniest fly The lightning of his eagle eye How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love s very hair ] TO . ]HE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds, Are lips and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words. Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined, Then desolately fall, O God ! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall. 97 g8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Thy heart thy heart ! I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of the truth that gold can never buy Of the baubles that it may. A DREAM. [N visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah ! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past ? That holy dream that holy dream, While all -the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro storm and night, So trembled from afar What could there be more purely bright In Truth s day-star] ROMANCE. OMANCE, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been a most familiar bird Taught me my alphabet to say To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child with a most knowing eye. ROMANCE. 99 Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hoar with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away forbidden things ! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings. FAIRY-LAND. ]IM vales and shadowy floods And cloudy-looking woods, "Whose forms we can t discover For the tears that drip all over : Huge moons there wax and wane Again again again Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon- dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down still down and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be O er the strange woods o er the sea Over spirits on the wing Over every drowsy thing And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light 7 2 zoo WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. And then. Low deep ! oh, deep Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like almost anything Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before Videlicet a tent Which I think extravagant : Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented things !) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings. THE LAKE TO . ]N 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 delight THE LAKE TO . idt 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 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. SONG. SAW thee on the bridal day, When a burning blush came o er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee : And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame- As such it well may pass Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas I Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee. TO M. L. S. . OF all who hail thy presence as the morning Of all to whom thine absence is the night The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun of all who, weeping, bless thee 102 WORK S OF EDGAR ALL Aft POE. Sourly for hope for life ah ! above all, For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In Truth in Virtue in Humanity Of all who, on Despair s unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, " Let there be light 1" At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes Of all who owe thee most whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship oh, remember The truest the most fervently devoted, And think that these weak lines are written by him- By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel s. TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION. THE GOLD BUG, What ho ! what ho ! this fellow is dancing mad ! He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. AH in the Wrong. ANY years ago I contracted an intimacy with, a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, arid had once been wealthy ; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his dis asters, 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 favourite 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 miser able frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto ; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burdening 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 io6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthu siasm 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 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 wel come. 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 scarcibceus 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 V I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and wishing the whole tribe of scarabcei at the devil. THE GOLD BUG. id? " 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 1 As I was coming home I met Lieutenant G , from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the bug ; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation !" "What 1 ? sunrise? "Nonsense! no! the bug. It is of a brilliant gold colour 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 burn 1 ? The colour" 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 to-morrow. 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 Newfound land, 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 scarabcens, I must confess : new to me : never saw any thing like it before unless it was a skull, or a death s-head io8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. which it more nearly resembles than anything else that has come tinder my observation." "A death s-head!" echoed Legrand. " Qh 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 sJioidd 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 scarabceus must be the queerest scarabceus 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 scarabceus caput kominis, or something of that kind there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the antennae, you spoke of T " The antennae / said Legrand, who seemed to be getting un accountably 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 humour puzzled me arid, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were positively no antenna} 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 pro ceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of the paper, THE GOLD BUG. 109 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 lie locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanour ; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his usual cordiality. It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend. "Well, Jup," said I, "what is the matter now 1 ? 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 com plain ofr " Dar ! dat s it ! him neber plain of notin but him bery sick for all dat." " Very sick, Jupiter! why didn t you say .so at once] Is he confined to bed "No, dat he aint ! he aint find nowhar dat s just whar de shoe pinch. My mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will." "Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn t he told you what ails hirnT " Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad about de matter Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him but den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head clown and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose ? And den he keep a syphon all de time" " Keeps a, what, Jupiter V\ 1 10 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate de queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when he did come but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn t de heart arter all lie look so berry poorly." " Eh 1 what 1 ah yes ! upon the whole I think you had better not be too severe with the poor fellow don t flog him, Jupiter- he can t very well stand it but can you form no idea of what has occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant happened since I saw you ?" " No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant since den twas fore den I m feared twas de berry day you was dare." " How? what do you mean?" " Why, massa, I mean de bug dare now." "The what?" " De bug I m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de head by dat goole-bug." " And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition ?" " Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a deuced bug he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you den was de time he must ha got de bite. I did n t like de look ob de bug mouff, myself, no how, so 1 would n t take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff dat was de way." " And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick ?" " I do n t tink noffin about.it I nose it. What make him dream bout de goole so much, if taint cause he bit by de goole-bug ? Ise heerd bout dem goole- bugs fore dis." " But how do you know he dreams about gold ?" "How I know? why cause he talk about it in he sleep dat s how I nose." " Well, Jup, perhaps you are right ; but to what fortunate cir cumstance am I to attribute the honour of a visit from you to-day ?" " What de matter, massa ?" " Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand ?" THE GOLD BUG. Hi " 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 1 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 mainland. I verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging. " I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met. " If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. Do come. I wish to see you to-night, upon business of importance. I assure you that it is of the highest importance. "Ever yours, "WILLIAM LEGRAND. There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of Legrand. What could he be dreaming of ] What new crotchet possessed his excitable brain 1 ? 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 1" I inquired. " Him syfe, massa, and spade." "Very true ; but what are they doing here 1 ?" " Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buy ing for him in de town, and de debbiFs own lot of money I had to gib for em." 112 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. "But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your Massa Will, going to do with scythes and spades V " Dat s more dan / 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 bo 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 scara- boeus from Lieutenant G . " Oh, yes," he replied, colouring violently, " I got it from him the next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that scarabceus. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it V " In what way V 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 tri umphant 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 scarabceus/" "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 scarabceus, 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 T&E GOLD BUG. il^ What to make of Legrand s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the life of me, tell. " I sent for you," said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had completed my examination of the beetle, " I sent for you, that I might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of the bug" "My dear Legrand," I cried, interrupting him, "you are cer tainly unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go to bed, and I will remain with you a ew 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 thb 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 1 ?" "Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expe dition into the hills, upon the mainland, 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 1" "It has." " Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd pro ceeding." "I am sorry very sorry for we shall have to try it by our selves." "Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad! but stay! how long do you propose to be absent 1" "Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and ba back, at all events, by sunrise." "And will you promise me, upon your honour, that when thid freak of yours is over, and the bug business (good God !) settled 6 i 14 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. to your satisfaction, you will then return home and follow ray advice implicitly, as that of your physician V " 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. Ju piter 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 demeanour was dogged in the extreme, and "dat deuced bug" were the sole words which escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself with the scarabceus, 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 re frain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humour his fancy, at least for the present, or until I could adopt some more energetic measures with a chance of success. In the meantime I en deavoured, 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 1" 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 north-westerly 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 pre cipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by the support gf the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in THE GOLD BUG. 115 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 rnus go up, massa V 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, draw ing back in dismay " what for mus tote de bug way up de tree 1 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 V 1 said Jup, evidently shamed into compliance ; " always want for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only funnin any how. Me feered de bug! what I keer for de bug 1 ?" Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as cir cumstances 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 knarled and uneven, while many 8-2 Ii6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 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 T he asked. " Keep up the largest branch the one on this side," said Le- grand. 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 f udder is got for go ?" "How high up are you V 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 1" " 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 f eerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far tis dead limb putty much all de way." K Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter V cried Legrand in a quavering voice. THE GOLD BUG. 117 " 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 miff," 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 1" "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 drop that beetle I ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter, do you hear me V " Yes, massa, needn t hollo at poor nigger dat style." " Well ! now listen ! if you will venture out on the limb as far as you think safe, and not let go the beetle, I ll make you a present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down." "I m gwine, Massa Will deed I is," replied the negro very promptly " mos out to the eend now." " Out to the end !" here fairly screamed Legrand, " do you say you are out to the end of that limb 1" u Soon be to de eend, massa, o-o-o-o-oh ! Lor-gol-a-marcy ! what is dis here pon de tree V " Well !" cried Legrand, highly delighted, " what is it V " Why taint nuffin 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 T "Sure nuff, massa; nuis look, Why dis berry curous sar- n 8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. cumstance, 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 youdo you hear ?" " Yes, massa." " Pay attention, then ! find the left eye of the skull." " Hum ! hoo ! dat s good ! why dare aint no eye lef at all." " Curse your stupidity ! do you know your right hand from your left 1" " Yes, I nose dat nose all bout dat tis my lef hand what I chops de wood wid." " To be sure ! you are left-handed ; and your left eye is on the same side as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye of the skull, or the place where the left eye has been. Have you found it 1" 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 aint got not a bit ob a hand at all nebber mind! I got de lef eye now here delef eye! what mus do wid it V "Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach but be careful and not let go your hold of the string." " All dat done, Massa Will ; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de hole look out for him dare below !" During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter s person could be seen ; but the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the end of the string, and glistened like a globe of bur nished gold, in the last rays of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined the eminence upon which we stood. The scarabceus hung quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space, three or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and, having accom plished 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 GOLD BUG. 119 the distance of fifty feet Jupiter clearing away the brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described. Taking now a spade himself, and giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set about digging as quickly as possible. To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at any time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly have declined it ; for the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the exercise already taken ; but I saw no mode of escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend s equanimity by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter s aid, 1 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 dis position, 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 fantasy had re*- ceived confirmation by the finding of the scarabceus, 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 sug gestions especially if chiming in with favourite 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 tho 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 pictu resque a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our labours 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 interrup- 120 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. tion 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 re turned, 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 discon certed, 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 disap pointment imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning of his labour. In the meantime I made no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in pro found 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 T " Oh, my golly, Massa Will ! aint dis here my lef eye for sar- tain r 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 cara coles, 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 ! THE GOLD BUG. j 51 was the skull nailed to the limb with the face outwards, or with the face to the limb V 1 " De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes good, widout any trouble." " Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the beetle T here Legrand touched each of Jupiter s eyes. " Twas dis eye, massa de lef eye j is 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 under standing what had occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great aversion from the labour imposed. I had be come most unaccountably interested nay, even excited. Perhaps there was something, amid all the extravagant demeanour of Legrand some air of forethought, or of deliberation, which im pressed me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with something that very much resembled ex pectation, for the fancied treasure, the vision of which had de mented 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, wo were again inter rupted by the violent bowlings 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 re sistance, 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 122 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 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 disap pointment. 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 preser vation and wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing process perhaps that of the Bi-chloride of Mercury This box was three feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open trelliswork over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron six in all by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united endeavours 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 up wards a glow and a glare, from a confused heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely dazzled our eyes. I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared ex hausted 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 stupified thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy, " And dis all come ob de goole-bug ! de putty goole-bug ! cle poor little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style ! Aint you shamed ob yourself, nigger 1 answer me dat !" It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master THE GOLD BUG. 123 and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure, ic was growing late, and it behoved us to make exertion, that we might get everything 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 im mediately. 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 burdens, just as the first faint streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East. We were now thoroughly broken down ; but the intense excite ment 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. Everything 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 Ger man 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. Thero 124 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. were diamondssome 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 avoirdu pois ; 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 under valued 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 scarabceus. 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 THE GOLD BUG. 125 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 1 supposed it to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I dis covered 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 scarabaus, and that this skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupified me for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind struggles to establish a connection a sequence of cause and effect and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there had been no drawing upon .the parchment when I made my sketch of the scarabccus. I became perfectly certain of this ; for I recollected turning up first one side and then the other, in search of the cleanest spot. Had the skull been then there, of course I could not have failed to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt it impossible to explain ; but even at that early moment, there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a glow-worm-like conception of that truth which last night s adventure brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and putting the parchment i2& WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. 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 scarabceus was on the coast of the mainland, about a mile east ward 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 resem blance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced. "Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetlo in it, and gave it to me. fSoon afterwards we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant G . I showed him the insect, and he begged me to let him take it to the fort. Upon my con senting, 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 sub jects connected with Natural History. At the same time, with out being conscious of it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own pocket. " You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of making a sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was usually kept. I looked in the drawer, and found none there. I searched my pockets, hoping to find an old letter, when my hand fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which it came into my possession ; for the circumstances impressed me with peculiar force. " No doubt you will think me fanciful but I had already es tablished a kind of connection. I had put together two links of a THE GOLD BUG. itf great chain. There was a boat lying upon a sea- coast, and not far from the boat was a parchment not a paper with a skull depicted upon it. You will, of course, ask where is the connection V 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/o?-m of the parchment. Although one of its corners had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be seen that the original form was oblong. It was just such a slip, indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum for a record of something to be long remembered and carefully preserved." " But," I interposed, " you say that the skull was not upon the parchment when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you trace any connection between the boat and the skull since this latter, according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the scarabceus ?" " 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. 1 reasoned, for example, thus : When I drew the scarabceus, there was no skull apparent upon the parchment. When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until you returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was done. " At this stage of my reflections I endeavoured to remember, and did remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which occurred about the period in question. The weather was chilly (oh, rare and happy accident !), and a fire was blazing upon the hearth. I was heated with exercise and sat near the table. You, however, had drawn a chair close to the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you were in the act of in specting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped upon your 128 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and kept hint off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted to fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was about to caution you, but before I could speak you had withdrawn it, and were engaged in its examination. When I considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a moment that heat had been the agent in bringing to light, upon the parchment, the skull which I saw designed upon it. You are well aware that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind, by means of which it is possible to write upon either paper or vellum, so that the characters shall become visible only when subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in aqua regia, and diluted with four times its weight of water, is sometimes employed ; a green tint results. The regu- Itis of cobalt, dissolved in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colours disappear at longer or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but again become apparent upon the re-ap plication of heat. " I now scrutinized the death s-head with care. Its outer edges the edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the vellum were far more distinct than the others. It was clear that the action of the caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire, and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing heat. At first, the only effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the skull \ but, upon persevering in the experiment, there became visible, at the corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the death s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was intended for a kid." " Ha ! ha !" said I, " to be sure I have no right to laugh at you a million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth but you are not about to establish a third link in your chain you will not find any special connection between your pirates and a goat pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats ; they appertain to the farming interest." " But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat." " Well, a kid then pretty much the same thing." " Pretty much, but not altogether," said Legrand, " You may Jiave heard of one Captain Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical sig- THE GOLD BUG. lie nature. I say signature; because its position upon the vellum suggested this idea. The death s-head at the corner diagonally opposite, had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I was sorely put out by the absence of all else of the body to my imagined instrument of the text for my context." " I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the signature." " Something of that kind. The fact is, T felt irresistibly im pressed with a presentiment of some vast good fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an actual belief ; but do you know that Jupiter s silly words, about the bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect upon my fancy ? And then the series of accidents and coincidences these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe how mere an accident it was that these events should have occurred upon the sole day of all the year in which it has been, or may be, sufficiently cool for fire, and that without the fire, or without the intervention of the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the death s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure 1" " But proceed I am all impatience." " Well ; you have heard, of course, the many stories current the thousand vague rumours afloat, about money buried, some^ where upon the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumours must have had some foundation in fact. And that the rumours have existed so long and so continuous, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the circumstance of the buried treasure still remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the rumours would scarcely have reached us in their present unvarying form. You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident say the loss of a memorandum indicating its locality- had deprived him of the means of recovering it, and that this accident had become known to his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that treasure had been concealed at all, and who, busying themselves in vain, because unguided attempts, to regain it, had given first birth, and then universal currency, to the reports which are now so common. Have you ever 9 ijo WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. heard of any important treasure being unearthed along the coast r "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 1" "I held the velhim 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 care fully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in several places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now." Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death s-head and the goat : 53!!:Jt305))6*;4826)4l:,)4l:);806*;48t8lT60))85;lt(;:t*8t83(88)5*t;46 (;SS*96*?;8)*J(;485);5*t2:*t(;4956*2(5* 4)8T8*;4069285);)6t8)4t "But," said I, returning him the slip, "I am as much in the dark as ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of^this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them." "And yet," said Legrand, "the solution is by no means so difficult as you might be led to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a cipher that is to say, they convey a mean ing ; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse crypto graphs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a simple THE GOLD BUG. 131 Species such, however, as would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key." " And you really solved it 1" " Readily ; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thou sand 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 constuct 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 prin ciples of solution, so far, especially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned, depend upon, and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom. In general there is no alternative but experi ment (directed by probabilities) of every tongue known to him who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained. "But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty was removed by the signature. The pun upon the word * Kidd is appreciable in no other language than the English. But for this consideratien 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 / 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 IS. t ) 16. * 13. 5 12. 11. t 3 2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " Of tie character t I there are 8. ; . 6. 9 2 5. : 3 4. 1 3. IT 2. - 1- " Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e, Afterwards, the succession runs thus : a o id h n r s t u y cfg Imwljkpqxz. E predominates so remarkably that an indi vidual 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, &? In the present instance we see it doubled no less than five times, although the cryptograph is brief. " Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of all words in the language the is the most usual; let us see, therefore, whether there are not repetitions of any three characters, in the same order of col location, the last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such letters, so arranged, they will most probably represent the wor4 the. Upon inspection, we find no less than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may therefore, as sume that j represesents t, 4 represents A, and 8 represents e the last being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has been taken. "But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish a vastly important point ; that is to say, several com mencements and terminations of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the last instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs riot far from the end of the cipher. We know that the ; immediately ensuing is the commencement of a word, and, of the six characters succeeding this the, we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these characters down, thus, by the letters we know them to represent, leaving a space for the unknown THE GOLD BUG. 133 t ccth. " Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the thf as forming no portion of the word commencing with the first t ; since, by ex periment 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(t<3i the, or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus : the tree thrjteh 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 J ? and 3. "Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known characters, we mid, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement, 83(88, or egree, which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word degree/ and gives us another letter, d, represented by t- " Four letters beyond the word degree/ we perceive the com. bination ;<48;88. " Translating the known characters, and representing the un known by dots, as before, we read thus : th rtee. an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word thirteen. and again funishing us with two new characters, i and n, repre sented by 6 and *. " Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we fi;id the combination, 134 - WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 11 Translating, as before, we obtain . good, which assures us that the first letter is A, and that the first two words are * A good. " It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in a tabular form, to avoid confusion. It will stand thus : 5 represents a f d 8 e 3 g 4 h 6 i n t o ( r j 35 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 transla tion of the characters upon the parchment, as unriddled. Here it is : " A good glass in the bishop s hostel in the devil s seat forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes north-east and by north main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the deaths-head a bee line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out. >}) " But," said I, " the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as ever. How is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon about devil s seats, death s-heads, and bishop s hotels V " "I confess," replied Legrand, "that the matter still wears a serious aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first endea vour was to divide the sentence into the natural division intended by the cryptographist." " You mean to punctuate it 1" " Something of that kind." " But how was it possible to effect this T "I reflected that it had been & point with the writer to run his flrords together without division, so as to increase the difficulty of THE GOLD BUG. 135 solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of his composition, he arrived at a break in his subject which would naturally require a pause, or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, at this place, more than usually close to gether. If you will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will easily detect five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the division thus : " A good glass in the Bishop s hostel in the Devil s seat forty -one degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by north main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the deaths-head <% bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out. 1 " " 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 neighbourhood 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 refer ence to an old family, of the name of Bessop, which, time out of mind, had held possession of an ancient manor-house, about four miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went over to the plantation, and re-instituted my inquiries among the older negroes of the place. At length one of the most aged of the women said that she had heard of such a place as Bessop s Castle, and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a castle, nor a tavern, but a high rock. " I offered to pay her w T ell for her trouble, and after some demur, she consented to accompany me to the spot. We found it without much difficulty, when, dismissing her, I proceeded to examine the place. The castle consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs and rocks one of the latter being quite remarkable for its height as well as for its insulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then felt much at a loss as to what should be next done. " While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the i 3 6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. cliff just above it, gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow- backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the devil s-seat alluded to in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle. " The good glass, I knew, could have reference to nothing but a telescope ; for the word glass is rarely employed in any other sense by seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a definite point of view, admitting no variation, from which to use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes, and northeast and by north/ were intended as directions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries, I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned to the rock. " I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impos sible to retain a seat upon it except in one particular position. This fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of course, the forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes could allude to nothing but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal direction was clearly indicated by the words, * northeast and by north. This latter direction I at once established by means of a pocket-compass ; then, pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it out to be a human skull. " Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma solved ; for the phrase main branch, seventh limb, east side, could refer only to the position of the skull upon the tree, while shoot from the left eye of the death s-head admitted, also, of but one interpretation, in regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived that the design was to drop a bullet from the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk through the shot (or the spot where the bullet fell), and thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would indicate a definite point and beneath this point I thought it at least possible that a deposit of value lay concealed." "All this," I said, "is exceedingly clear, and, although ingenious. THE GOLD BUG. 137 still simple and explicit. Wlien 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 after wards, turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has con vinced me it is a fact) that the circular opening in question is visible from no other attainable point of view than that afforded by the narrow ledge upon the face of the rock. " In this expedition to the Bishop s Hotel I had been attended by Jupiter, who had, no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the abstraction of my demeanour, and took especial care not to leave me alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the tree. After much toil I found it. When I came home at night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With the rest of the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted as myself." " I suppose," said I, " you missed the spot, in the first attempt at digging, through Jupiter s stupidity in letting the bug fall through the right instead of through the left eye of the skull." " Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches and a half in the shot, that is to say, in the position of the peg nearest the tree ; and had the treasure been beneath the shot, the error would have been of little moment ; but * the shot, together with the nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for the establishment of a line of direction ; of course the error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as we proceeded with the line, and by the time we had gone fifty feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated impressions that treasure was here some where actually buried, we might have had all our labour in vain." " But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle how excessively odd ! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist upon letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet from the shell V " 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 138 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 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 V " 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 labour. But this labour concluded, he may have thought it expedient to remove all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit ; perhaps it required a dozen who shall tell T THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M, VALDEMAR, | F 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 endeavours 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 unac countable omission : no person had as yet been mesmerised 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 im paired or increased by the condition ; thirdly, to what extent, or THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR. 139 for liow long a period, the encroachments of Death might bo 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 deplume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of " Wallenstein" and "Gargantua." M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N. Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spare- ness 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 of that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death ; and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease. I 4 o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. It is now rather more than seven months sines I received, from H. Valdemar himself, the subjoined note : " MY DEAE P , You may as well come now. D-= and 1? are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow midnight ; and I think they have hit the time very nearly. " VALDEMAE." 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 alter ation 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 medi cines 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 pur poses 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 been discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta ; but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o clock on Saturday evening. On quitting the invalid s bed side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D-*- and.J 1 *- had bidden him a final fare- THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR. 14* well. It had not been their intention to return ; but, at my re quest, 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 will ing 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, incase 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 mesmer ized" adding immediately afterwards, " I fear you have deferred it too long." While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his fore head ; 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. 142 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 ster torous 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 impos sible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length ; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loins. The head was very slightly elevated. When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar s con dition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L 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 w r as 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 THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR. 143 with this patient I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now ; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation. " M. Valdcmar," I said, " are you asleep ?" He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering ; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of a ball ; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words : " Yes asleep now. Do not wake me! let me die so !" I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again : "Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. ValdemaH" The answer now was immediate, but even less audible thaii 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 1 came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonish ment 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 1" 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 super veneand 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 144 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. pupils disappearing upwardly ; the skin generally assumed & 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 com pletely ; 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 busi ness, 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 obser vable 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 wiiole 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 THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR. 145 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 lam 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 endeavours to revive Mr. L 1. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valclemar s condition. It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respira tion. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavoured 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 endeavoured 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 - vvaker 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 dis cussion 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. 10 146 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Valdemar s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleep-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses attentions were continual. It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the expe riment 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 outflowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odour. 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 ! 1 say to you that I am dead /" I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained unde cided what to do. At first I made an endeavour 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 oncewithin the space THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR. 147 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 detest able putrescence. MS, FOUND IN A BOTTLE, Qui n a plus qu un moment a vivre N a plus rien a dissimuler. Quinault Atys. ,* my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contempla tive turn of mind enabled me to methodise the stories which early study diligently garnered up. Beyond all things, the works of the German moralists gave me a great delight ; not from my ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius ; a defi ciency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime ; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such refer ence, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the igiiesfatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity. After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18 , from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend. Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was 102 148 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank. We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other inci dent to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound. One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular isolated cloud, to the N. W. It was remarkable, as well for its colour, as from its being the first we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapour, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky-red appearance of tjie moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heated iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, and a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set. and the crew, consisting principally" of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every appearance warranted me in apprehending a simoom. I told the captain my fears ; but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness, however, prevented me from Bleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolu tion of a mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE. 149 wilderness of foam liurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks frdm stem to stern. The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted. By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recover}*, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder, With great diffi culty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was at first struck with the idea of our being among breakers ; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while> I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that, we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard ; the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered ex cessively, and, in almost every respect, tre had received considerable injury ; but to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind ; but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay, well believing, that in our shat tered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which without equalling the first violence of the 150 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. simoom, were still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, with trifling variations, S. E. and by S. ; and we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the north ward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above the horizon emitting no decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was upon the increase, and blew 7 with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appear ance of the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean. We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day that day to me has not arrived to the Swede, never did arrive. Thencefor ward we were enshrouded in pitchy darkness, so that we could not have seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued to envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea- brilliancy to which we had been accustomed in the tropics. We observed, too, that, although the tempest continued to rage with unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the usual appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by degrees into the spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and secur ing ourselves, as well as possible, to the stump of the mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our situation. We were, however, well aware of having made farther to the south ward than any previous navigators, and felt great amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In the meantime every moment threatened to be our last every mountainous billow hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed anything I had imagined possible, and that we were not instantly buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship ; but I could not MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE. 151 help feeling the utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as with every knot of way the ship made, the swelling of the black stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the albatross at times became dizzy with the velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken. We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. " See ! see!" cried he, shrieking in my ears, "Almighty God ! see! see!" As he spoke, I became aware of a dull, sullen glare of red light which streamed down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards, I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of my blood. At a terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship, of perhaps four thousand tons. Although upreared upon the summit of a wave more than a hundred times her own altitude, her apparent size still exceeded that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman in exist ence. Her huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the customary carvings of a ship. A single row of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and dashed from their polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns which swung to and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with horror and astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that ungovern able hurricane. When we first discovered her, her bows were alone to be seen, as she rose slowly from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own sublimity, then trem bled and tottered, and came down. At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fear lessly the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame which was nearly under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence, upon the rigging of the stranger. 152 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the confusion ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the crew. With little difficulty I made my way, unperceived, to the main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of *l?.e navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken, so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to afford me a convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship. I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of con cealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance. There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low broken tone, some words of a language which I could not understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation. His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second childhood and the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on deck, and I saw him no more. ***** A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of bygone time are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never I know that I shall never be satisfied with regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense a new entity is added to my soul. ***** It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus. Incompre hensible men ! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE. 153 cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly on my part, for the people will not see. It was but just now that I passed directly before the eyes of the mate ; it was no long while ago that I ventured into the captain s own private cabin, and took thence the materials with which I w T rite, and have written. I shall from time to time continue this journal. It is true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the world, but I will not fail to make the endeavour. At the last moment I will enclose the MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the sea. # * * * * An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. Are such things the operation of ungoverned chance] I had ventured upon deck i::i:l thrown myself down, without attracting any notice, among a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails, in the bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a neatly- folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The studding- sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of the brush are spread out into the word DISCOVERY. I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the vessel. Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all negative a suppo sition of this kind. What she is not, I can easily perceive ; what she is, I fear it is impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvas, her severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, and there is always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of recollection, an unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago. I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a material to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character about the wood which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the pur pose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme porowness t considered independently of the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of navigation in these seas, and apart from the rotten ness attendant upon age. It will appear, perhaps, an observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood would have every charac teristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by any unnatural means. 154 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. In reading the above sentence, a curious apothegm of an old weather-beaten Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection. " It is as sure," he was wont to say, when any doubt was entertained of his veracity, " as sure as there is a sea where the ship itself will grow in bulk like the living body of the seaman." About an hour ago I made bold to trust myself among a group of the crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold, they all bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity ; their shoulders were bent double with decrepitude ; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind ; their voices were low, tremulous, and broken ; their eyes glistened with the rheum of years ; and their grey hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them, on every part of the deck, lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and obsolete con struction. * I mentioned, some time ago, the bending of a studding-sail. From that period, the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has continued her terrific course due south, with every rag of canvas packed upon her, from her truck to her lower studding-sail booms, and rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water which it can enter into the mind of man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where I find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seein to experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of miracles that our enormous bulk is not swallowed up at once and for ever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink of eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of the arrowy sea-gull ; and the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the deep, but like demons confined to simple threats, and forbidden to destroy. I am led to attribute these frequent escapes to the only natural cause which can account for such effect. I must suppose the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or impetuous under tow. *-..</#* I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin but, as I expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his appear ance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which might bespeak MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE. 155 him more or less than man, still, a feeling of irrepressible reverence and awe mingled with the sensation of wonder with which I re garded him. In stature, he is nearly my own height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor remarkable otherwise. But it is the singularity of the expression which reigns upon the face it is the intense, the wonderful, the thrilling evidence of old age so utter, so extreme, which excites within my spirit a sense a senti ment ineffable. His forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the stamp of a myriad of years. His grey hairs are records of the past, and his greyer eyes are sybils of the future. The cabin floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored, with a fiery, unquiet eye, over a paper which I took to be a com mission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a monarch. He muttered to himself as did the first seaman whom I saw in the hold some low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue ; and although the speaker was close at my elbow, his voice seemed to reach my ears from the distance of a mile. * The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries \ their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning ; and when their fingers fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never felt before, although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the shadows of fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadrnor, and Persepolis, until my very soul has become a ruin. * When I look around me, I feel ashamed of my former apprehen sions. If I trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any idea of which, the words tornado and simoom are trivial and ineffective 1 All in the immediate vicinity of the ship is the blackness of eternal night, and a chaos of foamless water ; but, about a league on either side of us, may be seen, indistinctly, and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into the desolate sky, and looking like the walls of the universe. * * As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current if that appel lation can properly be given to a tide which, howling and shrieking 156 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. by the white ice, thunders on to the southward Avith a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract. To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible ; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions predominates even over my despair, and will recon cile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we are hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge some never-to- be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destraction. Perhaps this current leads us to the southern pole itself. It must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every probability in its favour. ****** The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step ; but there is upon their countenance an expression more of the eagerness of hope than of the apathy of despair. In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a crowd of canvas, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the sea ! Oh, horror upon horror ! the ice opens suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic am phitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny ! The circles rapidly grow small we are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and thundering of ocean and tempest, the ship is quiver ing oh God ! and going down ! Jfote. The "MS. Found in a Bottle" was originally published in 1831 ; and it was not until many years afterwards that I became acquainted with the maps of Mercator, in which the ocean is repre sented as rushing, by four mouths, into the (northern) Polar Gulf, to be absorbed into the bowels of the earth ; the Pole itself being represented by a black rock, towering to a prodigiru^ height. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM, * The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways j nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vast- ness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, wJilch have a depth in them greater than the well of Dcmocritus." Joseph Glanville. E had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minute s the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. " Not long ago," said he at length, " and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons ; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man but I am not. It took less than a single clay to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy T The " little cliff," upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to rest, that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge this " little cliff " arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to tho shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky- while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the distance. " You must get over these fancies," said the guide, " for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye." 158 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "We are now," lie continued, in that particularizing manner which distinguished him "we are now close upon the Norwegian coast in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude in the great province of Nordland and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise your self up a little higher hold on to the grass if you feel giddyso and look out, beyond the belt of vapour beneath us, into the sea." I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer s account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay out stretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak- looking island ; or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. The appearance of the ocean, "in the space between the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the imme diate vicinity of the rocks. " The island in the distance," resumed the old man, " is called by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Ho- tholm, Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off between Moskoe and Vurrgh are Otterholra, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 15$ either you or I can understand. Do you hear anything ? Do you see any change in the water T We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie ; and at the same moment I perceived what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury ; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into [ frenzied convulsion heaving, boiling, hissing gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes, except in precipitous descents. In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while pro digious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly very suddenly this assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray ; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half-roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. l6o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. I threw myself upon my face, and clung to tho scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation. " This," said I at length, to the old man " this can be nothing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom." " So it is sometimes termed," said he. " We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway." The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I saw. That of Jonas Eamus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene or of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time ; but it could neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in convey ing an impression of the spectacle. "Between Lofoden and Moskoe," he says, the depth of the water is between thirty-six and forty fathoms ; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh), this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity ; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts ; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vor tices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks ; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence ; and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempt- A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 161 ing to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea it being con stantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground." In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The " forty fathoms " must have reference only to por tions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-strom must be immeasurably greater ; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears ; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing, that the largest ships of the line in existence, coming within the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist i ; as little as a feather the hurricane, and must dis appear bodily and at once. The attempts to account for the phenomenon some of which, I remember, seemed to rne sufficiently plausible in perusal now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the Faroe islands, " have no other cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract ; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments." These are the words of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that in the centre of the channel of the Maelstrom is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in ii i6a WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. some very remote part the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat de cidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, my imagination most readily assented ; and, mentioning it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it ; and here I agreed with him for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss. " You have had a good look at the whirl now," said the old man, " and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will con vince you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-strom." I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded. "Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner- rigged smack of about seventy tons burden, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it ; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance ; so that we often got in a single day, what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate speculation the risk of life standing instead of labour, and courage answering for capital. " We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than this ; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the fifteen minutes slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack- water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedi tion without a steady side wind for going and coming one that we A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 163 felt sure would not fail us before our return and we seldom made a mis-calculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here ; and once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in spite of everything, (for the whirl pools threw us round and round so violently, that, at length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents here to-day and gone to-morrow which drove us under the lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up. " I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered * on the ground it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-strom itself without accident ; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack un manageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterwards in fishing but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into danger for, after all said and done, it was a horrible danger, and that is the truth. " It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18 , a day which the people of this part of the world will never forget for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow. " The three of us my two brothers and myself had crossed over to the islands about two o clock P.M., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven, 112 1 64 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOR. by my watch, when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. " We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual something that had never happened to us before and I began to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular copper-coloured cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. " In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us in less than two the sky was entirely overcast and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. " Such a hurricane as then blew if !s folly to attempt describing. The oldest seamen in Norway never experienced any thing like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. " Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow. and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the Strom, byway of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwhale of the bow, and with my hands grasp ing a ring-bolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done for I was too much flurried to think. !4 DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 165 " For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer, I raised myself upon my knees, still keep ing hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to collect my senses, so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and niy heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard but the next moment all this joy was turned into horror for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word Moslcoc- strom! " No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from head to foot as if I had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough I knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Strom, and nothing could save us ! "You perceive that in crossing the Strom channel, we always went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack but now we were driving right upon the pool itself, and m such a hurricane as this ! To be sure, I thought, we shall get there just about the slack there is some little hope in that 7 but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship. " By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky as clear as I ever saw and of a deep bright blue and through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest distinctness but, O God, what a scene it was to light up ! "I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother but 166 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. in some manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say listen ! "At first I could not make out what he meant but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run down at seven o clock ! We were behind the time of the slack, and the ivhirl of the Strom was in full fury ! " When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and ^ot deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going lSflB, seem always to slip from beneath her which appears very strange to a landsman and this is what is called riding, in sea phrase. " Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but pre sently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose up up as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead but no more like the every-day Moskoe-strom, than the whirl as you now see it, is like a mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognised the place at all. As it was, I involun tarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. " It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek such a sound as you might imagine given out by the water-pipes of many thousand steam-vessels, letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always sur rounds the whirl ; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge us into the abyss down which we could only see A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 167 indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizou. " It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approach ing it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a / great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I supposed it was despair that strung my nerves. " It may look like boasting but what I tell you is truth I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a con sideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God s power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I be came possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a ivish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man s mind in such extremity and I have often thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have ren dered me a little light-headed. " There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present situation for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain. " How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the 168 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask, which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was tb,e only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavoured to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act although I knew he was a madman when he did it a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all; so 1 let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing ; for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel only swaying to and fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. 1 muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. " As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them while I expected instant destruc tion, and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased ; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again upon the scene. " Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admira tion with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hang ing, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel, vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose per fectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. " At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 169 The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in main taining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been upon a deal level ; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved. " The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf ; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom but the yell that went up to the heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe. " Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us to a great distance down the slope ; but our farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept not with any uniform movement but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards some times nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress down ward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible. " Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in 0ur company. I must have been delirious for I even sought amusement in specu lating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward i jo WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. the foam below. This fir tree/ I found myself at one time saying, 4 will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears, and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all this fact the fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. " It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory and partly from present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strom. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way so chafed and roughened as to have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters but then I distinctly recollected that there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely absorbed that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observa tions. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with an old schoolmaster of the district ; and it was from Mm that I learned the use of the words * cylinder and sphere. He explained to me although I have forgotten the explanation how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments and showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 171 offered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an equally bulky body of any form whatever.* " There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. "I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother s attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design but whether this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him ; the emergency admitted of no delay ; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea, without another moment s hesitation. " The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale as you see that I did escape and as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and for ever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momentarily less and less steep, the gyrations of the whirl grew gradually less and less * See Archimedes, "De Incidentibus in Faiido." -lib. 2. 172 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strom had been. It was the hour of the slack but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Strom, and in a few minutes, was hurried down the coast into the grounds of the fishermen. A boat picked me up exhausted from fatigue and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair, which had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story they did not believe it. I now tell it to you and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden." THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE, "What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not be yond all conjecture." Sir Thomas Browne. HE mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appre ciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics ; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 173 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 opera tions, 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 pro found. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold, but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied ; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some 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 tiiere is 174 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of ana lysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may belittle 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 per fection 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 com monly 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 infer ences. 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 ivhat 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 honour by honour, 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 recognises what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word ; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the ac companying 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 175 puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own. The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity ; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered other wise upon idiotcy, 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 analo gous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic. The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced. Presiding 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 Mont- martre, 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 candour 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 en kindled within me by the wild fervour, 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 176 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city ; and as my worldly cir cumstances 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 super stitions 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, per haps, 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 enamoured 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 per fumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the popu lous 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 asser tions 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 var,aut in expression ; while his voice, usually a rich THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 1^7 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 O f f Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. " Of Chantilly," said he, " why do you pause 1 You were re marking 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 Cre"billon s tragedy so called, and been notoriously pasqumaded 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 i riend, " who brought you to 12 i7 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 whom soever." " The man who ran up against you as we entered the street it may have been fifteen minutes ago." I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C into the thoroughfare where we stood ; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. " I will explain," he said, " and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer." There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupa tion is often full of interest ; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and inco herence 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 acknowledg ing 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 the 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 pro ceeded 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 petu lant expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 179 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 ex pected 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 prirna sonum I had told you that this wasin^reference to Orion, formerly written Urion ; and, from certain ^nmgeiteiefc connected with this explana tion, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler s fhninolati&n. So far, you had been stooping in your gait ; but now~T"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 ivas a very little fellow, that Chan tilly, he would do better at the Theatre des Varie te s." Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the Gazette des Trilunaux when the following paragraphs arrested our attention : " EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS. This morning, about three o clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Koch 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, 122 jSo WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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, jiipj^ight or ten of the neighbours entered, accompaned by two gendarme*. By this time the cries had ceased ; but, as the party rush~e"d"up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in angry contention, were dis tinguished, 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 them selves, 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 dis covered under the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the door. Tt 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 draggad^herefrom ; it having been thus forced up the narrowx^apertujpe for a considerable distance. The body was quite warnir^tJpon 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, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE, 181 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 l<feyit^>bf import which it conveys with us,] "but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material testimony elicited. " Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms very affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was rej5utM 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 Horeau, 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 neighbour hood, and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the corpses were found for m<y:e 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 neighbours 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. i8? WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. "Many other persons, neighbours, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connections of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house not very old. "Isidore Muste, 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, endeavouring 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 didble. 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 neighbour, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corro borates the testimony of Muset in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was cert s in 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, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 183 " Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an inter preter. 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 dis tinguish 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 sacrej diable and once mon Dieu. " Jules Mirjnaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L Espanaye had some property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the spring of the year (eight years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4,000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money. " Adolplie Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the clay in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L Espanaye to her residence with the 4,000 francs put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the street at the time. It is a by-street very lonely. William JSird, 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 1 and l 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 j 84 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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. Everything 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 upand down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with ganjfe& (mansardes), A trap door on the roof was nailed clown 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. "Alfonso Garcia, 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,;expostulatJHg^ Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Hussian. 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 chim neys, These brushes were passed up and clown every fluie in the THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 185 house. There is no back passage by which anyone could have de scended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of Made moiselle L Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength. " Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about daybreak. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would account for these appearances. The throat was greatly 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 discoloured, and the eye-balls pro truded. 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 per son 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 dis coloured. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been in flicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron a chair any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. N o 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 excite- 1 86 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ment still continued in the Quartier St. Boohthat the premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, how ever, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and im prisonedalthough 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 impri soned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders. I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an in soluble 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^xtonSl for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no methodr-in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain s calling for his robe-de-chambre pour mieux entendre la musique. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing, he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-top 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 ap preciation of its lustre a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 187 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 Hue Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it ; as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found ; for there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighbourhood, 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 everything not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the daily papers. I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Je les menayais ;^~f or this phrase there is no English equivalent 1 88 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. It was his humour, 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 anything 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 ^soluBleV) for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as eaSyof 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 puz zled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room ; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney ; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady ; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen of the government agents. They have fallen into but common error of confounding the unusual with the But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, Hiat reason feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investi gations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked what has occurred f as what has occurred that has never occurred before V 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 per haps 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. i&) 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 s^likxquyr^ 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 ex pression, 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 thrust ing 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 testi mony respecting these voices but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you observe anything peculiar about it V I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagree ment 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 distinc tive. Yet there ivas something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice ; they were here unani mous. 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 f&rpgfier. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language 190 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. lie is conversant but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and might have distinguished some words had lie been acquainted ivith the Spanish. The Dutchman main tains it to have been that of a Frenchman ; but we find it stated that not understanding French this ivitness ivas examined through an interpreter! The Englishman thinks it the voice of a Ger man, and does not understand German! The Spaniard is sure that it was that of an Englishman, but judges by the intona tion 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 men tioned 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 tes timony 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 1 The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 191 in preternatural 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 adjoin ing, 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, through out 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 unob structed 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 endeavoured 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, 1 92 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. "I proceeded to think thus & 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 obvious ness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, have the power of fastening them selves. 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 circum stances 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 re placed. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbour. 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 tbat 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 o^its fellow in the other window ; but this fact was an absolute nmjity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with tho consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew; THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 193 * There must be something wrong, I said, about the nail. I touched it ; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the indenta tion 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 be come fastened by the spring ; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail, farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary. " The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement^ but, if so, in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very 13 I94 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent (a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis- work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room. " I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished : but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary \^Q almost preternatural 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 ulti mate 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 un equal 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 mean ing 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, "t^at-J-kave shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 195 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 origin ally contained ? Madame L Espanaye and her daughter lived an ex ceedingly 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 s thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of :inen ? The gold ivas abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned jy Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon ;he floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the Blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of the police by ;hat portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the i loor of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three 1 lays upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of >ur lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, n general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of hmkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities that theory to which the most glorious objects of luman research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration, n the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its <elivery three days before would have formed something more han a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea f motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine lie perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his old and his motive together. " Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn our attention that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that tartling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as 1 !iis let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman stran- led to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head ownward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes of murder as :iis. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In the lanner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit . :iat there was something excessively outre something altogether I reconcilable with our common notions of human action, even 196 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 vigour of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down ! " Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigojar 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 ^fodigloTts 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 in flicted by some obtuse instrument ; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pave ment in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the win dow 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 -kerml}T*e&lly sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever beeiiTopened at all. " If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly re flected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength super human, 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 T 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 neighbouring 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 staira. THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 197 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 un usualthis 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&fac-simile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as dark bruises, arid 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 dipping 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 impres sions 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 round 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 198 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 tivo voices heard in conten tion, 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 r This, under the circumstances, has been justly character ized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an ex pression 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 to my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the un derstanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I sup pose, 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 7 the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the inst. [the morning of the murder], a very large, tawny Ourang- Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging^ to a Maltese vessel), may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. , Hue , .Fau bourg 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 V "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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 199 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 light ning-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 ain 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 1 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 im possible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate mo rn guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, / 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 xior 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. 200 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 hicMe^-by whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken (^m^eVout appeared to be other wise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us "good even ing," 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 1 ?" 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 1" " 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 V " 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, anything 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 bosoni, and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table. The sailor s face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffo cation. 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," aid Dupin, in a kind tone, "you are alarming yourself unnecessarily you are indeed. We mean you no harm THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 201 whatever. I pledge you the honour 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, cer tainly, 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 honour 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 inno cent, 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 intract able 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 neigh bours, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. Returning home from some sailors frolic on the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining 5 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. 202 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POM, 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 Hue 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 diffi culty, 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 Hue Morgue. Madame L Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. The victims THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. 203 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 J>rostrat<fand motionless ; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during whlclf the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Ouraiig-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 frenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation ; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found ; then that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong. As the ape approached the (jasemeiit with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clam bering down it, hurried at once home dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute. I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the 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 Jar din des Plantes. Le Bon was ^04 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. instantly released upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however^ll disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his djagfm at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every person minding his own business. " Let him talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. " Let him discourse ; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it ; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound. In his wisdom is no stamen. It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna, or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputa tion for ingenuity. I mean the way he has de nier ce qui eft, et dexpliquer ce qui n est ^>as. "* THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.t A SEQUEL TO "THE MUPvDEES IN THE RUE MORGUE." Es giebt eine Reihe idealisclier Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkcit parallel lauft. Selten. fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie unvoll- kommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkomraen sind. So bei der Reformation ; statt des Protestantismus kain das Luther- thum hervor. There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation ; instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism. Novalis (the nom deplume of Von Hardenburg) . Moral Aiisichten. HERE are few persons, even amongst 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 * Rousseau Nouvelle Heloise. tUpon the original publication of " Marie Rog^t," the foot-notes now appended were considered unnecessary ; but the lapse of several years since the tragedy upon which the tale is based, renders it expedient to THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 205 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 endeavoured, 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 cir cumstances brought to instance Dupin s idiosyncrasy. I might have adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more. Late events, however, in their surprising development, have startled me into some further details, which will carry with them the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard, it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to what I both heard and saw so long ago. 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 pub lished (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 unessential 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 locali ties. It may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confes sions of two persons (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative), made, at different periods, long subsequent to the publication, confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but absolutely all the chief hypothetical details by which that conclusion was attained. 2 o6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame L Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in with his humour ; 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 altogther uninterrupted. It may readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the drama at the Eue 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 indi vidual 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 humour forbade all further agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of the policial eyes ; and the cases were not few in which attempt was made to engage his ser vices 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 Hue 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 Pave"e Saint Andrew ;* 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 cus tom lay chiefly among the desperate adventurers infesting that neighbourhood. Monsieur Le Blanct was not unaware of the ad- * Nassau Street. f Anderson. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 207 vantages to be derived from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of hesitation by Madame. The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Roget was distracted with anxiety and terror. The pub lic 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 per fumer, and sought the shelter of her mother s residence in the Rue Pavee Saint Andre"e. 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*e, and at a point not very far distant from the secluded neighbourhood of the Bar- riere du Roule.t The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that mur der 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 for gotten. 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 Hudson. f Weehawken. 2o8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 thou sand francs. In the meantime the investigation proceeded with vigour, 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 proclama tion setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his fel low; 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 rumour 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 in telligence of the murder was brought us by G- , in person. He called upon us early in the afternoon of the 13th of July, 18, and remained with us until late in the night. He had been THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 209 piqued by the failure of all his endeavours to ferret out the assas sins. His reputation so he said with a peculiarly Parisian air was at stake. Even his honour 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 alto gether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect broke forth at once into explanations of his own views, interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and beyond doubt learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore spectacles during the whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of the Prefect. In the morning I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus : Marie Roget left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Paveo St. Andree, about nine o clock in the morning of Sunday, June the 22nd, 18. In going out she gave notice to a Monsieur Jacques St. Eustache,* and to him only, of her intention to spend the clay 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 Ma dame 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 * Payne, 14 5i6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 Made again;" but this observation attracted little attention at the time. On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Hue 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 anything satisfactory was ascer tained respecting her. On this day, (Wednesday, the "25th 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 in formed that a corpse had just been towed ashore by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of the perfumery girl. His friend recognized it more promptly. The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned. There was no discolouration 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 cir cular 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 especi ally at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope, but none of the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight ; it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufiiced to produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous character of the de ceased. She had been subjected, it said, to brutal violence. The * Croimreliii* THE MYSTER y OF MARIE ROGET. i\\ corpse was in such condition when found that there could have been no difficulty in its recognition by friends. The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin ; and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely out torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady s, but a slip or sailor s knot. After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore. Through the exertions of Beauvais the matter was industriously hushed up, as far as possible ; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper,* however, at length took up the theme ; the corpse was disinterred, and a re-examination insti tuted ; but nothing was elicited beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home. Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under suspicion ; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home. Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G - , affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumours were circulated, and journalists busied themselves in sug gestions. 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 sug gestion alluded to. These passages are literal translations from a paper conducted, in general, with much ability. The "N. Y. Mercury." The " N. Y. Brother Jonathan," edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq. 14-2 ti2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "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 connexion, in the Rue des Dromes. From that jiour nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no trace or tidings of her at all There has no person, whatever, come forward, 60 far, who saw her at all, on 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 Wed nesday 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 Rogt 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 immer sion, it sinks again, if let alone. Now, we ask, what was there in this case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature ? . . . . If the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And, furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken." The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in the water " mot three days merely, but, at least, five times three days," because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was fully disproved. I continue the translation : "What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt the body was that of Mcirie 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 indefi nite, we think, as can readily be imagined as little conclusive as findin^ an arm m the sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to Madame RogSt, 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 investi gation, if they thought the body was that of Marie. Nobody went over THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 213 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 endeavoured 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 in volving a charge against her chastity ; and that these friends, upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death. But L Etoile was again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that no apathy, such as was imagined, existed ; that the old lady was exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty ; that St. Eustache, so far from receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so frantically, that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated by L Etoile that the corpse w r as re-interred at the public ex pense 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 anything to the gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him In the present posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up in his head. A single step cannot be taken without M. Beauvais ; for, go which way you will, yoii run against him For some reason, he determined that nobody shall have any thing to do with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way, according to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body." 214 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. By the following fact, some colour was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior to the girl s disappearance, and during the absence of its occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and the name " Marie " inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand. The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a gang of desperadoes that by these she had been borne across the river, maltreated and murdered. Le Commerciel* however, a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns : " We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so far as it has been directed to the 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 Iloule, there would have been no necessity for any such arrange ment. 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 over throw, 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 Itogdt." Fragments of dress were dis covered on the brambles around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. * N. y. "Journal of Commerce. " THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 215 Between the thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy burden having been dragged along it. A weekly paper, Le Soliel* had the following comments upon this discovery comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole Parisian press : "The things had all evidently been there at least three or four weeks ; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its being opened The pieces of her frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended ; the other piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips torn oUj 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 Pioule. The neighbourhood 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 com plexion. The two remained here for some time. On their de parture, 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 Maclame 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,t now also testified that he saw Marie * Phil, "Sat. Evening Post," edited by C. I. Peterson, Esq. Adam. 2 i6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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. 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 conse quence. 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 and motives could have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of them must. But the ease with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have before observed that it is by promi nences 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 V In the investiga tions at the house of Madame L Espanaye,* the agents of Q- * * See " Murders in the Rue Morgue," THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 217 were discouraged and confounded by that very imusualness which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of success ; while this same intellect might have been plunged in despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture. " In the case of Madame L Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barriere du Eoule, 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 thence tracing a murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other individual than Marie ; or, if starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her unassassi- nated in either case we lose our labour ; since it is Monsieur G with whom we have to deal. For our own purpose, there fore, 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 contra dictions of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less than in 2I g WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 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 Boget still lives, rather than any true plausibility in this idea which have suggested it to L Etoile, and secured it a favourable reception with the public. Let us examine the heads of this journal s argument; endeavouring 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, ivliy ? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed ivithin five minutes after the girl s quitting her mother s house 1 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 mid night, 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 prepos terous as the one printed. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 219 " Were it my purpose," continued Dupin, " merely to make out a case against this passage of L Etoiles argument, I might safely leave it where it is. It is not, however, with L Etoile that we have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning, as it stands ; and this meaning I have fairly stated : but it is material that we go behind the mere words for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey. It was the design of the journalist to say that, at whatever period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances, that the bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the assas sination 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 under stand 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 rive 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 endeavours to combat that portion of the paragraph which has reference to drowned bodies J 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 * The "N, Y. Commercial Advertiser," edited by Col. Stone. 220 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. upon by UEtoile. But there is something excessively unphilosophi- cal in the attempt on the part of Le Moniteur, to rebut the general assertion of L Etvile, by a citation of particular instances mili tating 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 favour of L Eloile s position until the instances so childishly adduced shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical rule. " You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be urged, if at all, against the rule itself, and for this end we must examine the rationale of the rule. Now the human body, in general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter than those of the lean and large-boned, and of men ; and the specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced by the presence of the tide from sea. But, leaving this tide out of question, it may be said that very few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, of their own accord. Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own that is to say, if he suffer his w r hole person to be immersed with as little excep tion 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 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 221 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 swim ming, the arms are invariably thrown upwards, while an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the cases of individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning. " The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces. This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The result of de composition 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 in crease of mass or weight, its specific gravity becomes less than that ef the water displaced, and it forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified by innumerable cir cumstances is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies ; for example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral impreg nation 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 con ditions 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 for ever from corruption; the bi-chloride of mercury is one. But, apart from decomposition, there may be, and very usually is, generation of gas within the stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other cavities from other causes) sufficient to induce a dis tension which will bring the body to the surface. The effect pro- 222 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. duced by the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze m which is imbedded, thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have already prepared it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity oi some putrescent portions of the cellular tissue ; allowing the cavi ties to distend under the influence of the gas. " Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can easily test by it the assertions of L Etoile. All experience shows, says this paper, that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days immersion, it sinks again if let alone. " The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of in consequence and incoherence. All experience does not show that drowned bodies require horn six to ten days for sufficient decom position to take place to bring them to the surface, Both science and experience show that the period of their rising is, and neces sarily 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. Al though the writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all in the same category. I have shown how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at all, except for the struggles by which he elevates his arms above the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface gasps which supply by water the place of the original air in the lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur in the body thrown into the water immediately after death by violence. Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general rule, ivould not sink at all a fact of which L Etoile is evicfcntly 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 ^re we to make of the argument, that the body found could not be that of Marie Hoget, because three days only THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 22$ having elapsed, the body was found floating 1 If drowned, being a woman, she might never have sunk ; or having sunk, might have re-appeared in twenty-four hours, or less. But no one supposes her to have been drowned ; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she might have been found floating at any period 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 ivas 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 mul tiply 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 LEtoile 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 with out weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown iu by mur derers. This is all which is proved, if anything is. The question of identity is not even approached, and UEtoile 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 the murdered female. " Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his sub ject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself. His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as pos- 224 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. sible, 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 Eoget 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 anyone 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 Moile 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 identifi cation of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm is ivithout hair. The generality of the expression of L Etoile is a mere per version of the witness s phraseology. He must have spoken of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity of colour, 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 refer ence 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, THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 225 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 EEtoile says in re spect to this abbreviation of the garters being an usual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is self-demonstration of the unusualness of the abbreviation. What is made to adjust itself, must of neces sity 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 bon net, 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 EEtoile really entertained a doubt, under the circum stances, 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 recognised and looked prin ciplesis averse from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with rigorous disregard of the 15 226 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long sequence of time. The practice, en mass, is therefore philosophical ; but it is not the less certain that it engenders vast individual error.* "In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will bo willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed tlie true character of this good gentleman. He is a busybody, with much of romance and little of wit. Anyone 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 note*) had some personal interviews with the editor of L Etoik, and offended him by venturing an opinion that the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in sober fact, that of Marie. He persists/ says the paper, * in asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon, to make others believe. Now, without re-ad verting 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 indi vidual identity. Each man recognizes his neighbour, yet there are few instances in which anyone is prepared to give a reason for his recognition. The editor of EEtoile 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 busybodyism, than with the reasoner s suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in com prehending 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 * "A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent its being unfolded according to its objects ; and he who arranges topics in refer ence 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." L/anclor. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 227 B , that she must hold no conversation with the gendarme until his return (Beauvais ) ; and, lastly, his apparent determination that nobody should have anything to do with the proceedings except himself. It seems to me unquestionable that Beauvais was a suitor of Marie s ; that she coquetted with him ; and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this point ; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of LEtoile^ 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 impos sible/ 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 bicreau, without being recognized and accosted. And, know ing the extent of his personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety with that of the per fumery-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, abound ing 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 152 228 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. from her accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of Le Commerciel would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals traversing the whole city. In this case, granting the personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances would be also equal that an equal number of personal rencounters would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as very far more than probable, that Marie might have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many routes between her own residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between the personal ac quaintances 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 sug gestion 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 riot 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 endeavour 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 black guard, has become the pocket-handkerchief." "And what are we to think," I asked, "of the article in Le THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 229 "That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot in which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already published opinion ; collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this paper and from that. The things had all evidently been there, he says at least three or four weeks, and there can be no doubt that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered/ The facts here re-stated by Le Soliel, are veiy far indeed from re moving my own doubts upon this subject, and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with another division of the theme. "At present we must occupy ourselves with other investiga tions. You cannot fail to have remarked the extreme laxity cS 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 1 These are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence ; and there are others of equal moment, which have met with no atten tion. We must endeavour to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have no sus picion 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 in vestigations. His suicide, however corroborative of suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is, without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary analysis. " In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least usual error, in investigations such as this, is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the mal-practice of the courts to confine evidence and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of truth, arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the spirit of this 230 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. principle, if not precisely through its letter, that modern science resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen. But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history of human knowledge has so unin terruptedly 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 pro spective 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 unlocked for and unimagined, to the mathematical formula? 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 accord ance 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 cotemporary 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 compre hensive 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 suggestions, I made scrupulous exam ination of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm con viction 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 Eoget, 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 per- THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 231 haps of a month, we shall have her among us again." Evening Paper Monday, June 23. * "An evening journal of yesterday, refers to a former mysterious dis appearance of Mademoiselle Koget. It is well known that, during the week of her absence from Le Blanc s parfumerie, she was in the company of a young naval officer, much noted for his debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially led to her return home. We have the name of the Lothario in question, who is, at present, stationed in Paris, but, for obvious reasons, forbear to make it public." Le Mercurie Tuesday Morning, June 24. f "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 tho police are upon their trail, and some of them will soon be taken. "- Morning Paper June 25. t " 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 argu ments of our several correspondents appear to be more zealous than pro found, we do not think it advisable to make them public." Morning Paper June 28. || " We have received several forcibly written communications, appar ently from various sources, and which go far to render it a matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie Rog6t 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 favour of this sup position. We shall endeavour to make room for some of these argu ments hereafter." Evening Paper Tuesday, June 31. If "On Monday, one of the bargeman connected with the revenue service, saw an empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargemen 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 2G.** Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them * "N.Y. Express." t "N.Y. Herald." J "N.Y. Courier and Inquirer." "Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence. || "N.Y. Courier and Inquirer." H "N.Y. Evening Post." ** "N.Y, Standard." 232 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. 1 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 un derstand 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 disappear ance of Marie, there is no supposahle 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 indi vidual we are prepared to regard it as a * making up of the old amour, rather than as the commencement of a new one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped with Marie, would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual, should have them made to her by another. And here let me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the first ascer tained, and the second supposed elopement, is a few months more than the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villany by the necessity of depar ture 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 2 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 honour able suitors of Marie. Of none other is there anything 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 Boule 1 Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom at least, most of the relatives know nothing] And what means the singular prophecy of Madame THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 233 Eoget on the morning of Marie s departure 1 I 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 girl ? 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 Lite an hour as three o clock in the afternoon, is known. But in consent ing so to accompany this individual, (for ivJiatever 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 pur suit 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 suspi cion 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, 234 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. calling he will be sure to ascertain that I have played him false a fact of which I might keep him for ever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des 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 2niblic 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 re spect 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 ruf fians, upon the person of a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other unknown ? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to afford it ? Marie, too, was found in the river ; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed. The connexion of the two events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder would have been & failure of the populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if anything, 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 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 23$ 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 pre cisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period of time ! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of coincidence, does the ac cidentally suggested opinion of the populace call upon us to believe 1 ? " 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 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 luas 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 neighbourhood 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 chan nel ; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to redivert this atten tion. 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 Soldi 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, 236 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POM. 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. 7 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 re collections, of two small boys ; for these boys removed the articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party. But grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather (such as was that of the period of the murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the up- springing 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 1 " 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 exceed ingly 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 anything 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 anyone 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 car ousing 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, THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 237 how much more so on the Sabbath ! It is now especially that, released from the claims of labour, 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 de spises, 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 be neath 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 ob server, when I repeat that the circumstance of the articles in ques tion having remained undiscovered, for a longer period than from one Sunday to another, in any thicket in the immediate neighbour hood 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. Col late 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 neighbourhood of the Barriere du Roule as its scene. Now here, of course, the suspicion is not that, in consequence of these communi cations, 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 ivith a back and footstool. And this thicket, so full of a natural art, was in the immediate vicinity, within a few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies about 238 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 1 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 Soldi, 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 arti cles. On the tipper 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 Koget. 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 posi tion 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 scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. 1 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 o/. Here, inadvertently, Le Soleil has employed an exceedingly sus picious phrase. The pieces, as described, do indeed look like strips torn off ; but purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that a piece is * torn off/ from any garment such as is now in question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming entangled in them, tears them rectangularly divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece torn off. I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 239 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, pre senting 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 mur derers 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 head long 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 rtiflians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally base less, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not that the 240 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. matter might not have been as inferred, but that there was no ground for the inference : was there not much for another 1 " Let us reflect now upon the traces of a struggle ; and let me ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang. But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang ] What struggle could have taken place what struggle so violent and so enduring as to have left its traces in all directions between a weak and defenceless girl and the gang of ruffians imagined 1 The silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would have been over, the victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You will here bear in mind that the arguments urged against the thicket as the scene, are applicable, in chief part, only against it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the traces apparent. "And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain at all in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been acciden tally left where found. There was sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse ] and yet a more positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might have been quickly obliterated by decay,) is allowed to lie conspicuously in the scene of the outrage I allude to the handkerchief with the name of the deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident of a gang. We can imagine it only the accident of an individual. Let us see. An individual has committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the departed. He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which the presence of numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing of the corpse. He bears it to the river, but leaves behind him the other evidences of guilt ; for it is difficult, if not impossible to carry all the burden at once, and it will be easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to the water his fears redouble within him. The sounds of life encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies the step of an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 241 Yet, in time, and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the river s brink, and disposes of;his ghastly charge perhaps through the medium of a boat. But now what treasure does tho world hold what threat of vengeance could it hold out which would have power to urge the return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and its blood- chilling recollections 1 He returns not, let the consequences be what they may. He could not return if he would. His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns his back for ever upon those dreadful shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come. " But how with a gang ] Their number would have inspired them with confidence ; if, indeed, confidence is ever wanting in the breast of the arrant blackguard ; and of arrant blackguards alone are the supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind them ; for their number would have enabled them to carry all at once. There would have been no need of return. " Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of the corpse when found, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, wound three times round the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. This was done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to carry the body. But would any number of men have dreamed of resorting to such an expedient 1 To three or four, the limbs of the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the best possible hold. The device is that of a single individual ; and this brings us to the fact that between the thicket and the river, the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden having been dragged along it ! But would a number of men have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have lifted over any fence in an instant 1 Would a number of men have so dragged a corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the dragging 1 "And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel; an observation upon which I have already, in some measure, com mented. A piece, says this journal, of one of the unfortunate 16 242 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. girl s petticoats was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs. " I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never wthout a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I now especially advert. That it was not through want of a hand kerchief for the purpose imagined by Le Commerciel, that this bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief left in the thicket ; and that the object was not * to prevent screams appears, also, from the bandage having been employed in prefer ence to what would so much better have answered the purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in question as * found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot/ These words are sufficiently vague, but differ materially from those of Le Commerciel. The slip was eighteen inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally, And thus rumpled it was dis covered. My inference is this. The solitary murderer, having borne the corpse, for some distance, (whether from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure, too much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burthen the evidence goes to show that it was dragged. With this object in view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck, where the head would prevent it slipping off. And, now the murderer bethought him unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins. He would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been torn off from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the brink of the river. That this bandage/ only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose that this bandage was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity for its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when the handkerchief was no longer attain able that is to say, arising, as we have imagined, after quitting the thicket, (if the thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the river. "But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 243 especially to the presence of a gang, in the vicinity of the thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I doubt if there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the Barriere du Roule at or about the period of this tragedy. But the gang which has drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is the only gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous old lady as having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy, without putting them selves to the trouble of making her payment. Et hinc illce iroe ? " But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc 1 A gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the river as if in great haste. "Now this great haste very possibly seemed greater iiaste in the eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly upon her violated cakes and ale cakes and ale for which she might still have entertained a faint hope of compensa tion. Why, otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she make a point of the haste ? It is no cause for wonder, surely, that even a gang of blackguards should make haste to get home, when a wide river is to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night approaches. " I say approaches ; for the night had not yet arrived. It was | only about dusk that the indecent haste of these * miscreants offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, * heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn. And in what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the evening at which these screams were hear.d ] It was soon after dark, she says. But soon after dark, is at least dark ; and * about dusk is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly clear that the gang quitted the Barriere du Roule prior to the screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have employed them in this conversation with yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken by any of the journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police. 244 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang ; but this one has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward offered, and full pardon to any king s evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a moment, that some member of a gang of low ruffians, or of any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed his accomplices. Each one of a gang so placed is not so much greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be betrayed. That the secret has not been divulged, is the very best of proof that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are known only to one, or two, living human beings, and to God. " Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long analysis. We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in the thicket at the Barriere du Iloule, by a lover, or at least by an intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate is of swarthy com plexion. This complexion, the hitch in the bandage, and the sailor s knot with which the bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased, a gay, but not an abject young girl, designates him as above the grade of the common sailor. Here the well written and urgent communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned by Le Mercurie, tends to blend the idea of this seaman with that of the naval officer who is first known to have led the unfortunate into crime. " And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy ; it was no common swarthiness which constituted the sole point of remem brance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is this man absent 1 Was he murdered by the gang 1 If so, why are there only traces of the assassinated girl ? The scene of the two outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his corpse 1 The assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from making himself known, through dread of being charged with the murder. This consideration might be sup posed to operate upon him. now at this late period since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with Mariebut it would THE M YS TER Y OF MARIE ROGET. 24$ have head no force at the period of the deed. The first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This, policy would have suggested. He had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in an open ferry-boat. The denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole means of relieving himself from suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed. Yet only under such circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the denouncement of the assassins. "And what means are ours of attaining the truth] We shall find these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let us know the full history of the officer, with his present cir cumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period of the murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the various communications sent to the evening paper, in which the object was to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these commu nications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us again com pare these various communications with the known MSS. of the officer. Let us endeavour to ascertain, by repeated questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance and bearing of the man of dark complexion. Queries, skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information on this particular point (or upon others) information which the parties themselves may not even be aware of possessing. And let us now trace the boat picked up by the bargeman on the morning of Monday the 23rd of June, and which was removed from the barge-office," without the cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder, at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat ; for not only can the bargeman who picked it up identify it, but the rudder is at hand. The rudder of a sail-boat would not have been abandoned, without inquiry, by one altogether at ease in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a question. There was no advertisement of the picking up of this 246 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. boat. It was silently taken to the barge-office, and as silently removed. But its owner or employer how happened he, at so early a period as Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine some connection with the navy some personal permanent connection leading to cognizance of its minute interests its petty local news 1 " In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing him self of a boat. Now we are to understand that Marie Roget ivas precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow waters of the shore. The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it before pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to the water, he would unques tionably have noticed his oversight ; but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the city. There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land. But the boat would he have secured it 1 He would have been in too great haste for such things as securing a boat. Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing evidence against himself. His natural thought would have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held connection with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but he would not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies. In the morning, the wretch is stricken with, unutterable horror at finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent. The next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes it. Now where is that rudderless boat ? Let it be one of our first purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to turn who employed THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET. 247 it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced." [For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omit ting, from the MSS. placed in our hands, such portion as details the following up of the apparently slight clew obtained by Dupin. We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the result desired was brought to pass ; and that the Prefect fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe s article concludes with the following words. Edt*] It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more. What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own heart there dwells no faith in proater-nature. That Nature and its God are two, no man who thinks will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is all un questionable. I say " at will ;" for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not that tho Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in the Future. With God all is Now. I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences. And further : in what I relate it will be seen that between the fate of the unhappy Marie Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Roget up to a certain epoch in her history, there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonder ful exactitude the reason becomes embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a moment be supposed that, in proceed ing with the sad narrative of Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its denouement the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar ratiocination, would produce any similar result. For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of events ; very much as, in * Of the Magazine in which the article was originally published. 248 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be inap preciable, produces, at length, by dint of multiplication at all points of the process, a result enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have referred, forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel : forbids it with a positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel has already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the largest odds that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A suggestion to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time that is to say, subject only to the influence of the various other throws which may be made by the dice. And this is a reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert it are received more frequently with a derisive smile than with anything like respectful attention. The error here involved a gross error redolent of mischief I cannot pretend to expose within the limits assigned me at present ; and with the philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail* THE PURLOINED LETTER, "Nil sapientise odiosius acumine nimio." Seneca. |T Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 13 1 1 W as enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book closet, au troisieme, No. 33, Hue Dun6t, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had THE PURLOINED LETTER. 249 maintained a profound silence ; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening ; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Koget. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G , the Prefect of the Parisian police. We gave him a hearty welcome ; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G. s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble. " If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, " we shall examine it to better pur- " That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything " odd" that was beyond his compre hension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of " oddities." " Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, ^ ^ and rolled towards him a comfortable chair. " And what is the difficulty now ?" I asked. " Nothing more in the assassination way I hope V " Oh, no ; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves : but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd" " Simple and odd," said Dupin. " Why, yes ; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether." " Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you ^ at fault," said my friend. " What nonsense you do talk 1" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily. 250 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin. " Oh, good heavens ! who ever heard of such an idea V " A little too self-evident." " Ha ! ha! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ho ! ho ! ho !" roared our visitor, profoundly amused, " oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!" " And what, after all, is the matter on hand 1" I asked. "Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and contemplative pun 7 , and settled himself in his chair. " I will tell you in a few words ; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any one." " Proceed," said I. "Or not," said Dupin. " Well, then ; I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain document of ths last importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known ; this beyond a doubt ; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession." ^ "How is this known V asked Dupin. " It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, " from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber s posses sion ; that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it." " Be a little more explicit," I said. " Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is im mensely valuable. " The Prefect was f ond pl.the_cj^njia^iplomacy. " Still I do notxjuite understand," said Dupin. " No ? Well (the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honour of a per sonage of most exalted station ; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage whose honour and peace are so jeopardized. 7 " But this ascendancy," I interposed, " would depend upon the robber s knowledge of the loser s knowledge of the robber. Who would dare " "The thief," said G., "is the Minister D , who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The THE PURLOINED LETTER. 251 method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The docu ment in question a letter, to be frank had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavour to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unex- posed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister D . His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognises the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow, The Minister de camped, leaving his own letter one of no importance upon the table." " Here, then," said Dupin to me, " you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy complete the robber s know ledge of the loser s knowledge of the robber." At u " Yes," replied the Prefect : " and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly con vinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." " Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, " no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined." " You flatter me," replied the Prefect ; " but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained." " It is clear," said I, " as you observe, that the letter is still in the possession of the Minister ; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs." . 252 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. " True," said G. ; " and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the Minister s hotel ; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design." "But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before." " yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the Minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master s apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D Hotel. My honour is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute nianjthan myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed." " But is it not possible," I suggested, " that although the letter may be in possession of the Minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises V* " This is barely possible," said Dupin. " The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document its susceptibility of being produced at a moment s notice a point of nearly equal importance with its possession." " Its susceptibility of being produced V said I. " That is to say, of being destroyed" said Dupin. " True," I observed; " the paper is clearly then upon the prem ises. As for its being upon the person of the Minister, we may con sider that as out of the question." " Entirely," said the Prefect. " He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own inspection." "You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. THE PURLOINED LETTER. 253 ** D , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course." " Not altogether a fool," said G., " but then he s a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool." " True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his .nieerschaum, " although I have been guilty of certain doggerel my- 7eTP~ " Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search." " Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire build ing, room byjroom ; devoting the nights ofa whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened p.vprypopfii blp rj rawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a secret drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is gojalain. There is a certain amount of bulk of space to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops." "Why so r " Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed-posts are em ployed in the same way." " But could not the cavity be detected by sounding ?" I asked. " By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wad ding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise." " But you could not have removed you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been pos sible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs V " Certainly not ; but we did better we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every descrip- _\ A iT\ V\f0 /m \rA r . . 254 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. tion of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had ^ there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet- dust, for ex ample, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the glueing any unusual gaping in the joints would have sufficed to insure detection." " I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as the curtains and carpets." " That of course ; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before." " The two houses adjoining !" I exclaimed; "you must have had a great deal of trouble." "We had ; but the reward offered is prodigious." " You include the grounds about the houses T " All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us compara tively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed." " You looked among D s papers, of course, and into the books of the library?" " Certainly; we opened every package and parcel ; we not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and ap plied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observa tion. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed longitudinally, with the needles." " You explored the floors beneath the carpets T " Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined tho boards with tlio microscope." " And the paper on the walls ?" "Yes." " You looked into the cellars]" THE PURLOINED LETTER. 255 Wo did." " Then," I said, " you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is wo upon the premises, as you suppose." "I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do T " To make a thorough re-search of the premises." " That is absolutely needless," replied G - . " I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel." " I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. " You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter ? "Oh yes!" And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum- book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said, "Well, but G - , what of the purloined letter*? I presume you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the Minister 1" " Confound him, say I yes ; I made the re-examination, how ever, as Dupin suggested but it was all labour lost, as I knew it would be." " How much was the reward offered, did you say ? " asked Dupin. " Why, a very great deal a very liberal reward I don t like to say how much, precisely ; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn t mind giving niy individual cheque for fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day ; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done." " Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his meerschaum, " I really think, G - , you have not exerted your selfto the utmost in this matter. You mightdo a little more, I think, eh f " How Iin what way 1" 256 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "Why puff, puff you might puff, puff employ counsel in the matter, eh? puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the storj they tell of Abernethy V "No; hang Abernethy !" " To be sure ! hang him and welcome. But once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual. " We will suppose, said the miser, that his symptoms are such and such ; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take V " Take ! said Abernethy, why, take advice, to be sure. " " But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, " I am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter." " In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing ,a cheque-book, " you may as well fill me up a cheque for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter." I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder- stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motion less, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets ; then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a cheque for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket- book ; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the cheque. When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations. " The Parisian police," he said, " are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation so far as his labours extended." THE PURLOINED LETTER. 257 " So far as his labours extended V said I. " Yes," said Dupin. " The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it." I merely laughed but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. "The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, and well executed ; their HfvfW.t lay fa tTi^ir faring- i^^ppl^Klft tn tiifi-jcasej_jyid to the jnajcu, A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand ; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of even and odd attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one ; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing ; and this j lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of 4 his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent.^ and, holding up his closed hand, asks, Are they even or odd V Our schoolboy replies, Odd, and loses ; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself, The simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second ; I will therefore guess odd ; he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus : i 4 This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in ( - the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton ; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a varia tion, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even ; he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed * lucky, what, in its lastjmalysis, is it V " It is merely," I said, " arTldentification of the reasoner s intellect with that of his opponent." " It is," said Dupin ; " and upon inquiring of the boy by what 258 WORKS OP EDGAR ALLAN POE. means lie effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows : * When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or senti ments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression/ This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Eoche- foucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella." "And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner s intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent s intellect is ad measured." "For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin ; " and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default of his identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity ; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the modes in it. They are right in this much that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass : but when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, t.Tift_fft]op"^pf[a th^rr^ ot fif*p This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation oT^prmciple in their investi gations ; at best, when urged by some unusual emergencyby some extraordinary reward they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D -- , has been done to vary the principle of action ? What is all this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed 1 Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter, not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenour of THE PURLOINED LETTER. 259 thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet- hole bored in a chair-leg ? And do you not see also, that such recherches nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects ; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed a disposal of it in this recherche manner, is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed ; and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers ; and where the case is of importance or, what amounts to the same thing in the policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude, the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now under stand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect s examina tion in other words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified ; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets ; this the Prefect feels ; and he is merely guilty of anon dis- tributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are fools." " But is this really the poet V I asked. " There are two brothers, I know ; and both have attained reputation in letters. The Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential Calcu lus. He is a mathematician, and no poet." " You are mistaken ; I know him well ] he is both. As poet and mathematician, he would reason well ; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect." " You surprise me," I said, " by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence." " II y a a parierj " replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, lli que toute idee publique, toute convention regue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre. 1 The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth, With an art worthy a better cause, for i 3 260 V/ORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. example, they have insinuated the term analysis into application to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular de ception ; but if a term is of any importance if words derive any value from applicability then analysis conveys algebra about as much as, in Latin, * ambitus implies ambition, i religio re ligion, or homines honesti, a set of honourable men." " You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, " with some of the algebraists of Paris ; but proceed." " I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathemati cal study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity ; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not anxioms of general truth. What is true of relation si form and quantity is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untnae that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails.-En^jtlie consideration of motive it fails^_or__two motives, each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths* through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applica bility as the world indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned Mythology, mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that * although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities. With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the Pagan fables are believed, and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an unac countable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x*-\-px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x*-\-p is not altogether THE PURLOINED LETTER. 261 equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavour to knock you down, " I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, " that if the MimsterJiaiLkee ntr more than a math rm nti ci nnH^rF Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I knew him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ojrdimyjvjjolicial modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate and events hcWU 1 ploved that he did not fail to anticipate the waylay- ings to which he was subjected. He must have forefjp.fi") T reflp.p.t.p.dj the secret investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G , in fact, did finally ar rive the conviction that the 1 ;tter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable prin ciple of policial action in searches for articles concealed I felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. Lsaw, in fine, that he wonlfl j* Amrv t M ff -mo f for of c.fturfifi, tQ simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter o,f rfrnip.P. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being so very self-evident." " Yes," said I, " I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions." " The material world," continued Dupin, " abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial ; and thus some colour of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, 262 WORKS OF R DGAR ALLAN POE. may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertice, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commen surate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again, have you ever noticed which of the street signs over the shop-doors are the most attractive of attention V 1 " I have never given the matter a thought," I said? "There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word the name of town, river, state or empire any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names ; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvi ous ; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the Minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it. " But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discrimi nating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose ; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary s ordinary search the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedi ent of not attempting to conceal it at all. "Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the 2 HE PURLOINED LETTER. 263 Ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. Pie is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being now alive but that is only when nobody sees him. " To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. " I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion. "At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D , the Minister, himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. " No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appear ance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D cipher ; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S family. Here, the address, to the Minister, was diminutive and feminine ; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided ; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive ; the dirt ; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodi cal habits of D , and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document ; thesa things, together with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this docu- 264 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ment, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accord ance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived ; these things, I say. were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect. " I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I main tained a most animated discussion with the Minister, upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examina tion, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrange ment in the rack ; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery, which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafedih&n seemed necessary. They presented the broken appear ance which is manifested when a stiff paper, havingbeen once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside^ out, re-directed L _and re-sealed. I bade the Minister goodTnorniiig, and toot my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. " The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard imme diately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards exter nals,) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings imitating the D cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread. " The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behaviour of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay." " But what purpose had you," I asked, " in replacing the letter by a fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, *o have seized it openly, and departed V THE PURLOINED LETTER. 265 "D ," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has now him in hers since, being unaware that the letter is not in his posses sion, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni ; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalan! said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy at least no pity for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms * a certain personage, he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack." 4 How 1 did you put any thing particular in it 1" "Why it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank that would have been insulting. D , at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humouredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clew. He is well acquainted with my MS., and_I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words Un dessein si funeste, S il n est digne d Atre, est digne de Thyeste. They are to be found in Crebillon s AtreV" 265 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.< THE BLACK CAT, |OIt 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. J Yet, mad am I not and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terri fiedhave tortured have destroyed mo. 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 phan tasm to the commonplace some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the cir cumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects. From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. /I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for do mestic 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 THE BLACK CAT. 267 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 favourite pet and play mate. 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 instru mentality of the fiend Intemperance had (I blush to confess it) x experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me for what disease is like alcohol ! And at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper. One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him ; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every 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 burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. "When reason returned with the morning when I had slept off the fumes of the night s debauch I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; 268 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN" POE. but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul re mained 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 PERVERSE- NESS. 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 cha racter of man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself com mitting 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 long ing 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 unoffend ing 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. THE BLA CK CA T. 269 I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts, and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire a fact which I attributed to its having been re cently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words " strange !" " singular !" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas-relief upon the white sur face, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal s neck. When I first beheld this apparition for I could scarcely regard it as less my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it. Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat ; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half -sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the less of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I n6w 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 270 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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.f f ^ 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 favourite 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 dis gusted and annoyed me. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature ; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it ; but gradually very gradually I came to look upon it with un utterable 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 dis covery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, how ever, 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 THE BLA CK CAT. 271 which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. When ever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caressesY If I arose to walk it would get between my feet, and thus nearly thrmv me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly let me confess it at once by absolute dread of the beast. This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own yes, even in this felon s cell, I am almost ashamed to own that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my reason struggled to reject as fanciful it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid my self of the monster had 1 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 con temptuously destroyed a brute beast to work out for me for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God so much of insufferable woe ! Alas ! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of rest any more ! During the former the creature left me no moment alone ; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight an incarnate nightmare that 1 had no power to shake off incumbent eternally upon my heart! Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble rem nant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodi- 273 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ness 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 neighbours. 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 into the well in the yard about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrange ments, 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 bricks 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 crowbar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully de- THE SLACK CAT. 2^3 posited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new 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 np with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself " Here at least, then, my labour has not been in vain." -=) 0. \ My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause f 7 ^," 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 forbore to present itself in my present mood. It is im possible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept ; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul ! The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises for ever ! I should behold it no more ! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured. Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrass ment 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 IS 274 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 courtsy. By the by, 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 1 these walls are solidly put together ;" and here, through the mere frenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the 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- Eiend! ^2STo 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 toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb ! THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH. 275 THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, I HE " Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pes tilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator 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 termina tion 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 eccen tric 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 pro visioned. 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 pro vided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisator!, 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 six 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 im perial 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 1 8-2 276 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 colour 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 colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet a deep blood colour. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or can delabrum, 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 pro jected its rays through the tinted glass, and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fan tastic 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 pre- cincts 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 MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, 277 the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their per formance, to harken to the sound ; and thus the \valtzers 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 colours and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, an d his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masque- raders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm much of what has been since seen in " Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these the dreams writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away they have endured but an instant and a light, half-subduecl 278 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more mer rily 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-coloured 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 indi viduals 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 rumour of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disap probation 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-Herocled 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 THE MASQUE OF THE RED D EAT PL 279 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 re^ semble 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 V 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 ; arid, 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 greenthrough 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 2 8o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 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 Avent out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Death held illimitable dominion over all. THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO, |HE thousand injuries of Fortunate I had borne as I best could ; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged ; this was a point 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 THE CA SK OF A M ON TILL AD 0. 281 wont, to smile in his face, and lie did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point this Fortimato 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 adapted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary Fortunate, 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 Fortunate, 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 r said he. " Amontillado 1 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 Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me " Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." " And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own." " Come, let us go." " Whither ] "To your vaults." 282 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " My friend, no ; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi " "I have no engagement ; come." " My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insuffer ably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." " Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amon- tillido ! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home ; they had absconded to make merry in 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 For tunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding stair case, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait. of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," said he. " It is farther on," said I ; " but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "Nitre? he asked, at length. " Nitre," I replied. " How long have you had that cough v> tl Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh !~ ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! ugh 1" 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 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO. 283 is no matter. We will go back ; you will be ill, and I cannot bo responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi " Enough," he said, " the cough is a mere nothing ; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." " True true," I replied ; " and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps." Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. " Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer, tie 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 f " Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good! 1 he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. " The nitre !" I said ; " see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough " It is nothing," he said ; " let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De 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. 2 g 4 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PQE. " You do not comprehend T 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 1 Impossible ! A mason ?" " A mason," I replied. " A sign," he said. " It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire. " You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. u But let us proceed to the Amontillado." " Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circum scribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, en deavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; " herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi " " He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO. 285 his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its sur face 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 im plore 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 un covered 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 dis covered that the intoxication of Fortunate 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 286 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 Fortunate. The voice said " Ha ! ha ! ha ! he ! he ! a very good joke indeedan excel lent 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 1 Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunate and the rest 1 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 aper ture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jing ling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the damp ness of the catacombs. 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 re- qtiiescat / THE OVAL PORTRAIT. 2 S; THE OVAL PORTRAIT, HE chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appenines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tat tered and antique. Its Avails were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room since it was already night to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which en veloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and de scribe them. Long long I readand devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book. But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all un noticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to 2$3 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I rail over in mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought to make sure that my vision had not deceived me to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting. That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissi pate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life. The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favourite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the coun tenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of *& vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such Hea - must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. .fHinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the can delabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow : " She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art ; she, a maiden of rarest beauty, and not THE OVAL PORTRAIT, 289 more lovely than full of glee : all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn : loving and cherishing all things : hating only the Art which was her rival : dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the coun tenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries ; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastlily in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown), took a fervid and burning plea sure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so sur passingly well. But at length, as the labour drew nearer to its con clusion, there were admitted none into the turret ; for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the can vas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brash was given, and then the tint was placed ; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, This is indeed Life itself ! turned suddenly to regard his beloved iSfa was dead /" 2QO WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. THE ASSIGNATION, " 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 Cliichester."] JLL-FATED and mysterious man ! bewildered in the bril liancy of thine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth ! Again in fancy I behold thee ! Once more thy form hath risen before me ! not oh, not as thou art in the cold valley and shadow but as thou shouldst be squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own Venice which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes ! I repeat it as thou shouldst be. There are surely other worlds than this other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into question 1 who blame thee for thy vision ary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting energies ? $ It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di /Sospiri, that I met for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember ah ! how should I forget ? the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the G enius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal. It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet : while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of recovery, and we were conse quently left to the guidance of the current which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel, Like some huge and sable- THE ASSIGN A TION. 291 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 fallen from an upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim ; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure which was to be found, alas ! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones, at the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite the adoration of all Venice the gayest of the gay the most lovely where all were beautiful but still the young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep beneath the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to call upon her name. She stood alone. Her small, bare and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble beneath her, Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delicate form ; but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapour 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 own child? Yon dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber window what, then, could there be in its shadows in its architec ture in its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices that the Marchesa, di Mentoni had not wondered at a thousand times before? Non sense ! who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, 19 2 292 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. and sees in innumerable far off places, the woe which is close at hand 1 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. Stupified 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. 2STo 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 gather ing 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 crim son ; and a slight shudder quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies in the grass. THE ASSIGNATION. 293 Why should that lady blush 1 ? 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 enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason could there have been for her so blush ing 1 for the glance of those wild appealing eyes ? for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom? for the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand 1- -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 bid ding him adieu 1 " 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 recognised, 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 in tense passion when his frame actually expanded and belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant jet and a profusion of curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at intervals all light arid ivory his were features than which I have 294 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PO&. seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was, never theless, one of those which all men have seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no pecu liar 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 accord ingly 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 splen dour 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 cen- THE ASSIGNATION. 295 sers, 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 Chili gold. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed the proprietor, motion ing 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 archi tecture and upholstery ! absolutely drunk, eh, with my magnifi cence 1 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 Absurdi ties 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 AASM. They are undoubtedly part of TEAASMA. Now, at Sparta, were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand different divini ties. 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 profana tion. With one exception, you are the only human being besides 96 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. myself and my valet, who lias 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 splendour and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, prevented me from express ing, in words, my appreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment. " Here," he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he saun tered around the apartment, " here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see, with little deference to the opinions of virtu. They are all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, are some chef- d ceuvres 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 dellaPietaf " It is Guide s own !" I said, with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. " It is Guide s own ! how could you have obtained it ? she is un doubtedly 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 1 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 1 ottimo artista alcmi concetto Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva. " It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bear ing 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 demeanour of my acquaint- THE ASSIGN A TTO.V. 297 ance, 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 interweav ing 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 trepi dation 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 com mencement 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 imagi nation alone. It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent ab straction, 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 pas sage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third act a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement a pas sage 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 ! 298 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward!" but o er the Past (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies, Mute motionless aghast ! For alas ! alas ! with me The light of life is o er. " No more no more no more," (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore, ) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar ! Now all my hours are trances ; And all my nightly dreams Are where the dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams, In what ethereal dances, By what Italian streams. Alas ! for that accursed time They bore thee o er the billow, From Love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow ! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow ! 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 lie took in concealing them from observation, to be astonished at aay similar discovery ; but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally written London, and after wards carefully overscored not, however, so effectually as to con ceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me no little amazement ; for I well remember that, in a former con versation with my friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard, (without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak was not only by birth, but in educa tion, an Englishman. * o THE ASSIGNA TION. 299 " 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 rue 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 (incom prehensible 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 discern ible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle and en shrine 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 1 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 fan tastically 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 1 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 1 You behold 300 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 vi sions 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, up wards, 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 antici pate 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 endeavoured 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 towards the table my hand fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet and a conciousness of the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul. THE TELL TALE HEART, RUE ! nervous very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am ; but why mil you say that I am mad ? The v diseasehad sharpened my senses not destroyed not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in THE TELL TALE HEART. 301 hell. How, then, am I mad ] Hearken ! and observe how healthily how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain ; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. L Object there was none. ^Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold had no desire. I think it was his eye ! yes, it was this ! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture a pale blue eye, with a film over it. "^Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold ; and so by degrees very gradually I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded with what caution with what foresight with what dissimulation I went to work ! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before 1 killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently ! And then when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in ! I moved it slowly very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this"? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously oh, so cautiously cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights every night j ast at midnight but I found the eye always closed ; and so it was impossible to do the work ; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye^ And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of 302 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. my own powers of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feel ings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea ; and perhaps he heard me ; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out" Who s there V I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening ; just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death-watches in the wall. ^ Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief oh, no ! it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, " it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions : but he had found all in vain. All in vain ; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the vic tim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. THE TELL TALE HEART. 303 It was open wide, wide open and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones ; but I could see nothing else of the old man s face or person : for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness v- is but over acuteness of the senses 1 now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart in creased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man s terror must have been extreme ! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment ! do you mark me well ] I have told you that I am nervous : so I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer, I refrained and stood still. But the beat ing grew louder, louder ! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me the sound would be heard by a neigh bour ! The old man s hour had come ! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me ; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I de scribe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber 304 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye not even his could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out no stain of any kind no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all ha ! ha ! When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o clock still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, for what had I now to fear ? There entered three men, who introduced themselves with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused ; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled for what had I to fear 1 ? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I men tioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ring ing in my ears : but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : it continued and became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling : but it continued and gained definitiveness-- until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale ; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased and what could I do *? It was a low, dull, quick sound much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone 1 I paced THE TELL-TALE HEART. 305 the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men but the noise steadily increased. Oh God ! what could I do ? I foamed I raved I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder louder louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not ? Almighty God ! no, no ! They heard ! they suspected ! they knew /they were making a mockery of my horror ! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony ! Anything was more tolerable than this derision ! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer ! I felt that I must scream or die ! and now again ! hark ! louder ! louder ! louder ! louder / " Villains !" I shrieked, " dissemble no more ! I admit the deed ! tear up the planks! here, here ! it is the beating of his hideous heart!" WILLIAM WILSON. " What say of it ? what say, CONSCIENCE grim, That spectre in my path ?" Chamberlain s Pharronida. ET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn for the horror for the detestation of my race To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy 1 Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! to the earth art thou not for ever dead? to its honours to its flowers, to its golden aspirations 1 and a cloud, dense dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven 1 I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This epoch these later years took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign, Men usually grow base by degrees. From me in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance what one event 20 3 o6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. brought tliis evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches ; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy I had nearly said for the pity of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis si fatality amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow what they cannot refrain from allowing that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least tempted before certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered ? Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all sublunary visions *? I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully in herited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed ; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, .and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with constitu tional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward, my voice was a household law ; and at an age when few children have aban doned their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions. My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep. WILLIAM WILSON: 307 It gives me, perhaps as much, of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am misery, alas ! only too real I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember. The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like rampart formed the_limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighbouring fields and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian Laws of the academy 1 ? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution ! At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire ! It was never opened save for the three periodical egres sions and ingressions already mentioned ; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation. The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest constituted , the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor any thing similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the house. In front lay 202 3oS WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN PO&. a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs ; but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed- such as a first advent to school or final departure thence, or perhaps when a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holydays. But the house ! how quaint an old building was this ! to me how veritably a palace of enchantment ! There was really no end to its windings to its incomprehensible sub-divisions. It was difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable incon ceivable and so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain with precision in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. The school-room was the largest in the house I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, " during hours," of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the " Dominie," we would all have willingly perished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles were two similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the " classical "usher, bne of the " English and mathematical." Inter* spersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregu larity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions at the other. Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external WILLIAM WILSON. 309 world of incident to occupy or amuse it ; and the apparently dis mal monotony of a school was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first mental development had in it much of the uncommon even much of the outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow a weak and irregular remembrance an indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as th^ exergues of the Carthagenian medals. Yet in fact in the fact of the world s view how little was there to remember ! The morning s awakening, the nightly summons to bed ; the connings, the recitations ; the periodical half -holidays, and perambulations ; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues ; these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring. " Oh, le Ion temps, que ce siecle defer /" In truth, the ardour, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow but natural gradations gave me an ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself ; over all with a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and surname as myself ; a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable ; for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those every day appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this nar rative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson, a fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school-phraseology constituted "our set," pre sumed to compete with me in the studies of the class in the sports and broils of the play-ground to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and submission to my will indeed, to interfere with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master-mind in boyhood over the less energetic spirits of its companions. 310 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Wilson s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrass ment ; the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority even this equality was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself ; our associates, by some unaccountable blind- / ness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been supposed actuated solely by a v whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself ; although there were times when I could not help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inap propriate, and assuredly most unwelcome q/ection.ateness of manner. I could only conceive this singular behaviour to arise from a con summate self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and protection. Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson s conduct, conjoined with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that Wilson was not in the most remote degree connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins ; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby s, I casually learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January, 1813 and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence : for the day is precisely that of my own nativity. It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occa sioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether.- We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it - 3 yet a sense of WILLIAM WILSON. 31? pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon what are called "speaking terms," while there v.pre many points of strong congeniality ih our tempers, operating to awake in me a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, pre vented from ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture ; some potnlnnt animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more res; ; -r, much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable of companions. It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which turned all my attacks upon him (and they were many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and determined hostility. But my endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even when my plans were the most wittily concocted ; for my namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit s end than my self ; my rival had a weakness in the f aucial or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power. Wilson s retaliations in kind were many ; and there was one form of his practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a question I never could solve ; but having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if, not plebeian praenomen. The words were venom in my ears ; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school 312 WURKS Of EDGAR ALLAN POE. business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable coincidence, be often confounded with my own. The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the remarkable fact that we were of the same age ; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I perceived that we were even singu larly alike in general contour of person and outline of feature. I was galled, too, by the rumour touching relationship, which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing could more seriously disturb me, (although 1 scrupulously concealed such disturbance), than any allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, or even observed at all by our school fellows. That he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent ; but that he could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetration. His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in actions ; and most admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an easy matter to copy ; my gait and general manner were, without difficulty, appropriated ; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was identical; and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a caricature,) I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation in the fact that the imita tion, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregarded of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours might have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily perceptible ; or, WILLIAM WILSON. 313 more possibly, I owed my security to the masterly air of the copy ist, who, disdaining the letter, (which in a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin. I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent offici ous interference with my will. This interference often took the ungracious character of advice advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience ; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own ; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised. As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his dis tasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of our connection as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily ripened into friendship ; but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the intru sion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me. It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than usu ally thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanour rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy wild, con fused and thronging memories of a time when memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me, than by saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago some point of the past even infinitely 314 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came ; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular namesake. The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure ; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as dormitories ; although, being the merest closets, they were capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these small apartments was occupied by Wilson. One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and im mediately after the altercation just mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been so uni formly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tran quil breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon his countenance. I looked ; and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became pos sessed with an objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were these these the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague, in fancying they were not. What ivas there about them to confound me in this manner 1 I gazed ; while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he appeared assuredly not thus in the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name ! the same contour of person ! the same day of arrival at the academy ! And they Ms clogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, WILLIAM WILSON. 315 my habits, and my manner ! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that ivhat I noiv saiv was the result, merely, of the habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation 1 Awe stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again. After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been suf ficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby s, or at least to effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth the tragedy of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses, and seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at the extent of human credulity, and a smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by the charac ter of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, ingulfed at once every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence. I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profli gacy here a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous seductions ; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the east, while our delirious extravagance was at its height . Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apart ment, and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall. Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather 3 i6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this low and small room there hung no lamp ; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me to perceive ; but the features of his face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering, he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by the arm with a gesture of petulant im patience, whispered the words " William Wilson !" in my ear. I grew perfectly sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremu lous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement ; but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance ; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses he was gone. Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disor dered imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest enquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular individual who thus perse- veringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson? and whence came he 1 and what were his purposes ? Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied merely ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby s academy on the afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon the subject, my attention being all absorbed in a contemplated de parture for Oxford. Thither I soon went, the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and annual establish ment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart to vie in profuseness of expenditure WILLIAM WILSON. 317 with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain. Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional tempera ment broke forth with redoubled ardour, and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief appen dix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe. It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already enormous income at the ex pense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and honourable sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main, if not the sole reason, of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson the noblest and most liberal commoner at Ox ford him whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy whose errors but inimitable whim whose darkest vice but a careless and clashing extravagance 1 I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a young parvenu nobleman, Glendin- ning rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus his riches, too, as easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler s usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him justice, entertained not even a re mote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better colouring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear 318 WORKS OF* EDGAR ALLAN POE. accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon similar occasions, that it is a just matter for wonder how any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim. We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected -the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favourite tcarte. The rest of the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. The parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating he proposed to double our already extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave a colour of pique to my compliance, did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was in my toils : in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine ; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say, to my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy ; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although in them selves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most readily presented itself ; and, rather with a view to the preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from any less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under cir cumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend. What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed WILLIAM WILSON 1 . 31$ gloom over all ; and, for some moments, a profound silence was maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that an in tolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing im petuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total ; and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder. " Gentlemen," he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgot ten whisper which thrilled to the very marrow of my bones, "Gen tlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour, because in thus behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who has to-night won at ecarte a large sum of money from Lord Glen dinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information. Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat capa cious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper." While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I shall I describe my sensations 1 Must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned 1 Most assuredly I had little time for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately re-procured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the court cards essential in ecarte, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, fac-similes of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of the species called, techni cally, arrondees; the honours being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the pack, will inva riably find that he cuts his antagonist an honour ; wliile the gambler, 320 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. cutting at the breadth will, as certainly, cut nothing i or his victim which may count in the records of the game. Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was received. " Mr. Wilson," said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, " Mr. Wilson, this is your property." (The weather was cold ; and, upon quit ting my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off on reaching the scene of play.) " I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with a bitter smile) for any further evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers." Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling language by immediate per sonal violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description of fur ; how rare, how ex travagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of my own fantastic invention ; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and near the folding- doors of the apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular. The singular being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak ; and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party, with the exception of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston ; placed it, unnoticed, over my own ; left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance ; and, next morning ere dawn of day, commenced a hurried journey from Ox ford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame. I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris, ere I had fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in WILLIAM WILSON. 32! my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief. Villain ! at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an officious- ness, stepped he in between me and my ambition ! At Vienna, too at Berlin and at Moscow ! Where in truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a pestilence ; and to the very ends of the earth 1 fled in vain. And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions, " Who is he 1 whence came he ? and what are his objects 1" But no answer was there found. And now I scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a con jecture. It was noticeable, indeed, that in no one of the multiplied instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so im periously assumed ! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self- agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied ! I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous dex terity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton in the destroyer of my honour at Ox ford, in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, I could fail to recognise the William Wilson of my school-boy days, the namesake, the companion, the rival, the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby s 1 Impossible ! But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama. Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domina tion, The sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omni presence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and assump- 21 322 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. tions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with ail idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine ; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to murmur, to hesitate, to resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to belie ^e that, with the increase of my own firmness, that of my tor mentor underwent a proportional diminution 1 Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate reso lution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved. It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18 , that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I liad indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine- table ; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too. of forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper ; for I was anxiously seeking (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence. At this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable whisper within my ear. In an absolute frenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own ; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his face. " Scoundrel !" I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury ; " scoundrel ! impostor ! accursed villain ! you shall not you shall not dog me unto death ! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand !" and I broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber ad joining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went. Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered WILLIAM WILSON. 323 against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and com manded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant ; then, with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence. The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with bruto ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom. At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view 1 The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, so at first it seemed to me in my confusion now stood where none had been perceptible before ; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait. Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist it was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his dis solution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own f It was Wilson ; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said : " You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforiuard art thou also dead dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope I In me didst, thou exist and, in my death, see by this image, ivhich is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thysel/C 212 324 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. BERENICE, " Dicelbant milii sodales, si sepulchrum arnicas visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore^evatas." Ebn Zaiat. : ISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multi form. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Over-reaching the wide horizon as the rainbow ! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of \mloveliness? from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow 1 ? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been. My baptismal name is Egseus ; that of my family I will not mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more tune-honoured than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries ; and in many striking particulars in the character of the family mansion in the frescoes of the chief saloon in the tapestries of the dormitories in the chiselling of some but tresses in the armoury but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings in the fashion of the library chamber and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library s contents there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief. The recollection of my earliest years are connected with that chamber, and with its volumes of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Here was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it ? let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms of spiritual and meaning eyes of sounds, musical yet sad ; a remembrance which will not be excluded ; a memory like a shadow vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the sunlight of my reason shall exist. In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy land into a palace of imagination into the wild BERENICE. 325 dominions of monastic thought and erudition it is not singular that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye that I loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in revery ; but it is singular, that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers it is wonderful that stagnation there fell upon the springs of my life wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, not the material of my every-day existence, but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself. # * * * * -3C- * * Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls. Yet differently we grew I, ill of health, and buried in gloom she, agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy ; hers, the ramble on the hill-side mine, the studies of the cloister ; I, living within my own heart, and addicted, body and soul, to the most intense and painful meditation she, roaming carelessly through life, with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice ! I call upon her name ! Berenice ! and from the gray ruins of memory a thou sand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound ! Ah, vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy ! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic beauty ! Oh, sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim ! Oh, Naiad among its fountains ! And then then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told. Disease a fatal disease, fell like the simoom upon her frame ; and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible, dis turbing even the identity of her person ! Alas ! the destroyer came and went! and the victim where is she? I knew her not or knew her no longer as Berenice 1^^ Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be men tioned as the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in trance itself trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was, in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In 3 25 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the meantime, my own disease for I have been told that I should call it by no other appellation my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form hourly and momently gaining vigour and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible ascend ancy. This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in metaphysical science termed the attentive. It is more than probable that I am not under stood ; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe. To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to some frivolous device on the margin or in the typography of a book ; to become absorbed, for the better part of a summer s day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the floor ; to lose myself, for an entire night, in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire ; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower ; to repeat, monotonously, some com mon word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind ; to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily qui escence long and obstinately persevered in : such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation. Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivol ous, must not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually not frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day-dream often replete with luxury, he finds the incitamentiwi, or first cause of his musings, entirely BERENICE. 327 vanished and forgotten. In my case, the primary object was inva riably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. Few de ductions, if any, were made ; and those few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were never pleasurable ; and, at the termination of the revery, the first cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernatu- rally exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, the attentive^ and are, with the day-dreamer, the speculative. My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imagi native and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian, Ccelius Secundus Curio, J)e Amplitudine Beati liegni Dei ;" St. Austin s great work, " The City of God ;" and Tertullian s " De Game Christi? in which the paradoxical sentence, " Mortuus est Deifilius; credibile est quia ineptum est ; etsrpultus resurrexit ; cerium est quia impossibile est," occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation. Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the moral con dition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail to ponder, frequently and bitterly, upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections par took not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling changes wrought_in the physical 328 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. frame of Berenice in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity. ^I)uring the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind. Through the gray of the early morning among the trellised shadows of the forest at noon-day and in the silence of my library at night she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her not as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream ; not as a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being ; not as a thing to admire, but to analyze ; not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And noiv now I shud dered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach ; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage. And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the winter of the year one of those unsea sonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon,* I sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But, uplifting my eyes, I saw that Berenice stood before me. Was it jny own excited imagination or the misty influence of the atmosphere or the uncertain twilight of the chamber or the gray draperies which fell around her figure that caused in it so vacillating and indistinct an outline 1 I could.not tell. She spoke no word ; and I not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame ; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me ; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul ; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her person. Alas ! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon the face. The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the * "For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Haley on, "Simonides, BERENICE. ^329 hollow temples with innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid yellow, and jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly pupilless, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted ; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or that, having done so, I had died ! The shutting of a door disturbed me, and looking up, I found that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain had not, alas ! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a speck on their surface not a shade on their enamel not an indenture in their edges but what that brief period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them noio even more unequivocally than I beheld them then. The teeth ! the teeth! they were here, and there, and everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me ; long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my monomania, and I struggled in vain against its strange and irre sistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a frenzied desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They they alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their peculiarities. I pondered upon their conforma tion. I mused upon the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them, in imagination, a sensitive and sentient power, and, even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mademoiselle Salle it has been well said, " Que tons ses pas etaient des sentiments? and of Berenice I more seriously believed que tons ses dents etaient des idees. Des idees ! ah, here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me ! Des idees /ah, therefore it was that I coveted them so madly ! I felt that their 330 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0< possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason. Arid the evening closed in upon me thus and then the dark ness came, and tarried, and went and the day again dawned and the mists of a second night were now gathering around and still I sat motionless in that solitary room and still I sat buried in meditation and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid and hideous distinct ness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow or pain. I arose from my seat, and throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was no more ! She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed. ***** ** I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware that, since the setting of the sun, Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive, at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory w r as replete with horror horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record of my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decipher them, but in vain ; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed what was it ? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered me," What was it ?" On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a lithe box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it fre quently before, for it was the property of the family physician ; but how came it there, upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it 1 These things were in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and BERENICE. 331 to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat : Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicce visitarem, cur as meas aliquantulum fore levatas" Why, then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become con gealed within my veins ? There came a light tap at the library door and, pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said he ? some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night of the gathering together of the household of a search in the direction of the sound ; and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave of a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing still palpitating still alive ! He pointed to my garments ; they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand : it was in dented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall. I looked at it for some minutes : it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open ; and, in my tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces ; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two small, white, and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor. ELEONORA, " Sub conservatione formse specificse salva anima." Raymond Lully. AM come of a race noted for vigour of fancy and ardour of passion. Men have called me mad ; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence whether much that is glorious whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought from mooch of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those 332 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the " light ineffable ;" and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, " agressi sunt mare tenebrarwn, quid in eo esset easploraturi." We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recol lection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe ; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due ; or doubt it altogether ; or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the (Edipus. She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly these remembrances, was. the sole daughter of the only sjster of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always dwelt together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass. No unguided footstep ever came upon that vale, for it lay far away up among a range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the sun light from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its vicinity ; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley, I, and my cousin, and her mother. From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora ; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the " River of Silence ;" for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but ELEONORA. 333 lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously for ever. The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom, these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so be sprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding- beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones of the love and of the glory of God. And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully towards the light that peered at noon-day into the centre of the valley. Their bark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendour of ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora ; so that but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying with the zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun. Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora before love entered within our hearts. It was one even ing at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other s embrace, benea.h the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the waters of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day ; and our words even upon the morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the god Eros from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass. A change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out upon the trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened ; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them ten 334 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths ; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of ^Eolus sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shut ting us up, as if for ever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory. The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim ; but she was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised the fervour of love which animated her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass, and discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place therein. At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Shiraz, the same images are found oc curring again and again, in every impressive variation of phrase. She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die ; but the terrors of the grave to her, lay solely in a considera tion which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass, I would quit for ever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and every day world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth that I would in no manner prove recreant to her deai* memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I E LEO NOR A. 33$ invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion, should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words ; and she sighed as if a deadly burden had been taken from her breast ; and she trembled and very bitterly wept ; but she made acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days after wards, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit, she would watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her, return to me visibly in the watches of the night ; but if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence ; sighing upon me in the even ing winds, or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own. Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Time s path formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let me on. Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I dwelt within the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass ; but a second change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank jito the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the green carpet faded ; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels withered away ; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever encum bered with dew. And life departed from our paths; for the tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain, and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of ^Eolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by little away, in mur murs growing lower and lower, until the stream returned, at length, utterly into the solemnity of its original silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning the tops of the V6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass. Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten ; for I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels ; and streams of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley ; and at lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs ; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air; and once oh, but once only ! I was awakened from a slumber like the slumber of death, by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own. But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world. ****** # * I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangour of arms, and the radiant loveliness of woman, bewildered and intoxi cated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly, these manifesta tions ceased ; and the world grew dark before mine eyes ; and I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed at the terrible temptations which beset me ; for there came from some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What indeed was my passion for the young girl of the valley in comparison with the fervour, and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde ? Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde ! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde ! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them and of her. ELEONORA. 337 I wedded ; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked ; and its bitter ness was not visited upon me. And once but once again in the silence of the night, there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me ; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying "Sleep in peace ! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven^ of thy vows unto Eleonora," LIGEIA, "And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigour ? For God is but a great will per vading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." Joseph Glanvill. CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even pre cisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia, Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid caste of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive, that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family I have surely heard her speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date can not be doubted. Ligeia ! Ligeia ! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone by Ligeia that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never knoivn the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia 1 or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice 22 338 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. of my own a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion 1 I but indistinctly recall the fact itself what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it ] And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance if ever she, the wan and the misty- winged Ashiophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine. Tiiore is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanour, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of an opium- dream an airy and spirit-lifting vision wil lly divine than the fantasies wMch hovered about the slumbering suuls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not 01 that, regular mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labours of the heathen. " There is no exquisite beauty," says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, " without some strangeness in the proportion." Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity although I perceived that her loveliness was indeed " exquisite," and felt that there was much of " strangeness " pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of " the strange." I examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead it was faultless how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine ! the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the com manding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples ; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, " hyacinthine !" I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose and nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same scarcely per ceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. LIGEIA, 339 Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly the magnifi cent turn of the short upper lip the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under the dimples which sported, and the colour which spoke the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the forma tion of the chin and here, too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fulness and the spirituality, of the Greek the contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia. For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have been, too, that in these eyes of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes. They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes of our own race. They were even fuller than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals in moments of intense excitement that this peculiarity became more than slightly notice able in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps the beauty of beings either above or apart from the earth the beauty of the fabulous HoXiri of the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint. The " strangeness," however, which I found in the eyes, was of a nature distinct from the formation, or the colour, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to the expression. Ah, word of no meaning ! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual. The expression of the eyes of Ligeia ! How for long hours have I pondered upon it ! How have I, through the whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it ! What was it that something more profound than the well of Democritus which lay far within the pupils of my be loved] what ivas it *? I was possessed with a passion to discover. Those eyes, those large, those shining, those divine orbs 1 they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devout ost of astrologers. There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact never, I believe noticed in the schools that in our endeavours to 222 340 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge of their expression felt it approaching yet not quite be mine and so at length entirely depart ! And (strange, oh strangest mystery of all !) I found in the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression. I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia s beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always around, within me, by her large and luminous orbs. Yet not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I recognised it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly- growing vine in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a, chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have felt it in the ocean ; in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people. And there are one or two stars in heaven, (one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra,) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feeling. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books. Among innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph Glanvil, which (per haps merely from its quaintness who shall say 1} never failed to inspire me with the sentiment : " And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigour 1 ? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." Length of years and subsequent reflection have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a re sult, or at least an index, of- that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the LIGEIA. 34! miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered. I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia : it was immense such as I have never known in woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, because simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault 1 How singularly how thril- lingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period only, upon my attention ! I said her knowledge was such as I have never known in woman but where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science 1 I saw not then what I. now clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding ; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a child-like confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was most busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage. With, how vast a triumph with how vivid a delight with how much of all that is ethereal in hope did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought but less known that delicious vista by slow degree* expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, . and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden ! How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and fly away ! Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed. Wanting the radiant lustre of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too too glorious effulgence ; the pale fingers became of the trans- 342 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. parent waxen line of the grave ; and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that she must die and I struggled despe rately in spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic than my own. There had been much in her stern nature to im press me with the belief that, to her, death would have come without its terrors ; but not so. Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have soothed I would have reasoned ; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life for life but for life solace and reason were alike the uttermost of folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her demeanour. Her voice grew more gentle grew more low yet I would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened, entranced, to a melody more than mortal to assump tions and aspirations which mortality had never before known. That she loved me I should not have doubted ; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions ? how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of her making them 1 But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in Ligeia s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas ! all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the principle of her Ion "ing, with so wildly earnest a desire, for the life which was now fleeing so rapidly away. It is this wild longing it is this eager vehemence of desire for life but for life that I have no power to portray no utterance capable of expressing. At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me, peremptorily, to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses composed by herself not many days before. I obeyed her. They were these : LI G ETA. 343 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 returneth 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 lhat writhes from out The scenic solitude ! It writhes ! it writhes ! with mortal pam: 3 The mimes become its food, And the 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 And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Mail," And its hero, the Conqueror Worm, " O God ! " half-shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending her arms aloft with a spasmodic movement, as I made an end of these lines" O God ! Divine Father ! shall these things be undeviatingly so ] shall this conqueror be not once conquered 1 A re we not part and parcel in Thee 1 ? Who who knoweth the mysteries of the will with its vigour ] Man doth not yield him .544 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms to fall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death. And as she breathed her last sighs, there came mingled with them a low murmur from her lips. I bent to them my ear, and distinguished again, the concluding words of the passage in Glanvil : " Mem doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly^ save only through the weakness of his feeble will." She died : and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no longer endure the lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decaying city by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls wealth. Ligeia had brought me far more, very far more than ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. After a few months, there fore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and put in some repair, an abbey, which I shal] not name, in one of the wildest and least frequented portions of fair England. The gloomy and dreary grandeur of the building, the almost savage aspect of the domain, the many melancholy and time-honoured memories con nected with both, had much in unison with the feelings of utter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and unsocial region of the country. Yet although the external abbey, with its verdant decay hanging about it, suffered but little alteration, 1 gave way, with a child-like perversity, and perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence within. For such follies, even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste, and now they came back to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of incipient madness might have been discovered in the gorgeous and fantastic draperies, in the solemn carvings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the carpets of tufted gold 1 1 had become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and my labours and my orders had taken a colouring from my dreams. But these absurdi ties 1 must not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that one chamber, ever accursed, whither in a moment of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my bride as the successor of the unf orgotten Ligeia the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Eowena Trevanion, of Tremaine. There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration of that bridal chamber which is not now visibly before me. Where LIGEIA. 345 Were the souls of the haughty family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the threshold of an apartment 50 bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so beloved ] I have said, that I minutely remember the details of the chamber yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment ; and here there was no system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the memory. The room lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of capacious size. Occupying the whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole window an im mense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the sun or moon passing through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects within. Over the upper portion of this huge window extended the trellis- work of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret. The ceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted with the wildest and most gro tesque specimens of a semi-Gothic, semi-Druidical device. From out the most central recess of this melancholy vaulting, depended, by a single chain of gold with long links, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and with many perforations so con trived that there writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a serpent vitality, a continual succession of parti-coloured fires. Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were in various stations about ; and there was the couch, too the bridal couch of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy above. In each of the angles of the chamber stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in the draping of the apartment lay, alas ! the chief fantasy of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in height even unproportionably so were hung from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy and massive-looking tapestry tapestry of a material which was found alike as a carpet on the floor, as a cover ing for the ottomans and the ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of the curtains which partially shaded the window. The material was the richest cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with arabesque figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the most jetty black. But these figures partook of the true character of the arabesque only when regarded from a single point of view. OF XVGAK AILAX Fiy a r.uiti- u . . inmon, and indeed traceable to a very :u it LI in ry, they were made changeable in aspect. l\. ,.it. mi c- 1 1 tig the room, they bore the appearance of aimple i. -a ; but upon a farther advance, this appearance gradu- 1 ; and, step by step, as the visitor moved hia station m ( !., (d nnher, he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession 1-t i lu : .: h.istjy forma which belong to the buperatition of the Norman, t - in the guilty slumbers of the monk. The phantasmagoric \\ as vastly heightened by the artificial introduction of a strong r Minimal current of wind behind the draperies giving a hideous an. I uiu-.-r \ animation to the ;-..:. I it I nils such aa these in a bridal chamber such aa this -I passed, with the Lady of Tmnaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of our marriage passed them with but little disquietude. That my wife dreaded the fierce moodineaa of my temper that ahe nlmnmul me, and loved me but little I could not help perceiving ; <ave me rather pleasure than otherwise, I loathed her with longing more to demon than to man. My memory flew v oh, with what intensity of regret!) to kigeia, the beloved, \ he beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in recollectiona of her purity, of her wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of >te, her idolatrous love, Xow, then, did my spirit fully <uul iuvl\ luru with more than all the mvs of her own. In the u i>t of my opium dreams, (for I was habitually fettered in \cklea of the drug,) I would call aloud upon her name, during the silence of the night, or among the sheltered rticesaea of the glena by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn jvasaion, the consuming ardour of my longing for the departed, i could restore her to the pathway ahe had abandoned ah, wM it be for ever I v i he earth, \ .nmenoement of the second month of the marria#\ i ; \\ as attacked with sudden illne**, from which htn \v. The fever which consumed her rendered her and in her perturbed &tate of half slumber, she and of motion*, in and about the chamber of the turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the tlistemper of her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric influence* of the chamber itaelf, &he became at length convalescent finally, >vell Yet but a brief period elapsed ert a second more violent dUoixler a^ain threw he* upon a bed of iuflering ; and fixxm thia attack hev , At Oil linn* f< : U-t ,. ..ih, II,.:- , , . , i )ti< "< i ...... u.i^t. <(! i Wiii.ii.. m.ctuijK) of tin <?hrimi4 1u- IIA/I tliu*, A|)Amntly, tftlwn too SUM Iiol4 upon Inr <wi*i-<" be* cwiritaAttf l by IHIHIAII nnAn<*, I oouUl not fail to otaurvd ; Jni t tfAW* III tin IWVOtW imtfltlon Of ln f t<;ni|U>|<Dlt -|)t 4 41)4 *)M;)t Ability by i . .- . .1 t>Ati<ti<i of ( " : -i. i &g*UH 4 <*>> )0r* fV4i|U4Mtly AM1 y^tJHA^IiHWlyi <>f tin fitOUM U Of II,. .-... i.- .. -.-I of tin 1.1. .. -I . i ....;.-,,.. AMIOM^ tin (o^^ti)^ to svlu h :" - : " <! l^OI) l Mli^ lm<1 jtittt . .-., , -i tr. .,, AH . .-. i lumW, *n4 I i WAt<;h)i)^ vyjtl* f*--dlUii/* Iwlf of AH^M/^ lUf of VAgm WOt jiMJipl Of l^r ctlHAA-lAtcii i-oiihtt it<M" ) ::> I V H,t , u|)oii om of tin ottoHiAiiat of l4><i. Hln ) hi AH wU llOat low W||)<IM*| | Of HMl4o Wll) ! > /.- wli*;li I t?oul4 not IKW^ of motion** wlii<?li f*)n // - I W not ^wJv* Tin wi4 WA<* rw4iiMt{ li" tin t<i|M^ti^ Aii4 i wi#ln4 to dliow Inr (wlmt, Ut im ii,, I *;otil4 not /// l^lioyc) ilxit UIM Alinoot iMWdMilota Ai4 tl*teM v^ry ijoittl^ VAiiutioim of tin f)gu. hilt tin HAtuml i JU- i? of that f:ifeloniA-y >u.- w, liAi rov< i i nn tliAt my ..,,,.,.> .< <A<UIM Ini woiil4 IM fAintii% A>4 i , < 1 AIM! li<^ it. I Jut, A* I fric : ; -i ; < ,., ..i i. tin li^lit of tin < two 4i|t;uilltA||jt^ of A :..< ...;. ..- u, c ( ,n , ;,, I ( .1 , -, ..? ! <,.!.... I !..<) f<. ii 1 1, ..i. .-.,<,, j,;,i t ,.,t/!t (tiLiiKUi/h inv){H)|(i >i/)t (, |)4>4 )){xlitly by niy p^i^in j Aii4 I AW tliAt tlm^ Uy unon tin . IK i. ( in tin vc i y < i.i i< of tin i, i . .>i r tlirown flow tin of Ang4ln Atiu^t J,c f ;,,,...! J. , I | 4 t fr|*itl/W Of Of A <I|A<1^ Hilt I W. tin t^^iunnni of A Mnni44dftit4 4.^< of OM)MIN -! iin^ but little, nor nofc* of tlnni to MOW^MA. l< *t- win^t I I * - lHoi/t> ( <*4 uom44 out A . I ).< i-1 to > ^in li<> ^ 348 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. partially recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sank upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person. It was then that I became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon the carpet, and near the couch ; and in a second thereafter, as Rowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby-coloured fluid. If this I saw not so Rowena. She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I forbore to speak to her of a circumstance which must, after all, I considered, have been but the suggestion of a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by the opium, and by the hour. Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immedi ately subsequent to the fall of the ruby- drops, a rapid change for the worse took place in the disorder of my wife ; so that, on the third subsequent night, the hands of her menials prepared her for the tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which had received her as iny bride. Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, before me. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room, upon the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the parti-coloured fires in the censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former night, to the spot boneath the glare of the censer where I had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, however, no longer ; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Then rushed upon me a thousand memories of Ligeia and then came back upon my heart, with the turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of that unutterable woe with which I had regarded her thus enshrouded. The night waned ; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the one only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena. It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very dis tinct, startled me from my revery. I felt that it came from the bed of ebony the bed of death. I listened in an agony of super stitious terror but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse but there was not the L1GEIA. 349 slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have been deceived. I had heard the noise, however faint, and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutely and perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. Many minutes elapsed before any circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery. At length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely noticeable tinge of colour had flushed up within the cheeks, and along the sunken small veins of the eyelids. Through a species of unutterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality has no sufficiently energetic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty finally operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer doubt that we had been pre cipitate in our preparations that Rowena still lived. It was necessary that some immediate exertion be made ; yet the turret was altogether apart from the portion of the abbey tenanted by the servants there were none within call I had no means of summoning them to my aid without leaving the room for many minutes and this I could not venture to do. I therefore struggled alone in my endeavours to call back the spirit still hovering. In a short period it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place ; the colour disappeared from both eyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of marble ; the lips became doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the ghastly expression of death ; a repulsive clamminess arid coldness overspread rapidly the surface of the body ; and all the usual rigorous stiffness immediately super vened. I fell back with a shudder upon the couch from which I had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to passionate waking visions of Ligeia. An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be possible?) I was a second time aware of some vague sound issuing from the region of the bed. I listened in extremity of horror. The sound came again it was a sigh. Hushing to the corpse, I saw distinctly saw a tremor upon the lips. In a minute afterward they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth. Amazement now strug gled in my bosom with the profound awe which had hitherto reigned there alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered ; and it was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more had pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon the cheek and throat ; a perceptible 350 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, warmth pervaded the whole frame ; there was even a slight pul sation at the heart. The lady lived ; and with redoubled ardour I betook myself to the task of restoration. I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and used every exertion which ex perience, and no little medical reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, the colour fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities of that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb, And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia and again, (what marvel that I shudder while I write 1) again there reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony bed. But why shall I minutely detail the unspeakable horrors of that night ] Why shall I pause to relate how, time after time, until near the period of the grey dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was repeated ; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently more irredeemable death ; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with some invisible foe ; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild change in the personal appearance of the corpse 1 Let me hurry to a conclusion. The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead, once again stirred and now more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utter hopelessness than any. I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a help less prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before. The hues of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the countenance the limbs relaxed and, save that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily together and that the bandages and draperies of the grave still im parted their charnel character to the figure, I might have dreamed that Bowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of one be wildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced boldly and palpably into the middle of the apartment. I trembled not I stirred not- f or a crowd of unutterable fancies LIG El A. 351 connected with the air, the stature, the demeanour of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed had chilled me into stone. I stirred not but gazed upon the apparition. There was a mad disorder in my thoughts a tumult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena who confronted me? Could it indeed be Rowena at all the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine 1 Why, why should I doubt it 1 The bandage lay heavily about the mouth but then might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady of Tremaine ? And the cheeks there were the roses as in her noon of life yes, these might indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers *? but had she then grown taller since her malady ? What inexpressible madness seized me with that thought 1 One bound, and I had reached her feet ! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber, huge masses of long and dishevelled hair ; it was blacker than the raven ivings of midnight ! And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before me. " Here then, at least," I siirieked aloud, " can I never can I never be mistaken these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes of my lost love of the Lady of the LADY LIGEIA." SHADOW.-A PARABLE, * Yea ! though I walk through the valley of the Shadow." Psalm of David. |E who read are still among the living : but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, . 352 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill ; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the ter-. rible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind. Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a com pany of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass : and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be so ex cluded. There were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account things material and spiritual heavi ness in the atmosphere a sense of suffocation anxiety and, above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experi ence when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs upon the household furniture upon the goblets from which we drank ; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby all things save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in, tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless ; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way which was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon which are madness ; and drank deeply although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded ; the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas ! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as the dead may SHADOW. A PARABLE. 353 haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But, although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and, gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undis- tinguishable, and so faded away. And lo ! from among those sable draperies where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and undefined shadow a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man : but it was the shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor God neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, " I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast : for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from sylla ble to syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends. 354 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. SILENCE.-A FABLE, "EvSovaiv d optwv KopvQai re Kat re icai xapadpai." Aloiian, The mountain pinnacles slumber ; valleys, crags and caves are silent. ISTEN to me," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence. " The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue ; and they flow not onward to the sea, but palpitate for ever and for ever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river s oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other. " But there is a boundary to their realm the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the He brides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly for ever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence. "It was night, and the rain fell ; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. " And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in colour. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray SILENCE. A FABLE. 355 rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stone ; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters ; and the characters were DESOLATION. " And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the sum mit of the rock ; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indis tinct but his features were the features of a deity ; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care ; and in the] few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. " And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ; but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. "And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ; but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock " Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hip popotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert, and observed the 23-2 356 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ; but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. " Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult ; and a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven, where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest and the rain beat upon the head of the man and the floods of the river came down and the river was tormented into foam and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds and the forest crumbled before the wind and the thunder rolled and the lightning fell and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude ; but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. " Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven and the thunder died away and the lightning did not flash and the clouds hung motionless and the waters sunk to their level and remained and the trees ceased to rock and the water-lilies sighed no more and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed ; and the characters were SILENCE. " And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shud dered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more." **** #* # * Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi in the iron- bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty sea and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the Sybils ; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona but, as Allah liveth, S1LLNCE.A FABLE. 357 that fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth for ever in the tomb came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily iu the face. A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS, URING the fall of the year 1827. while residing near Charlottesville, Virginia, I casually made the acquaint ance of Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in every respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. I found it impossible to comprehend him either in his moral or his physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no satisfactory account. Whence he came, I never ascertained. Even about his age although I call him a young gentleman there was something which perplexed me in no little degree. He certainly seemed young and he made a point of speaking about his youth yet there were moments when I should have had little trouble in imagining him a hundred years of age. But in no regard was he more peculiar than in his personal appearance. He was singu larly tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs were exceed ingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large and flexible, and his teeth were more wildly uneven, although sound, than I had ever before seen teeth in a human head. The expres sion of his smile, however, was by no means unpleasing, as might be supposed ; but it had no variation whatever. It was one of profound melancholy of a phaseless and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large, and round like those of a cat. The pupils, too, upon any accession or diminution of light, underwent contraction or dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. In moments of excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost inconceivable ; seeming to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected, but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a candle or the sun ; yet their 358 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ordinary condition was so totally vapid, filmy and dull, as to convey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred corpse. These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much annoy ance, and he was continually alluding to them in a sort of half explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I first heard it, impressed me very painfully. I soon, however, grew accustomed to it, and my uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his design rather to insinuate than directly to assert that, physically, he had not always been what he was that a long series of neuralgic attacks had reduced him from a condition of more than usual per sonal beauty, to that which I saw. For many years past he had been attended by a physician, named Templeton an old gentle man, perhaps seventy years of age whom he had first encoun tered at Saratoga, and from whose attention, while there, he either received, or fancied that he received, great benefit. The result was that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an arrangement with Doctor Templeton, by which the latter, in consideration of a liberal annual allowance, had consented to devote his time and medical experience exclusively to the care of the invalid. Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his younger days, and, at Paris, had become a convert, in great measure, to the doctrines of Mesmer. It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies that he had succeeded in alleviating the acute pains of his patient ; and this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a certain degree of confidence in the opinions from which the remedies had been educed. The doctor, however, like all enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a thorough convert of his pupil, and finally so far gained his point as to induce the sufferer to submit to nume rous experiments. By a frequent repetition of these a result had arisen, which of late days has become so common as to attract little or no attention, but which, at the period of which I write, had very rarely been known in America. I mean to say, that between Doctor Templeton and Bedloe there had grown up, little by little, a very distinct and strongly marked rapport, or mag netic relation. I am not prepared to assert, however, that this rapport extended beyond the limits of the simple sleep-producing power ; but this power itself had attained great intensity. At the first attempt to induce the magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entirely failed. In the fifth or sixth he succeeded very partially, and after long continued effort. Only at the twelfth was the A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 359 triumph, complete. After this the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to that of the physician, so that, when I first became acquainted with the two, sleep was brought about almost instanta neously, by the mere volition of the operator, even when the invalid was unaware of his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845, when similar miracles are witnessed daily by thousands, that I dare venture to record this apparent impossibility as a matter of serious fact. The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree, sensitive, excitable, enthusiastic. His imagination was singularly vigorous and creative ; and no doubt it derived additional force from the habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in great quantity, and without which he would have found it impossible to exist. It was his practice to take a very large dose of it immediately after breakfast, each morning or rather immediately after a cup of strong coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon and then set forth alone, or attended only by a dog, upon a long ramble among the chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and southward of Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged Mountains. Upon a dim, warm, misty day, towards the close of November, and during the strange interregnum of the seasons which in America is termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed as usual for the hills. The day passed, and still he did not return. About eight o clock at night, having become seriously alarmed at his protracted absence, we were about setting out in search of him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no worse than usual, and in rather more than ordinary spirits. The account which he gave of his expedition, and of the events which had detained him, was a singular one indeed. " You will remember," said he, " that it was about nine in the morning when I left Charlottesville. I bent my steps immediately to the mountains, and about ten, entered a gorge which was entirely new to me. I followed the windings of this pass with much interest. The scenery which presented itself on all sides, although scarcely entitled to be called grand, had about it an indescribable, and to me, a delicious aspect of dreary desolation. The solitude seemed absolutely virgin. I could not help believing that the green sods and the gray rocks upon which I trod, had been trodden never before by the foot of a human being. So entirely secluded 3^0 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. and in fact inaccessible, except through a series of accidents, is the entrance of the ravine, that it is by no means impossible that I was indeed the first adventurer the very first and sole adven turer who had ever penetrated its recesses. " The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which distinguishes the Indian Summer, and which now hung heavily over all objects, served, no doubt, to deepen the vague impressions which these objects created. So dense was this pleasant fog, that I could at no time see more than a dozen yards of the path before me. This path was excessively sinuous, and as the sun could not be seen, I soon lost all idea of the direction in which I journeyed. In the meantime the morphine had its customary effect that of enduing all the external world with an intensity of interest. In the quiver ing of a leaf in the hue of a blade of grass in the shape of a trefoil in the humming of a bee in the gleaming of a dew-drop in the breathing of the wind in the faint odours that came from the forest there came a whole universe of suggestion a gay and motley train of rhapsodical and immethodical thought. "Busied in this, I walked on for several hours, during which the. mist deepened around me to so great an extent, that at length I was reduced to an absolute groping of the way. And now an indescribable uneasiness possessed me a species of nervous hesi tation and tremor. I feared to tread, lest I should be precipitated into some abyss. I remembered too, strange stories told about these Bagged Hills, and of the uncouth and fierce races of men who tenanted their groves and caverns. A thousand vague fancies oppressed and disconcerted me fancies the more distressing because vague. Very suddenly my attention was arrested by the loud beating of a drum. * "My amazement, was, of course, extreme. A drum in these hills was a thing unknown. I could not have been more surprised at the sound of the trump of the Archangel. But a new and still more astounding source of interest and perplexity arose. There came a wild rattling or jingling sound, as if of a bunch of large keys and upon the instant a dusky- visaged and half-naked man rushed past me with a shriek. He came so close to my person that I felt his hot breath upon my face. He bore in one hand an instrument composed of an assemblage of steel rings, and shook them vigorously as he ran. Scarcely had he disappeared in the mist, before, panting after him, with open mouth and glaring eyes A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 361 there darted a huge beast. I could not be mistaken in its character. It was a hyena. " The sight of this monster rather relieved than heightened my terrors for I now made sure that I dreamed, and endeavoured to arouse myself to waking consciousness. I stepped boldly and briskly forward. I rubbed my eyes. I called aloud. I pinched my limbs. A small spring of water presented itself to my view, and here, stooping, I bathed my hands and my head and neck. This seemed to dissipate the equivocal sensations which had hitherto annoyed me. I arose, as I thought, a new man, and pro ceeded steadily and complacently on my unknown way. " At length, quite overcome by exertion, and by a certain op pressive closeness of the atmosphere, I seated myself beneath a tree. Presently there came a feeble gleam of sunshine, and the shadow of the leaves of the tree fell faintly but definitely upon the grass. At this shadow I gazed wonderingly for many minutes. Its character stupified me with astonishment. I looked upward. The tree was a palm. "I now arose hurriedly, and in a state of fearful agitation for the fancy that I dreamed would serve me no longer. I saw I felt that I had perfect command of my senses and these senses now brought to my soul a world of novel and singular sensation. The heat became all at once intolerable. A strange odour loaded the breeze. A low continuous murmur, like that arising from a full, but gently flowing river, came to my ears, intermingled with the peculiar hum of multitudinous human voices. " While I listened in an extremity of astonishment which I need not attempt to describe, a strong and brief gust of wind bore off the incumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter. " I found myself at the foot of a high mountain, and looking down into a vast plain, through which wound a majestic river. On the margin of this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such as we read of in the Arabian Tales, but of a character even more singular than any there described. From my position, which was far above the level of the town, I could perceive its every nook and corner, as if delineated on a map. The streets seemed innu merable, and crossed each other irregularly in all directions, but were rather long winding alleys than streets, and absolutely swarmed with inhabitants. The houses were wildly picturesque. On every hand was a wilderness of balconies, of verandahs, of minarets, 362 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. of shrines, and fantastically carved oriels. Bazaars abounded j and in these were displayed rich wares in infinite variety and pro fusion silks, muslins, the most dazzling cutlery, the most mag* nificent jewels and gems. Besides these things, were seen, on all sides, banners and palanquins, litters with stately dames close veiled, elephants gorgeously caparisoned, idols grotesquely hewn, drums, banners and gongs, spears, silver and gilded maces. And amid the crowd and the clamour, and the general intricacy and confusion amid the million of black and yellow men, turbaned and robed, and of flowing beard, there roamed a countless multi tude of holy filleted bulls, while vast legions of the filthy but sacred ape clambered, chattering and shrieking, about the cornices of the mosques, or clung to the minarets and oriels, From the swarming streets to the banks of the river, there descended innu merable flights of steps leading to bathing places, while the river itself seemed to force a passage with difficulty through the vast fleets of deeply burdened ships that far and wide encountered its surface. Beyond the limits of the city arose, in frequent majestic groups, the palm and the cocoa, with other gigantic and weird trees of vast age ; and here and there might be seen a field of rice, the thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, a stray temple, a gipsy camp, or a solitary graceful maiden taking her way, with a pitcher upon her head, to the banks of the magnificent river. " You will say now, of course, that I dreamed ; but not so. What I saw what I heard what I felt what I thought had about it nothing of the unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream. All was rigorously self-consistent. At first, doubting that I was really awake, I entered into a series of tests, which soon convinced me that I really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in the dream, suspects that he dreams, the suspicion never fails to confirm itself \ and the sleeper is almost immediately aroused. Thus JSovaHs errs not in saying that we are near waking when we dream that we dream. Had the vision occurred to me as I describe it, without my suspecting it as a dream, then a dream it might abso lutely have been, but, occurring as it did, and suspected and tested as it was, I am forced to class it among other phenomena." "In this I am not sure that you are wrong," observed Dr. Templeton, "but proceed. You arose and descended into the city." " I arose," continued Bedloe, regarding the Doctor with an air A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS, 363 of profound astonishment, "I arose, as you say, and descended into the city. On my way, I fell in with an immense populace, crowding through every avenue, all in the same direction, and ex hibiting in every action the wildest excitement. Very suddenly, and by some inconceivable impulse, I became intensely imbued with personal interest in what was going on. I seemed to feel that I had an important part to play, without exactly understand ing what it was. Against the crowd which environed me, how ever, I experienced a deep sentiment of animosity. I shrank from amid them, and, swiftly, by a circuitous path, reached and entered the city. Here all was the wildest tumult and contention. A small party of men, clad in garments half Indian, half European, and officered by gentlemen in a uniform partly British, were en gaged, at great odds, with the swarming rabble of the alleys, I joined the weaker party, arming myself with the weapons of a fallen officer, and fighting I knew not whom with the nervous ferocity of despair. We were soon overpowered by numbers, and driven to seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here we barricaded ourselves, and, for the present, were secure. From a loop-hole near the summit of the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay palace that overhung the river. Presently, from an upper window of this palace, there descended an effeminate-looking person, by means of a string made of the turbans of his attendants. A boat was at hand, in which he escaped to the opposite bank of the river. "And now a new object took possession of my soul. I spoke a few hurried but energetic words to my companions, and, having succeeded in gaining over a few of them to my purpose, made a frantic sally from the kiosk. We rushed amid the crowd that surrounded it. They retreated, at first, before us. They rallied, fought madly, and retreated again. In the meantime we were borne far from the kiosk, and became bewildered and entangled among the narrow streets of tall overhanging houses, into the recesses of which the sun had never been able to shine. The rab ble pressed impetuously upon us, harassing us with their spears, and overwhelming us with flights of arrows. These latter were very remarkable, and resembled in some respects the writhing creese of the Malay. They were made to imitate the body of a creeping serpent, and were long and black, with a poisoned barb. One of them struck me upon the right temple. I reeled and fell. 364 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. An instantaneous and dreadful sickness seized me. I struggled I gasped I died." " You will hardly persist now" said I, smiling, "that the whole of your adventure was not a dream. You are not prepared to maintain that you are dead ?" When I said these words, I of course expected some lively sally from Bedloe in reply; but, to my astonishment, he hesitated, trembled, became fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I looked towards Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in his chair his teeth chattered, and his eyes were starting from their sockets. " Pro ceed !" he at length said hoarsely to Bedloe. "For many minutes," continued the latter, " my sole sentiment -my sole feeling was that of darkness and nonentity, with the consciousness of death. At length, there seemed to pass a violent and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it came the sense of elasticity and of light. This latter I felt not saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the ground. But I had no bodily, no visible, audible, or palpable presence. The crowd had departed. The tumult had ceased. The city was in comparative repose. Beneath me lay my corpse, with the arrow in my temple, the whole head greatly swollen and disfigured. But all these things I felt not saw. I took interest in nothing. Even the corpse seemed a matter in which I had no concern. Volition I had none, but appeared to be impelled into motion, and flitted buoyantly out of the city, retracing the circuitous path by which I had entered it. When I had attained that point of the ravine in the mountains at which I had encountered the hyena, I again experienced a shock as of a galvanic battery ; the sense of weight, of volition, of substance, returned. I became my original self, and bent my steps eagerly homewards but the past had not lost the vividness of the real and not now, even for an instant, can I com pel my understanding to regard it as a dream." " Nor was it," said Templeton, with an air of deep solemnity, "yet it would be difficult to say how otherwise it should be termed. Let us suppose only, that the soul of the man of to-day is upon the verge of some stupendous psychal discoveries. Let us content ourselves with this supposition. For the rest I have some explanation to make. Here is a water-colour drawing, which I should have shown you before, but which an unaccountable senti ment of horror has hitherto prevented me from showing." A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS. 365 We looked at the picture which he presented. I saw nothing in it of an extraordinary character; but its effect upon Bedloe was prodigious. He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet it was but a miniature portrait a miraculously accurate one, to be sure of his own very remarkable features. At least this was my thought as I regarded it. " You will perceive," said Templeton, " the date of this picture it is here, scarcely visible, in this corner 1780. In this year was the portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend a Mr. Oldeb to whom I became much attached at Calcutta, during the administration of Warren Hastings. I was then only twenty years old. When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Saratoga, it was the miraculous similarity which existed between yourself and the painting which induced me to accost you, to seek your friendship, and to bring about those arrangements which resulted in my becoming your constant companion. In accomplishing this point, I was urged partly, and perhaps principally, by a regretful memory of the deceased, but also, in part, by an uneasy, and not altogether horrorless curiosity respecting yourself. " In your detail of the vision which presented itself to you amid the hills, you have described, with the minutest accuracy, the Indian city of Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the com bats, the massacre, were the actual events of the insurrection of Cheyte Sing, which took place in 1780, when Hastings was put in imminent peril of his life. The man escaping by the string of turbans was Cheyte Sing himself. The party in the kiosk were sepoys and British officers, headed by Hastings. Of this party I was one, and did all I could to prevent the rash and fatal sally of the officer who fell, in the crowded alleys, by the poisoned arrow of a Bengalee. That officer was my dearest friend. It was Oldeb. You will perceive by these manuscripts," (here the speaker pro duced a note-book in which several pages appeared to have been freshly written) " that at the very period in which you fancied these things amid the hills, I was engaged in detailing them upon paper here at home." In about a week after this conversation, the following para graphs appeared in a Charlottesville paper : " We have the painful duty of announcing the death of Mr. AUGUSTUS BEDLO, a gentleman whose amiable manners and many virtues have long endeared him to the citizens of Charlottesville. 366 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to neuralgia, which has often threatened to terminate fatally; but this can be regarded only as the mediate cause of his decease. The proximate cause was one of especial singularity. In an excursion to the Kagged Mountains, a few days since, a slight cold and fever were contracted, attended with great determination of blood to the head. To relieve this, Dr. Templeton resorted to topical bleeding. Leeches were applied to the temples. In a fearfully brief period the patient died, when it appeared that in the jar containing the leeches had been introduced, by accident, one of the venomous vermicular sangsues which are now and then found in the neigh bouring ponds. This creature fastened itself upon a small artery in the right temple. Its close resemblance to the medicinal leech caused the mistake to be overlooked until too late. "N.B. The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville may always be distinguished from the medicinal leech by its blackness, and especially by its writhing or vermicular motions, which very nearly resemble those of a snake." I was speaking with the editor of the paper in question, upon the topic of this remarkable accident, when it occurred to me to ask how it happened that the name of the deceased had been given as Bedlo. " I presume," said I, "you have authority for this spelling, but I have always supposed the name to be written with an e at the end." " Authority ? no," he replied. "It is a mere typographical error. The name is Bedloe with an e all the world over, and I never knew it to be spelt otherwise in my life." " Then," said I, mutteringly, as I turned upon my heel ; " then, indeed, has it come to pass that one truth is stranger than any fic tion for Bedlo without the e, what is it but Oldeb conversed ? And this man tells me it is a typographical error." KING PEST. 367 KING PEST. A TALE CONTAINING AN ALLEGORY. "The gods do bear and well allow in kings The tilings which they abhor in rascal routes." Bucklmrsfs Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex. BOUT twelve o clock one night in the month of October, and during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen belonging to the crew of the " Free and Easy," a trading schooner plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the tap-room of an ale-house in the parish of St. An drews, London which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a "Jolly Tar." The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched, and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of such places at the period was, nevertheless, in the opinion of the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it, sufficiently well adapted to its purpose. Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most inte resting, if not the most conspicuous. The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion addressed by the characteristic appellation of " Legs," was at the same time much the taller of the two. He might have measured six feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed to have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous, Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for by deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly thin ; and might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for a pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a jib- boom. But these jests, and others of a similar nature, had evi dently produced, at no time, any effect upon the cachinnatory muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose, retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white eyes, the expression of his countenance, although tinged with a species of dogged indifference to matters and things in general, was not the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts at imita tion or description. 368 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The younger seaman was, in all outward appearance, the con verse of his companion. His stature could not have exceeded four feet. A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldy figure, while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists at their extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like the fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular colour, twin kled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the mass of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face ; and his thick upper-lip rested upon the still thicker one beneath with an air of complacent self-satisfaction, much heightened by the owner s habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently regarded his tall shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous, half-quizzical ; and stared up occasionally in his face as the red setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis. Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the neighbourhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds, even the most ample, are not always everlasting : and it was with empty pockets our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie. At the precise period, then, when this history properly com mences, Legs and his fellow, Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with both elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of the floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing, from behind a huge flagon of unpaid-f or " hurnming-stuff," the portentous words, " No Chalk," which to their indignation and astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the gift of deciphering written characters a gift among the commonalty of that day con sidered little less cabalistical than the art of inditing could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge of either disciple of the sea ; but there was, to say the truth, a certain twist in the forma tion of the letters and indescribable lee-lurch about the whole which forboded, in the opinion of both seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at once, in the allegorical words of Legs himself, to " pump ship, clew up all sail, and scud before the wind." Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and looped up the points of their short doublets, they finally made a, bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the fire place, mistaking it for the door* yet their escape was at length hap- KING PEST. 369 pily effected and half -after twelve o clock found our heroes ripe for mischief, and running for life down a dark alley in the direction of St. Andrew s Stair, hotly pursued by the landlady of the " Jolly Tar." At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many years before and after, all England, but more especially the metro polis, resounded with the fearful cry of " Plague !" The city was in a great measure depopulated and in those horrible regions, in the vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and filthy lanes and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to have had his nativity, Awe, Terror, and Superstition were alone to be found stalking abroad. By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban, and all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch, nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets, nor the prospect of that loathsome death which, with almost absolute cer tainty, overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could deter from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and untenanted dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly rapine, of every article, such as iron, brass, or lead-work, which could in any manner be turned to a profitable account. Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening of the barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had proved but slender protection to those rich stores of wines and liquors which, in consideration of the risk and trouble of removal, many of the numerous dealers having shops in the neighbourhood, had con sented to trust, during the period of exile, to so insufficient a security. But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who attri buted these doings to the agency of human hands. Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular imps of mis chief ; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told, that the whole mass of forbidden buildings was, at length, enveloped in terror as in a shroud, and the plunderer himself was often scared away by the horrors his own depredations had created, leaving the entire vast circuit of prohibited district to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death. It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and which indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that, iu scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the 24 370 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were close upon their heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber up the roughly-fashioned plank-work was a trifle; and, maddened with the two-fold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped unhesi tatingly down within the enclosure, and holding on their drunken course with shouts and yellings, were soon bewildered in its noisome and intricate recesses. Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, their reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the horrors of their situation. The air was cold and misty. The paving-stones, loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall, rank grass, which sprang up around the feet and ankles. Fallen houses choked up the streets. The most fetid and poisonous smells everywhere prevailed; and by the aid of that ghastly light which, even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapoury and pestilential atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths and alleys, or rotting in the windowless habitations, the carcass of many a noc turnal plunderer arrested by the hand of the plague in the very perpetration of his robbery. But it Jay not in the power of images, or sensations, or impedi ments such as these, to stay the course of men who, naturally brave, and at that time especially, brim-full of courage and of " humming- stuff !" would have reeled, as straight as their condition might have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of death. Onward still onward stalked the grim Legs, making the desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific war-whoop of the Indian: and onward, still onward rolled the dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the doublet of his more active companion, and far surpassing the latter s most strenuous exertions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings in basso, from the profundity of his stento rian lungs. They had now evidently reached the stronghold of the pestilence- Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and more horrible the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge stones and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above them, gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast height of the surrounding houses ; and while actual exertion became neces sary to force a passage through frequent heaps of rubbish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a skeleton, or rested upon a more fleshy corpse. KING PEST. 371 Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a tall and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within, in a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish shrieks. Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at such a time, and in such a place, might have curdled the very blood in hearts less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple rushed headlong against the door, burst it open, and staggered into the midst of things with a volley of curses. The room within which they found themselves proved to be the shop of an undertaker ; but an open trap-door, in a corner of the floor near the entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine- cellars, whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles pro claimed to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the middle of the room stood a table in the centre of which again arose a huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various wines and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every shape and quality, were scattered profusely upon the board. Around it, upon coffin tressels, were seated a company of six. This company I will endeavour to delineate one by one. Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his compan ions, sat a personage who appeared to be the president of the table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was confounded to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself. His face was as yellow as saffron but no feature excepting one alone, was suffi ciently marked to merit a particular description. This one consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously lofty, as to have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh superadded upon the natural head. His mouth was puckered and dimpled into an ex pression of ghastly affability, and his eyes, as indeed the eyes of all at table, were glazed over with the fumes of intoxication. This gentleman was clothed from head to foot in a richly-embroidered black silk-velvet pall, wrapped negligently around his form after the fashion of a Spanish cloak. His head was stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which he nodded to and fro with a jaunty and knowing air ; and, in his right hand, he held a huge human thigh bone, with which he appeared to have been just knocking down some member of the company for a song. Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as 242 372 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the person just described, she had no right to complain of his un- natural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a dropsy ; and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon of October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly round, red, and full ; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of pecu liarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before mentioned in the case of the president that is to say, only one feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a separate character ization : indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately observed that the same remark might have applied to each individual person of the party, every one of whom seemed to possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy. With the lady in question this portion proved to be the mouth. Commencing at the right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to the left the short pendants which she wore in either auricle continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every exertion to keep her mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress consisting of a newly-starched and ironed shroud coming up close under the chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin. At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion, gave evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of extreme haut ton, however, pervaded her whole appearance ; she wore, in a graceful and degage manner, a large and beautiful winding-sheet of the finest Indian lawn ; her hair hung in ringlets over her neck ; a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose, extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her tongue, gave to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression. Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to some con sideration. He evidently prided himself much upon every inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial delight in calling KING PEST. 373 attention to his gaudy-coloured sin-tout. This, to say the truth, .must have cost him no little money, and was made to fit him ex ceedingly well being fashioned from one of the curiously embroi dered silken covers appertaining to those glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are customarily hung up, in some con spicuous place, upon the dwellings of departed aristocracy. Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a gentle man in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook, in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called "the horrors." His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly tied up by a bandage of muslin ; and his arms being fastened in a similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself too freely to the liquors upon the table ; a precaution rendered necessary in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears, nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine, towered away into the atmo sphere of the apartment, and were occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing of a cork. Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly stiff- looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis, must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his unaccommodating habili ments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely, in a new and hand some mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece pressed upon the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for the sake not more of elegance than of convenience ; but the dress, nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from sitting as erect as his associates ; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle-eyes rolled up their awful whites towards the ceiling in ab solute amazement at their own enormity. Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull which was used as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring in the ceiling. The other limb confined by no such fetter, stuck off from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of every occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apartment. In the cranium of this hideous thing lay a quantity of ignited charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire scene ; while 374 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against the windows, pre venting any ray from escaping into the street. At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct them selves with that degree of decorum which might have been expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened to be stand ing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and spread open his eyes to their fullest extent : while Hugh Tarpaulin, stooping- down so as to bring his nose upon a level with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and immoderate laughter. Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the intruders- nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of sable plumes and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a seat which some others of the company had placed in the meantime for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest resist ance, but sat down as he was directed ; while the gallant Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the coffin seemed exceed ingly nettled; and serious consequences might have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the following speech : * It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion " " Avast there !" interrupted Legs, looking very serious, " avast there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my honest ship mate, Will Wimble the undertaker !" At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original com pany half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great dignity, re commenced : " Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the KING PEST, 375 part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with undivided empire under the title of King Pest the First. " This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of Will Wimble the undertaker a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted our royal ears this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty purposes. " The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the respective titles of His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-If erous * His Grace the Duke Pestilential His Grace the Duke Tern-Pest and Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana- Pest/ " As regards," continued he, " your demand of the business upon which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and regal interest, and is in no manner important to any other than ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests and stran gers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit the incomprehensible qualities and nature of those inestimable treasures of the palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis : by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true welfare of that unearthly sove reign whose reign is over us all, whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is Death. " " Whose name is Davy Jones !" ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second for himself. " Profane varlet !" said the president, now turning his attention to the worthy Hugh, " profane and execrable wretch ! we have said, that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We neverthe less, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils, believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a gallon of Black Strap having imbibed which to the prosperity of our kingdom 376 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. at a single draught and upon your bended knees ye shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or remain and be admittted to the privileges of our table, according to your respective and individual pleasures." "It would be a matter of utter unpossibility," replied Legs, whom the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently inspired with some feelings of respect, and who arose and steadied himself by the table as he spoke " it would, please your majesty, be a matter of utter unpossibility to stow away in my hold even one-fourth part of that same liquor which your majesty has just mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on board in the forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales and liqueurs shipped this evening at various seaports, I have, at present, a full cargo of * humming stuff J taken in and duly paid for at the sign of the Jolly Tar. You will, therefore, please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the deed for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow another drop least of all a drop of that villanous bilge-water that answers to the hail of * Black Strap. " " Belay that !" interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the length of his companion s speech than at the nature of his refusal, " Belay that, you lubber ! and I say, Legs, none of your palaver ! My hull is still light, although I confess you yourself seem to be a little top-heavy ; and as for the matter of your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would find stowage-room for it myself, but " " This proceeding," interposed the president, " is by no means in accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The condi tions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and that without a moment s hesitation in failure of which fulfilment we decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer !" "A sentence! a sentence! a righteous and just sentence! a glorious decree ! a most worthy and upright, and holy con demnation !" shouted the Pest family altogether. The king elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles ; the gouty little old man puffed like a pair of bellows ; the lady of the winding sheet waved her nose to and fro ; the gentleman in the cotton drawers pricked up his ears ; she of the shroud gasped like a dying fish \ and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled v KING PEST. 377 "Ugh! ugh! ugh!" chuckled Tarpaulin, without heeding the general excitation, "ugh! ugh! ugh ! ugh ! ugh! ugh! ugh I ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! I was saying," said he, " I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like myself not overstowed but when it comes to drinking the health of the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow bones to his ill-favoured majesty there, whom I know, as well as I know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world but Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player ! why ! its quite another guess sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my comprehension." He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the name of Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their seats. " Treason !" shouted his Majesty King Pest the First. "Treason !" said the little man with the gout. "Treason !" screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. " Treason !" muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up. "Treason !" growled he of the coffin. "Treason! treason !" shrieked her majesty of the mouth ; and, seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale. Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared, amid the whirlpool of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles easily succeeded in creating. Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfi ture of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with all his force against the fatal hogshead, full of October ale and Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out burst a deluge of liquor so fierce so impetuous so overwhelming 378 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. that the room was flooded from wall to wall the loaded table was overturned the tressels were thrown upon their backs the tub of punch into the fire-place and the ladies into hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs, pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the melee, and wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot the little stiff gentleman floated off in his coffin and the victorious Legs, seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with her into the street, and made a bee-line for the "Free and Easy," followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who, having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him with the .Arch-Duchess Ana-Pest, THE MAN OFTHE CROWD, "Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul." La Bruyfre. \T was well said of a certain German book that " er lasst sick 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 conva lescent, 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 mentai vision departs the ax\vg o s Trpn/ fTrqiv and the intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day 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 THE MAN" OF THE CROWD. 379 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 situa tion, 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 demeanour, 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 re doubled 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 j ostlers, and ap peared 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-j obbers 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 responsi bility. They did not greatly excite my attention. 380 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 des/cism for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to me an exact facsimile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the cast-off 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 penholding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands, 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 honourable. 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 them selves. Their voluminousness of wristband, with an air of ex cessive frankness, should betray them at once. The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and filigreed 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, more over, 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 some- \?hat different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 381 inay 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 lead ing 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 pro fessional 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 labour 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, whose eyes 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, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps ; organ- grinders, monkey- exhibitors, and ballad-mongers, those who vended with those who sang ; ragged artizans and exhausted labourers of every description, and all full of a noisy and inordi- 382 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. nate 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 ma terially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual with drawal 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 everything a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid as that ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian. The wild effects of the light 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 inter val 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 Ketzch, had he viewed it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pictorial incarnations of the fiend. As I endeavoured, during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose con fusedly 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 ex cessive 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 I" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view to know more of him. Hurriedly putting on an 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, THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 383 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 ten fold 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 riot quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanour became evident. He walked more slowly, and with less object than before more hesi tatingly. 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 re-appeared. 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. 384 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 detect ing me as he came round 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 pur suit. 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 demeanour 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 over-shoes, 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 behaviour, 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, THE MAN OF THE CROWD. 385 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 wayward ness of his actions. As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he fol lowed 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 everything 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 discern ible 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 day-break ; but a number of wretched inebri ates 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 ?36 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 nil- 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. " This 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 thellortalusAnimce;* and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that * er lasst sich nicht lesen? " "THOU ART THE MAN," WILL now play the CEdipus to the Eattleborough enigma. I will expound to you as I alone can the secret of the enginery that effected the Eattleborough miracle the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattle- burghers, and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before. This event which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity occurred in the summer of 18 . Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens * The " Hortidus Anima cum Oratiunculls Aliqiubus Supcradditis" of Grunninger. " THOU ART THE MAN." 387 of the borough had been missing for several days under circum stances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttle- worthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of proceeding to the city of , about fifteen miles distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, how ever, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man ; and when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body. The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search, was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called, " Charley Goodfellow," or " Old Charley Goodfellow." Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain ; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say, " I have a clear conscience myself ; am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking gentlemen" of the stage are very certain to be called Charles. Now, "Old Charley Goodfellow, although he had been in Battleborough not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew anything about him before he came to settle in the neighbourhood, had experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare word for a thousand at any moment ; and as for the women, there is no saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came of his having been christened Charles, and of his pos sessing, in consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very " best letter of recommendation." I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most respectable, and undoubtedly he was the most wealthy, man in 3S8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOIL. RattleborotLgh, while "Old Charley Goodfellow" was upon as intimate terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen were next-door neighbours, and although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited " Old Charley," and never was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed ; for " Old Charley " never let a day pass without stepping in three or four times to see how his neighbour came on, and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost always to dinner; and then the amount of wine that was made way with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to ascertain. Old Charley s favourite beverage was Chateau Margaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy s heart good to see the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart ; so that, one day, when the wine was in, and the wit, as a natural consequence, somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back "I tell you what it is, Old Charley, you are, by all odds, the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born days ; and since you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I ll be darned if I don t have to make thee a present of a big box of the Chateau Margaux. Od rot me/ (Mr. Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond " Od rot me," or " By gosh," or " By the jolly golly,") " Od rot me," says he, " if I don t send an order to town this very afternoon for a double box of the best that can be got, and I ll make ye a present of it, I will ! ye needn t say a word now I will, I tell ye, and there s an end of it ; so look out for it it will come to hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least !" I mention this little bit of liberality on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just byway of showing you how very intimate an understanding existed between the two friends. Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to bo fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any one so profoundly affected as " Old Charley Good- fellow." When he first heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his master s sadcile-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and through the poor animal s chest without quite killing him when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man ht.d been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if he had had a fit of the ague, " THOU ART THE MAN." 39 At first, he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do anything at all, or to decide upon any plan of action ; so that for a long time he endeavoured to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy s other friends from making a stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile say for a week or two, or a month or two to see if something wouldn t turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn t come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often observed this dispo sition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who -are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of anything like action, and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and " nurse their grief," as the old ladies express it that is to say, ruminate over their trouble. The people of Rattleborongh had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom and discretion of " Old Charley," that the greater part of them felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business " until something should turn up," as the honest old gentleman worded it ; and I believe that, after all, this would have been the general determination, but for the very suspicious inter ference of Mr. Shuttleworthy s nephew, a young man of very dissi pated habits, and otherwise of rather bad character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason, in the matter of " lying quiet," but insisted upon making imme diate search for the " corpse of the murdered man." This was the expression he employed ; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was "a singular expression, to say no more." This remark of Old Charley s, too, had great effect upon the crowd ; and one of the party was heard to ask, very impressively, " how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy uncle s disap pearance, as to feel authorized to assert, distinctly and unequivo cally, that his uncle ivas a murdered man. " Hereupon some little squibbing and bickering occurred among various members of the crowd, and especially between " Old Charley " and Mr. Penni feather although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for little good will had subsisted between the parties for the last three or four months ; and matters had even gone so far, that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncle s friend for some alleged excess of liberty that the latter had taken 390 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. in the uncle s house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion, " Old Charley" is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all merely muttering a few words about " taking summary vengeance at the first convenient opportunity," a natural and very justifiable ebul lition of anger, which meant nothing, however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than forgotten. However these matters may be, (which have no reference to the point now at issue,) it is quite certain that the people of Rattle- borough, principally through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the determination of dispersing over the adjacent country in search of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should disperse that is to say, distribute themselves in parties for the more thorough examination of the region round about. I forget, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that " Old Charley " finally convinced the assembly that this was the most injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he did all except Mr. Pennifeather ; and, in the end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, " Old Charley " himself leading the way. As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than " Old Charley," whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx ; but, although he led them into all manner of out-of-the- way-holes and corners, by routes that noboiy had ever suspected of existing in the neighbourhood, and although the search was in cessantly kept up day and night for nearly a \veek, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally ; for trace, to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked, by his horse s shoes, (which were peculiar,) to a spot about three miles to the east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the track made off into a by-path through a piece of woodland the path coming out again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular distance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party came at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles to the right of the " 77/0^ ART THE MAN." 391 lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from theby-path tothepool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found ; and the party were upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result, when Providence suggested to Mr, Goodfellow the expediency of draining the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers, and many high compliments to " Old Charley" upon his sagacity and Consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effected ; and no sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained \vas discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one present imme diately recognised as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy s departure for the city ; while there were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any period during the remainder of that memorable day ; nor could any one be found to say that he had seen it upon Mr. P. s person at any period at all subse quent to Mr. Shuttleworthy s disappearance. Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and jt was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him deserted him at once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed enemies for his in stantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere forgiveness oi that wild young gentleman "the heir of the worthy- Mr. Goodfeliow," for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had, no doubt in the hc;at of passion, thought proper to put upon him (ivir. Goodfellow;, " .tie forgave him for it," he said, " from 39 2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the very bottom of his heart ; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his possession to to to soften down, as much as he could conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly perplexing piece of business." Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted people are seldom apposite in their observations they run into all sorts of blunders, contretemps and mal bpropos- ismSj in the hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend thus, often with the kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to advance it. So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of * Old Charley;" for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he uttered of which the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect of deepening the suspicion already attached to the individual whose cause he pleaded, and of arousing against him the fury of the mob. One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his allusion to the suspected as " the heir of the worthy old gentleman, Mr. Goodfellow." The people had really never thought of this before. They had only remembered certain threats of dis inheritance uttered a year or two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter that was settled so single-minded a race of beings were the Eattleburghers ; but the remark of " Old Charley" brought them at once to a considera tion of this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And straightway, hereupon, arose the natural question of cui lono ? a question that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I be misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceed ingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived. " Cui bono," in all the crack novels and elsewhere, in those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of " Cecil,") a lady who quotes all tongues from the 1 THO U ART THE MAN. 393 Chaldsean to Cliickasaw, and is helped to her learning, "as needed," upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford, in all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turn- apenny and Ainsworth, the two little Latin words cui bono are rendered " to what purpose," or (as if quo bono), " to what good." Their true meaning, nevertheless, is " for whose advantage." Cui, to whom ; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now under considera tion, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the deed s accomplishment. Now, in the present instance, the ques tion cui bono very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after making a will in his favour, with disinheritance. But the threat had not been actually kept ; the original will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the part of the suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge ; and even this would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of the uncle. But the will, being unaltered, while the threat to alter remained suspended over the nephew s head, there appears at once the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity : and so concluded, very sagaciously, the worthy itizens of the borough of Battle. Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd, after some further search, proceeded homewards, having him in custody. On the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Good- fellow, whose zeal led him to be always a little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the grass. Having quickly examined it, he was observed, too, to make a sort of half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket ; but this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody. No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and imme diately upon reaching Pvattleborough he was taken before a magis trate for examination. 394 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner, being questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy s disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to ac knowledge that on that very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the immediate neighbourhood of the pool where the blood-stained waistcoat had been discovered through the saga city of Mr. Goodfellow. This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young man (notwithstanding the latter s ill treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfellow) had induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest, by way of endeavouring to account for what appeared suspicious in the circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather ; but these circumstances were now alto gether too convincing too damning ; he would hesitate no longer he would tell all he knew, although his heart (Mr. Goodfellow s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He then went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr. Shuttle- worthy s departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow s), that his object in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the " Farmers and Mechanics Bank," and that then and there the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will originally made, and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every substantial particular. Much to the astonish ment of everyone present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was. The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and the magis trate in vain endeavoured to extort from the prisoner the use which had been made of them, or the place of their concealment. Indeed, " THOU ART THE MAN." 395 he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter. The constables, also, discovered, between the bed and sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim. At this juncture it was announced that the horse of the mur dered man had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a post-mortem examination of the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This was accordingly done ; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable searching in the cavity of the chest, was enabled to detect and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial, was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather s rifle, while it was far too large for that of any other person in the borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture ; and upon examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknow ledged by the accused himself to be his own property. Upon the finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate refused to listen to any further testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner for trial, declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be required. This generosity on the part of " Old Charley" was only in accord ance with the whole tenour of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance, the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar s worth of property upon the face of the earth. The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pen- nifeather, amid the loud execrations of all Ptattleborough, was brought to a trial at the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence (strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr. Goodfellow s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the court,) was considered so un broken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the jury, without leaving 396 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. their seats, returned an immediate verdict of " Guilty of murder in the first degree" Soon afterwards the unhappy wretch received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await the inexorable vengeance of the law. In the meantime the noble behaviour of " Old Charley Goodfel low" had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten times a greater favourite than ever; and, as a natural result of the hospitality with which he was treated, he re laxed, as it were, perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very fre quently had little reunions at his own house, when wit and jollity reigned supreme dampened a little, of course, by the occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host. One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at the receipt of the following letter : O I. & tr I "Charles Goodfellow, Esquire- s " Dear Sir, In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm about two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy, we have the honour of forwarding this g jj- morning, to your address, a double box of Chateau- Mar gaux, oj \per margin. .- i_i o j the antelope brand, violet seal. Box numbered and marked as H- W 3 " PFe remain, sir, Fowr wos o& ?i^ ser fe, " HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS & Co. "City of , JuneZlst, 18. " P.S. 3Vt.e 6ox will reach you, by waggon, on the day after your receipt of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy. "H. F. B. &Co." The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised Chateau-Margaux , and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy, invited a large party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Mr, Shuttleworthy s present. " THOU ART THE MAN." 397 Not that he said anything about "the good old Mr. Shuttle- worthy" when he issued the invitations. The fact is, he thought much, and concluded to say nothing at all. He did not mention to any one if I remember aright that he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to come and help him drink some of a remarkably fine quality and rich flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself to imagine why it was that " Old Charley" came to the conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt. The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly-respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow s house. Indeed, half the borough was there I myself among] the number but, much to the vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by " Old Charley" had been done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however, a monstrously big box of it there was, too, and as the whole party were in excessively good humour, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the table, and its contents disembowelled forthwith. No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand ; and, in a trice, we had the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a few of which were demolished in the scuffle. " Old Charley," who was pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order " during the ceremony of disinterring the treasure." After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I com plied, of course, " with an infinite deal of pleasure." I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly and violently off, and, at the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttle- worthy himself. It gazed for a few moments, fixedly and sorrowfully, 38 WORK S Of EDGAR ALLAN POE. with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow ; uttered slowly, but clearly and impressively, the words " Thou art the man !" and then, falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs quiveringly upon the table. The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild, shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years I can never forget the more than mortal agony which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of marble ; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be turned inwards, and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable, murderous soul. At length, their expression appeared to flash suddenly out into the external world, when with a quick leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehe mently a detailed confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pemiifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die. What he recounted was in substance this: He followed his victim to the vicinity of the pool ; there shot his horse with a pistol ; despatched the rider with its butt end ; possessed himself of the pocket-book ; and, supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through the woods. The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book and bullet, had been placed by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr. Pemiifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained handkerchief and shirt. Towards the end of the blood-chilling recital, the words of the guilty wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he arose, staggered backwards from the table, and fell dead. The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow s excess of frankness had disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the " THOU ART THE MAN." 399 first. I was present when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared to view the manoeuvring of " Old Charley" in a very different light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattle- borough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse; / had not forgotten, although the Battleburghers had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the idea suggested by the bullet ; for the blood upon examination proved to be capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I entertained a sus picion which was none the less strong because I kept it altogether to myself. In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Good- fellow conducted his party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry well, the mouth of which was nearly hid den by brambles ; and here, at the bottom, I discovered what I sought. Nowit so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the promise of a box of Chateau-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and deposited the latter in an old wine box taking care so to double the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly upon the lid, to keep it down while I secured it with nails ; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top would fly o^fand the body up. Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and ad dressed it as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of 400 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the wine merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gavg instructions to my servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow s door, in a barrow, at a given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities ; for their effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch* I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Penni- feather was released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever afterwards a new life* HUMOUROUS TALES AND SKETCHES. THE SPECTACLES, [ANY years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of " love at first sight ;" but those who think, not less than those who feel deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical mag netism or magnetsesthetics, render it probable that the most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections, are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy in a word, that the brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters are those which are riveted by a glance. The con fession I am about to make will add another to the already almost innumerable instances of .the truth of the position. My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am still a very young man not yet twenty-two years of age. My name, at present, is a very usual arid rather plebeian one Simpson. I say " at present ;" for it is only lately that I have been so called having legislatively adopted this surname within the last year, in order to receive a large inheritance left me by a distant male relative, Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was conditioned upon my taking the name of the testator ; the family, not the Christian name ; my Christian name is Napoleon Buonaparte or, more properly, these are my first and middle appellations. I assumed the name Simpson with some reluctance, as in my true patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride believing that I could trace a descent from the immortal author of the " Chronicles." While on the subject of names, by-the-by, I may mention a singular coincidence of sound attending the names of some of my immediate predecessors. My father was a, Monsieur Froissart, of Paris. His wife my mother, whom he married at tilt sen was a Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of Croissart 26-2 404 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the banker ; whose wife, again, being only sixteen when married, was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Voissart, very singularly, had married a lady of similar name a Made moiselle Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when married ; and her mother, also, Madame Moissaxt, was only fourteen when led to the altar. These early marriages are usual in France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My own name, though, as I say, became Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much repug nance on my part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about accepting the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso attached. As to personal endowments I am by no means deficient. On the contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine- tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is sufficiently good. My eyes are large and gray ; and although, in fact, they are weak to a very inconvenient degree, still no defect in this regard would be suspected from their appearance. The weak ness itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I have resorted to every remedy short of wearing glasses. Being youth ful and good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely refused to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so dis figures the countenance of a young person, or so impresses every feature with an air of demureness, if not altogether of sanctimoni ousness and of age. An eye-glass, on the other hand, has a savour of downright foppery and affectation. I have hitherto managed as well as I could without either. But something too much of these merely personal details, which, after all, are of little importance. [ will content myself with saying, in addition, that my temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic and that all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women. One night last winter, I entered a box at the P Theatre, in company with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera night, and the bills presented a very rare attraction, so that the house was excessively crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain the front seats which had been reserved for us, and into which, with some little difficulty, we elbowed our way. For two hours, my companion, who was a musical fanatico, gave his undivided attention to the stage ; and, in the meantime, I THE SPECTACLES. 46$ amused myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in chief part, of the very elite of the city. Having satisfied myself upon this point, T was about turning my eyes to the prima donna, when they were arrested and riveted by a figure in one of the private boxes which had escaped my observation. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense emo tion with which I regarded this figure. I* was that of a female, the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so far turned towards the stage, that, for some minutes, I could not obtain a view of it but the form was divine; no other word can sufficiently express its magnificent proportion and even the term " divine " seems ridiculously feeble as I write it. The magic of a lovely form in woman the necromancy of female gracefulness was always a power which I had found it impossible to resist ; but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure, almost all of which the construction of the box permitted to be seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly ap proached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its perfect fulness and tournure were delicious. The head, of which only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap of gazt aerienne, which put me in mind of the ventum textilem of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box, and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry. Its upper portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves now in fashion. This extended but little below the elbow. Beneath it was worn an under one of some frail material, close-fitting, and terminated by a cuff of rich lace which fell gracefully over the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers, upon one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette of jewels telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once of the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer. I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as if I had been suddenly converted to stone ; and, during this period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said or sung concerning "love at first sight." My feelings were totally different 406 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. from any wliicli I had hitherto experienced, in the presence of even the most celebrated specimens of female loveliness. An un accountable, and what I am compelled to consider a magnetic sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet not only my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling upon the admirable object before me. I saw I felt I knew that I was deeply, madly, irre vocably in love and this even before seeing the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the passion that consumed me, that I really believe it would have received little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen, proved of merely ordinary character ; so anomalous is the nature of the only true love of the love at first sight and so little really dependent is it upon the external conditions which only seem to create and control it. While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head partially towards me, so that 1 beheld the entire profile of the face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations and yet there was something about it which disappointed me without my being able to tell exactly what it was. I said "disappointed," but this is not altogether the word. My sentiments were at once quieted and exalted. They partook less of transport and more of calm enthusiasm of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose, perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face ; and yet I at once understood that it could not have arisen entirely from this. There was something else some mystery which I could not develop some expression about the counte nance which slightly disturbed me while it greatly heightened my interest. In fact, I was just in that condition of mind which pre pares a young and susceptible man for any act of extravagance. Had the lady been alone, I should undoubtedly have entered her box and accosted her at all hazards ; but, fortunately, she was attended by two companions a gentleman, and a strikingly beau tiful woman, to all appearance a few years younger than herself. I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might obtain, hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I would have removed my position to one nearer her own, but the crowded state of the theatre rendered this impossible ; and the stern de crees of Fashion had, of late, imperatively prohibited the use of THE SPECTACLES. 407 the opera-glass, in a case such as this, even had I been so fortunate as to have one with me but I had not and was thus in despair. At length I bethought me of applying to my companion. "Talbot," I said, "you have an opera-glass. Let me have it." " An opera-glass ! no ! what do you suppose 7 would be doing with an opera-glass V Here he turned impatiently towards the stage. "But, Talbot," I continued, pulling him by the shoulder, "listen to me, will you 1 Do you see the stage-box ? there ! no, the next Did you ever behold as lovely a woman ]" " She is very beautiful, no doubt," he said. " I wonder who she can be T " Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don t you Jcnoiv who she is 1 ? Not to know her, argues yourself unknown. She is the celebrated Madame Lalande the beauty of the day par excellence, and the talk of the whole town. Immensely wealthy, too a widow and a great matchhas just arrived from Paris." " Do you know her V " Yes I have the honour." " Will you introduce me V "Assuredly with the greatest pleasure ; when shall it be?" " To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B s." "Very good ; and now do hold your tongue, if you can." In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot s advice ; for he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or sugges tion, and occupied himself exclusively, for the rest of the evening with what was transacting upon the stage. In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, and at length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of her face, It was exquisitely lovely : this, of course, my heart had told me be fore, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the point but still the unintelligible something disturbed me. I finally concluded that my senses were impressed by a certain air of gravity, sadness, or, still more properly, of weariness, which took something from *he youth and freshness of the countenance, only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and majesty, and thus, of course, to my en thusiastic and romantic temperament, with an interest tenfold. While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my 4 o 8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw it, even for an instant. She turned aside her face, and again I saw only the chiselled contour of the back portion of the head. After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity to see if I was still looking, she gradually brought her face again round and again encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell instantly, and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my astonishment at per ceiving that she not only did not a second time avert her head, but that she actually took from her girdle a double eye-glass elevated it adjusted it and then regarded me through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of several minutes. Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more thoroughly astounded astounded only not offended or disgusted in the slightest degree ; although an action so bold in any other woman would have been likely to offend or disgust. But the whole thing was done with so much quietude -so much nonchalance so much repose with so evident an air of the highest breeding, in short that nothing of mere effrontery was perceptible, and my sole sentiments were those of admiration and surprise. I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she had seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person, and was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a second thought, she resumed it, and so continued to regard me with fixed attention for the space of several minutes for five minutes, at the very least, I am sure. This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted very general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite movement, or buzz, among the audience, which for a moment filled me with con fusion, but produced no visible effect upon the countenance of Madame Lalande. Having satisfied her curiosity if such it was she dropped the glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage ; her profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my rudeness in so doing. Presently 1 saw the head slowly and slightly change its position ; and soon I became convinced that the lady, while pretending to look at the stage, was, in fact, attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect this conduct on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my excitable mind. Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the THE SPECTACLES. 409 fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attended her, and, while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of both, that the conversation had reference to myself. Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned towards the stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the performances. At the expiration of this period, however, I was thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous composure which had pre viously so delighted and confounded my soul. This extraordinary behaviour, by throwing me into a perfect fever of excitement into an absolute delirium of love served rather to embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my devo tion, I forgot everything but the presence and the majestic loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully engaged with the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and, upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow. She blushed very deeply then averted her eyes then slowly and cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had been noticed then leaned over towards the gentleman who sat by her side. I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed, and expected nothing less than instant exposure ; while a vision of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved, however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a play-bill, without speaking ; but the reader may form some feeble conception of my astonishment of my profound amazement my delirious bewilder ment of heart and soul when, instantly afterwards, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her bright eyes to settle fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made two distinct, pointed and un equivocal affirmative inclinations of the head. It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy upon my transport upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I loved. This was my first love so I felt it .to be. It was love supreme inde scribable. It was " love at first sight ;" and at first sight, too, it Lad been appreciated and returned. 4io WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant *? What other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the part of a lady so beautiful so wealthy evidently so accom plished of so high breeding of so lofty a position in society in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured was Madame Lalande ] Yes, she loved me she returned the enthusiasm of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind as uncompromising as uncal- culating as abandoned and as utterly unbounded as my own ! These delicious fancies and reflections, however, were now inter rupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The audience arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. Quitting Talbot ab ruptly, I made every effort to force my way into closer proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on account of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps homewards; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection that I should be introduced by Talbot in due form on the morrow. This morrow at last came ; that is to say, a day finally dawned upon a long and weary night of impatience ; and then the hours until " one," were snail-paced, dreary and innumerable. But even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I stepped into B s and inquired for Talbot. " Out," said the footman Talbot s own. "Out !" I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces "let me tell you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and impracticable ; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean 1" " Nothing, sir : only Mr. Talbot is not in. That s all. He rode over to S , immediately after breakfast, and left word that he would not be in town again for a week." I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavoured to reply, but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel, livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the Talbots to the innnermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that my considerate friend, ilfanatico, had quite forgotten his appoint ment with myself had forgotten it as soon as it was made. At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was no help for it ; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report she was THE SPECTACLES. 411 known, I found, to all to many by sight but she had been in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning call. While I stood thus, in despair, conversing with a trio of friends upon the all absorbing subject of my heart, it so happened that the subject itself passed by. " As I live, there she is !" cried one. " Surpassingly beautiful !" exclaimed a second. " An angel upon earth !" ejaculated a third. I looked ; and, in an open carriage which approached us, passing slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box. " Her companion also wears remarkably well," said the one of my trio who had spoken first. " Astonishingly," said the second ; " still quite a brilliant air j but art will do wonders. Upon my word she looks better than she did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still ; don t you think so, Froissart? Simpson, I mean." " Still!" said I, " and why shouldn t she be 1 But compared with her friend she is as a rushlight to the evening star a glow-worm to Antares." " Ha ! ha ! ha ! why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making discoveries original ones, I mean." And here we sepa rated, while one of the trio begari humming a gay vaudeville, of which I caught only the lines "Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas A bas Ninon De L Enclos !" During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group, I had ob served that she recognised me ; and more than this, she had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of the recognition. As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it, until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every repu table place of public amusement ; and, at length, at the theatre, 412 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every day, in the interim, I had enquired for Talbot at his hotel, and every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the everlasting " Not come homo yet" of his footman. Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a Parisian had lately arrived from Paris might she not suddenly return? return before Talbot came back and might she not be thus lost to me for ever] The thought was too terrible to bear. Since my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her residence, noted the address, and the next morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured out my whole heart. I spoke boldly, freely in a word, I spoke with passion. I con cealed nothing nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the romantic circumstances of our first meeting even to the glances which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt assured of her love ; while I offered this assurance, and my own intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise unpardon able conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a formal intro duction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly circumstances of my affluence and with an offer of my heart and of my hand. In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed the lapse of a century it came. Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really received a letter from Madame Lalande the beautiful, the wealthy, the idolised Madame Lalande. Her eyes her magnificent eyes had not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman, as she was, she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason the generous impulses of her nature despising the conventional pruderies of the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter un opened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own exquisite fingers. It ran thus : THE SPECTACLES. 413 "Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle tong of his contre so veil as might. It is only de late dat I am arrive, and not yet ave de opportunite for to I e tudier. "Vid dis apologie for the maniere, I vill now say dat, helas ! Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de more ? Helas ? am I not ready speak de too moshe ? " EUGENIE LALANDE." This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed, no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot ivould not return. Alas ! could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering his absence occasioned his friend, would not his sympathising nature have flown immediately to my relief 1 Still, however, he came not. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent business but would shortly return. He begged me not to be impatient to moderate my transports to read soothing books to drink nothing stronger than Hock and to bring the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool ! if he could not come himself, why, in the name of everything rational, could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation] I wrote again, entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned by that footman, with the fol lowing endorsement in pencil. The scoundrel had joined his master in the country : "Left S yesterday, for parts unknown did not say where or ^vhen be back so thought best to return letter, knowing your hand writing, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry. " Yours sincerely, "STUBBS." After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal deities both master and valet ; but there was little use in anger, and no consolation at all in complaint. But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity. Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit, within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame Lalande ] Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight, it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet mid summer evening, I observed my opportunity, and accosted her. The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with 414 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and, to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The valet at once fell into the rear ; and now, withheai ts full to overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love. As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous enthu siasm of my nature, and with all the eloquence I could command, besought her consent to an immediate marriage. At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of de corum that bugbear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has for ever gone by. I had most imprudently made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired her acquaintance thus that I did not possess it thus, again, there was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be improper would be indecorous would be outre. All this she said with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it grieved and con vinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me, laughingly, of rashness of imprudence. She bade me remember that I really even knew not who she was what were her prospects, her con-* nections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an infatuation a will-o -the-wisp a fancy or fantasy of the moment a baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us and then, with a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared. I replied as best I could as only a true lover can. I spoke at length, and perseveringly, of my devotion, of my passion of her exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils that encompass the course of love that course of true love that never did run smooth, and thus deduced the manifest danger of rendering that course unnecessarily long. This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigour of her determination. She relented ; but there was yet an obstacle, she THE SPECTACLES. 415 said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This was a delicate point for a woman to urge, especially so ; in men tioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her feelings ; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware was I fully aware of the discrepancy between us ? That the age of the husband should surpass by a few years even by fifteen or twenty the age of the wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as even proper ; but she had always entertained the belief that the years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware that my own age did not exceed two and twenty ; and I, on the contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugenie extended very considerably beyond that sum. About all this there was a nobility of soul a dignity of candour which delighted which enchanted me which eternally riveted my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport which possessed me. " My sweetest Eugenie," I cried, { what is all this about which you are discoursing 1 ? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But what then ] The customs of the world are so many conventional follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs a year from an hour ? I am twenty-two, you say, granted : indeed you may as well call me, at once, twenty -three. Now you yourself, my clearest Eugenie, can have numbered no more than can have numbered no more than no more than than than than ", Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. Bat a French woman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own. In the present instance, Eugenie, who, for a few moments past, had seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up and presented to her. "Keep it!" she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles, " Keep it for my sake for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket, you may dis cover, perhaps, the very information you seem to desire, It is 416 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. now, to be sure, growing rather dark but you can examine it at your leisure in the morning. In the mean time, you shall be my escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a little musical levee. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of an old ac quaintance." With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge ; for it was just dark as we arrived ; and in American man sions of the better sort, lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp was lit in the principal drawing-room ; and this apartment, I could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even splendour ; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole evening, in a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-conceived custom, giving the party at least a choice of light or shade, and one which our friends over the water could not do better than immediately adopt. The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abil ities of her friends ; and the singing I here heard I had never heard excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instru mental performers were many and of superior talents. The vocal ists were chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At length, upon a peremptory call for " Madame Lalande," she arose at once, without affectation or demur, from the chaise lonyue upon which she had sate by my side, and, accompanied by one or two gentlemen, and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano in the main drawing-room. I would have escorted her my self ; but felt that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, I had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing, her sing. The impression she produced upon the company seemed electri calbut the effect upon myself was something even more. I know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no doubt, THE SPECTACLES. 41? from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued ; but chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her utterance of the romance in Otello the tone with which she gave the words " Sul mio sasso? in the Capuletti is ringing in my memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have filled the San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision, every difficulty of vocal composition ascending and descending scales, cadences, Qifiorituri. In the finale of the Sonnanibula, she brought about a most remarkable effect at the words Ah ! non guinge uman pensiero Al contento ond io son piena." Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave, spring ing over an interval of two octaves. Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal execu tion, she resumed her seat by my side ; when I expressed to her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her performance. Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most unfeignedly surprised ; for a certain feebleness, or rather a certain tremulous indecision of voice in ordinary conversation, had prepared me to anticipate that, in singing, she would not acquit herself with any remarkable ability. Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier passages of my life, and listened with breathless attention to every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing I felt that I had a right to conceal nothing from her confiding affection. Encouraged by her candour upon the delicate point of her age, I entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my many minor vices, but made full confession of those moral and even those physical infirmities, the disclosure of which, in demanding so much higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an evidence of love. I touched upon my college indiscretions upon my extravagances upon my carousals upon my debtsupon my flirtations. I even 27 4i 8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic cough with which, at one time, I had been troubled of a chronic rheumatism of a twinge of hereditary gout and, in conclusion, of the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully concealed, weakness of my eyes. "Upon this latter point," said Madame Lalande, laughingly, * you have been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for, without the confession, I take it for ganted that no one would have accused you of the crime. By-the~by," she continued, " have you any recollection" and here I fancied that a blush, even through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible upon her cheek "have you any recollection, mon cher ami, of this little ocular assistant which now depends from my neck ]" As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double eye glass, which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the opera. " Full well alas ! do I remember it," I exclaimed, pressing passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly chased and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in the deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high value " Eh bien ! mon ami" she resumed with a certain empresse- ment of manner that rather surprised me "Eh bien, mon ami, you have earnestly besought of me a favour which you have been pleased to denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties and, I may add, to the pleadings of my own bosom would I not be entitled to demand of you a very a very little boon in return V "Name it !" I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon us the observation of the company, and restrained by their presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet. " Name it, my beloved, my Eugenie, my own ! name it ! but alas, it is already yielded ere named." " You shall conquer then, mon amie," said she, " for the sake of the Eugenie whom you love, this little weakness which you have last confessed this weakness more moral than physical and which, let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real nature so inconsistent with the candour of your usual character and which, if permitted farther control, will assuredly involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable scrape. You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which leads you, as you your* THE SPECTACLES. 419 self acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny, in refusing to employ the customary means for its relief. You will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear spectacles : ah, hush ! you have already consented to wear them, for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is really of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a trifling modification thus or thus it can be adapted to the eyes in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and habitually, that you have already consented to wear it for my sake" This request must I confess it? confused me in no little degree. But the condition with which it was coupled rendered hesitation, of course, a matter altogether out of the question. " It is done !" I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could muster at the moment. "It is done it is most cheerfully agreed. I sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart ; but with the earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of calling you wife, I will place it upon my upon my nose and there wear it ever afterwards, in the less romantic, and less fashionable, but cer tainly in the more serviceable form which you desire." Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrange ments for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just arrived in town. I was to see him at once, and procure a carriage. The soiree would scarcely break up before two ; and by this hour the vehicle was to be at the door ; when, in the confusion occasioned by the departure of the company, Madame L. could easily enter it unobserved. We were then to call at the house of a clergyman who would be in waiting ; there be married, drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East ; leaving the fashionable world at home to make whatever comments upon the matter it thought best. Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in search of Talbot, but on the way I could not refrain from stepping into an hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the miniature ; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one ! Those large luminous eyes ! that proud Grecian nose ! those dark luxuriant curls ! " Ah !" said I 27-2 4 2o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. exultingly to myself, "this is indeed the speaking image of my beloved !" I turned the reverse, and discovered the words " Eugenie Lalande aged twenty-seven years and seven months." I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our arrange ment to the letter ; and at two in the morning, just ten minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage with Madame Lalande with Mrs. Simpson, I should say and driving at a great rate out of town, in a direction north-east by north, half- north. It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be up all night, we should make our first stop at C , a village about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At four pre cisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered breakfast forth with. In the meantime we were shown into a small parlour and sat down. It was now nearly, if not altogether, daylight ; and as I gazed, enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness by daylight at all. "And now, mon ami" said she, taking my hand, and so inter rupting this train of reflection, " and now, mon cher ami, since we are indissolubly one since I have yielded to your passionate en treaties, and performed my portion of our agreement I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a little favour to bestow a little promise which it is your intention to keep. Ah ! let me see ! Let me remember ! Yes ; full easily do I call to mind the precise words of the dear promise you made to Eugenie last night. Listen ! You spoke thus : * It is done ! it is most cheerfully agreed ! I sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To night I wear this dear eye-glass a,- an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it upon my upon my nose and there wear it ever afterwards, in the less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable form which THE SPECTACLES, 421 you desire. These were the exact words, my beloved husband, were they not T "They were/ I said; "you have an excellent memory; and assuredly, my beautiful Eugenie, there is no disposition on my part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply. See ! Behold ! They are becoming rather are. they not V And here, having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I applied them gingerly in their proper position ; while Madame Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat bolt upright in her chair, in a somewhat .stiff and prim, and indeed in a somewhat undignified position. "Goodness gracious me !" I exclaimed almost at the very instant that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose " My ! goodness gracious me ! why what can be the matter with these glasses 1 and taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again. But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became elevated into astonishment ; and this astonishment was profound was extreme indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in the name of everything hideous, did this mean ? Could I believe my eyes ? could 1 1 that was the question. Was that was that was that rouge? And were those and were those were those ivrinkles, upon the visage of Eugenie Lalande 1 And oh, Jupiter ! and every one of the gods and goddesses, little and big! what what what what had become of her teeth ? I dashed the spectacles violently to the ground, and leaping to my feet, stood erect in the middle of the floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms set akimbo, and grinning and foaming, but at the same time utterly speechless and helpless with terror and with rage. Now I have already said that Madame Eugenie Lalande that is to say, Simpson spoke the English language but very little better than she wrote it : and for this reason she very properly never attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will carry a lady to any extreme ; and in the present case it carried Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting to hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether understand. "Veil, Monsieur/ said she, after surveying me, in great apparent astonishment, for some moments "Yell, monsieur! and vat 422 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. den 1 vat de matter now 1 Is it de dance of de Saint Vitusse dat you ave ? If not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in de poke V 1 "You wretch!" said I, catching my breath " you you you villanous old hag !" " Ag 1 ? ole ? me not so ver ole, after all ! me not one single day more dan de eighty-doo. 5 "Eighty-two!" I ejaculated, staggering to the wall " eighty- two hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty- seven years and seven months !" " To be sure ! dat is so ! ver true ! but den de portraits has been take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande, Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart V " Moissart !" said I " Yes, Moissart ;" said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to speak the truth, was none of the best ; " and vat den ? Vat you know bout de Moissart 1" " Nothing, you old fright ! I know nothing about him at all ; only I had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time." " Dat name ! and vat you ave for say to dat name 1 Tis ver goot name ; and so is Voissart dat is ver goot name too. My daughter, Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Vois sart ; and de name is bote ver respectaable name." " Moissart V I exclaimed, " and Voissart ! why what is it you mean "Vat I mean? I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of dat, I mean Ooissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink proper to mean it. My daughter s daughter, Mademoiselle Vois sart, she marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den agin, my daugh ter s grande daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Mon sieur Froissart ; and I suppose you say dat dat is not von ver respectaable name." " Froissart !" said I, beginning to faint, " why surely you don t say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart 1" " Yes," she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and stretch ing out her lower limbs at great length ; " yes, Moissart, and Vois sart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur Froissart, he vas von ver big vat you call fool he vas von ver great big donee like yourself for he lef la belle France for come to dis stupicle Ame"r- que and ven he get here he vent and ave von ver stupide, von ver, THE SPECTACLES. 423 ver stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I not yet ave ad de plaisir to meet vid him neither me nor my companion, de Madame Ste phanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart, ancl I suppose you say dat dat, too, is not von ver respectaable name." Either the length or the nature of this speech had the effect of working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed; and as she made an end of it, with great labour, she jumped up from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet, she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves, shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance by tear ing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which she dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trampled and danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of rage, Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated. " Moissart and Voissart !" I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one of her pigeon- wings, and "Croissart and Froissart!" as "she com pleted another " Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and Napo^ leon Bonaparte Froissart ! why, you ineffable old serpent, that s me that s me d ye hear 1 ? that s me" here I screamed at the top of my voice "that s me e e/ I am Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart! and if I havn t married my great-great-grandmother, I wish I may be everlastingly confounded !" Madame Eugenie Lalande, quasi Simpson formerly Moissart was, in sober fact, my great-great-grandmother. In her youth she had been beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic height, the sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and the Grecian nose of her girlhood. By the aid of these, of pearl- powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth, and false tournure, as well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris, she contrived to hold a respectable footing among the beauties en peu passes of the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed, she might have been regarded as little less than the equal of the celebrated Ninon De L Enclos. She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a widow without children, she bethought herself of my existence in America, and, for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit to the United States, in company with a distant and exceed- 424 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. ingly lovely relative of her second husband s a Madame Stephanie Lalande. At the opera, my great-great-grandmother s attention was arrested by niy notice ; and, upon surveying me through her eye glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance to herself. Thus interested and knowing that the heir she sought was actually in the city, she made inquiries of her party respecting me. The gentleman who attended her knew my person, and told her who I was. The information thus obtained induced her to renew her. scrutiny ; and this scrutiny it was which so emboldened me that I behaved in the absurd manner already detailed. She returned my bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd accident, I had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I meant the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so informed me, with perfect truth, that she was " the celebrated widow, Madame Lalande." In the street, next morning, my great-great-grandmother en countered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance ; and the conversa tion very naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies of vision were then explained; for these were notorious, although I was entirely ignorant of their notoriety; and my good old relative dis covered, much to her chagrin, that she had been deceived in sup posing me aware of her identity, and that I had been merely making a fool of myself, in making open love, in a theatre, to an old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this imprudence, she con cocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept out of my way, to avoid giving me the introduction. My street inquiries about " the lovely widow, Madame Lalande," were supposed to refer to the younger lady of course ; and thus the conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly after leaving Talbot s hotel, will be easily explained, as also their allusion to Ninon De L Enclos. I had no opportunity of seeing Madame Lalande closely during day light and, at her musical soiree, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her age. When " Madame Lalande " was called upon to sing, the younger lady was intended ; and it was she who arose to obey the call, my great-great-grandmother, to further the deception, arising at the same moment, and accompanying her to the piano in the THE SPECTACLES. 425 main drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where I was ; but my own prudential views rendered this unneces sary. The songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Ma dame Stephanie Lalande. The eye-glass was presented by way of adding a reproof to the hoax a sting to the epigram of the decep tion. Its presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon affectation with which I was so especially edified. It is almost superfluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as worn by the old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better adapted to my years. They suited me, in fact, to a T. The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was a boon companion of Talbot s, and no priest. He was an excellent " whip," however; and having doffed his cassock to put on a great coat, he drove the hack which conveyed the " happy couple " out of town. Talbot took a seat at his side. The two scoundrels were thus " in at the death," and through a half open window of the back parlour of the inn, amused themselves in grinning at the denoue ment of the drama. I believe I shall be forced to call them both out. Nevertheless, I am not the husband of my great-great-grand- mother ; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite relief ; but I am the husband of Madame Lalande of Madame Stephanie Lalande with whom my good old relative, besides making me her sole heir when she dies if she ever does has been at the trouble of concocting me a match. In conclusion : I am done for ever with billets doux, and am never to be met without SPECTACLES. THE DUG DE UOMELETTE, "And stepped at once into a cooler clime." Cowper. EATS fell by a criticism. Who was it died of " The Andro mache ?"* Ignoble souls ! De L Omelette perished of an ortolan. L histoire en est breve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius ! A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamoured, nielt- * Montfleury. The author of the Parnasse Reforme makes him speak in Hades : " L homme doncqui voudrait savoir ce dont je suis mort, qui l ne demande pas si lftit defievre ou de podayre ou d autre chose, mais qui l cn- tende que cefut de L Andromache, " 426 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ing, indolent, to the Chaussee d Antin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor, La Bellissima, to the Due De L Ome- lette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. That night the Due was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bu reau 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 enamoured of men ! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Due 1 " Horreur ! chien ! Baptiste ! I oiseau ! ah, bon Dieu ! cet oiseau modeste que lu 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-chainbre 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 V " 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 tliy 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 revoirT and THE DUC DE V OMELETTE. 427 the Due was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentlemen in waiting. Here upon 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-coloured clouds. His Grace s brain reeled as he glanced upwards. 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 pop pies, 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 1 and was he not con sequently 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, q,s 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 uncur tained window is affording, lo ! gleams the most ghastly of all fires ! Lc pauvre Due ! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, 428 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the bowlings of the hopeless and the damned ! And there, too ! there ! upon that ottomam! who could he be? he, the petit-maitre no, the Deity who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si amerement f 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 had studied under B ; il avait tue ses six hommes. Now, then, il pent tfeckapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Hor- reur / his Majesty does not fence ! Mais iljoue I how happy a thought ! but his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the " Diable " of the Abbe" Gaultier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n ose pas refuses unjeu d ecart^. But the chances the chances ! True desperate ; but scarcely more desperate than the Due. Besides, was he not in the secret 1 had he not skimmed over Fere Le Brun ? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "/Sije perds" said he, "je serai deux fois perdu I shall be doubly damned 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 shuf fled. The Due cut. The cards are 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 lioi. His Majesty looked chagrined. Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Dio genes ; and the Due assured his antagonist in taking leave, " que s il n etlt pas tie De L Omelette il n aurait point d objection d etre le DiabU? LIONIZING. 429 LIONIZING. all people went Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment." Bishop Hall s Satires. AM that is to say I tvas a great man ; but I am neither the author of Junius nor the man in the mask ; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was born some where in the city of Fum-Fudge. The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius : my father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was breeched. I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand that, .provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspi cuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morn ing I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams. : When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would- step with him into his study. " My son," said he, when we were seated, " what is the chief end of your existence 1" " My father," I answered, " it is the study of Nosology." "And what, Robert," he inquired, "is Nosology]" " Sir," I said, " it is the Science of Noses." " And can you tell me," he demanded, " what is the meaning of a nose 1" " A nose, my father," I replied, greatly softened, " has been variously defined by about a thousand different authors." [Here I pulled out my watch.] " It is now noon or thereabouts we shall have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To commence then : The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance that bump that excrescence that " " Will do, Robert," interrupted the good old gentleman. " I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information I am positively upon my soul." [Here lie closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his heart.] " Come here !" [Here he took me by the arm.] 430 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " Your education may now be considered as finished it is high time you should scuffle for yourself and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your nose so so so " [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door] " so get out of my house, and God bless you !" As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith. All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar. " Wonderful genius !" said the Quarterly. " Superb physiologist !" said the Westminster. " Clever fellow !" said the Foreign. " Fine writer !" said the Edinburgh. " Profound thinker !" said the Dublin. " Great man !" said Bentley. " Divine soul !" said Fraser. " One of us !" said Blackwood. " Who can he be V said Mrs. Bas-Bleu. " What can he be T said big Miss Bas-Bleu. " Where can he be V said little Miss Bas-Bleu. But I paid these people no attention whatever I just stepped into the shop of an artist. The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait ; the Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess s poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was flirting with her salts ; and his Koyal Highness of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair. I approached the artist and turned up my nose. " Oh, beautiful !" sighed her Grace. " Oh my !" lisped the Marquis. " Oh, shocking !" groaned the Earl. " Oh, abominable !" growled his Royal Highness. "What will you take for iU" asked the artist. " For his nose /" shouted her Grace. " A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down. " A thousand pounds V inquired the artist, musingly. " A thousand pounds," said I. " Beautiful !" said he, entranced. " A thousand pounds," said I. " Do you warrant it V he asked, turning the nose to the light. LIONIZING. 431 " I do," said I, blowing it well. " Is it quite original V he inquired, touching it with reverence. " Humph !" said I, twisting it to one side. " Has no copy been taken V he demanded, surveying it through a microscope. " None," said I, turning it up. " Admirable /" he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty of the manoeuvre. " A thousand pounds," said I. " A thousand pounds 1" said he. " Precisely," said I. " A thousand pounds ?" said he. " Just so," said I. " You shall have them," said he. " What a piece of virtu /" So he drew me a cheque upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn Street, and sent her Majesty the ninety- ninth edition of the " Nosology," with a portrait of the proboscis. That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner. We were all lions and recherches. There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, lamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus. There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestley, Condorcet, De Stael, and the " Ambitious Student in 111 Health." There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools. There was /Estheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive intelli gence and homoomeria. There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus ; heresy and the Council of Nice ; Puseyism and con-sub- stantialism ; Homousios and Homouioisios. There was Fricassee from the Kocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of red tongue ; cauliflowers with veloute sauce ; veal a la St. Menehoult ; marinade a la St. Florentin ; and orange jellies en mosa iques. There was Bibulus O Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbriinnen ; upon Mousseux and Chambertin ; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon Haubrion, Leon ville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grave, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon 432 WORKS OP EDGAR ALLAN POE. St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado. There was Signer Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimabue", Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino of the gloom of Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colours of Titian, of the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen. There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls ; that some body in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads ; and that the earth was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of green horns. There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of .^Eschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isseus ; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus ; of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius ; of Pindar s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty tragedies of Homer Junior. There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all about internal fires and tertiary formations ; about aeriforms, fluidiforms, and solidif orms ; about quartz and marl ; about schist and schorl ; about gypsum and trap ; about talc and calc ; about blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite ; about hsematite and tremolite ; about anti mony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please. There was myself. I spoke of myself ; of myself, of myself, of myself ; of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up my nose, and I spoke of myself. " Marvellous clever man !" said the Prince. " Superb !" said his guests : and next morning her Grace of Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit. " Will you go to Almack s, pretty creature 1" she said, tapping me under the chin. " Upon honour," said I. " Nose and all ?" she asked. "As I live," I replied. " Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you mil be there V " Dear Duchess, with all my heart." LIONIZING. 433 " Pshaw, no ! but with all your nose V " Every bit of it, my love," said I : so I gave it a twist or two, and found myself at Almack s. The rooms were crowded to suffocation. " He is coining !" said somebody on the staircase. " He is coining !" said some somebody farther up. " He is coming !" said somebody farther still. " He is come !" exclaimed the Duchess. " He is come, the little love !" and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued. " Diavolo !" cried Count Capricornutti. " Dios guarda /" muttered Don Stiletto. " Mille tonnerres /" ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille. " Tousand teufel" growled the elector of Bluddennuff. It was not to be borne. I grew angry. 1 turned short upon Bluddennuff. " Sir !" said I to him, " you are a baboon !" "Sir," he replied, after a pause, " Donner und Blitzen /" This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At Chalk Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose, and then called upon my friends. " Bete" naid the first. " Fool !" said the second. " Dolt !" said the third. " Ass !" said the fourth. " Ninny !" s:;id the fifth. " Noodle !" said the sixth. " Be off !" said the seventh. At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father. " Father," I asked, " what is the chief end of my existence V " My son," he replied, " it is still the study of Nosology ; but in hitting the elector upon the nose, you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true ; but then. Bluddennuff has none ! You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his proboscis ; but, good heavens ! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all." 28 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD, A TALE WITH A MORAL. | ON tal que las costumbres de un autor," says Don Thomas De Las Torres, in the preface to his " Amatory Poems," "sean puras y castas, importo muy poco que no sean igualmentes ever as sus obras" meaning, in plain English, that, pro vided the morals of an author are pure, personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We presume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would be a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him there until his " Amatory Poems" get out of print, or are laid definitely upon the shelf through lack of readers. Every fiction should have a moral ; and, what is more to the purpose, the critics have dis covered that every fiction has. Philip Melancthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon the " Batraehomyomachia," and proved that the poet s object was to excite a distaste for sedition. Pierre La Seine, going a step farther, shows that the intention was to re commend to young men temperance in eating and drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself that, by Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin ; by Antinous, Martin Luther ; by the Lotophagi, Protestants in general ; and by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our more modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning in "The Antediluvians," a parable in " Powhatan," new views in " Cock Robin," and trans cendentalism in " Hop O ^My Thumb." In short, it has been shown that no man can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for example, need have no care of his moral. It is there that is to say, it is somewhere and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the gentle man intended, and all he did not intend, will be brought to light in the "Dial," or the " Down -Easter," together with all that he ought to have intended, and the rest that he clearly meant to intend : so that it will all come very straight in the end. There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by certain ignoramuses that I have never written a moral tale or, in more precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestined to bring me out, and develop rny morals ; that NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 435 is the secret. By and by the " North American Quarterly Hum drum" will make them ashamed of their stupidity. In the mean time, by way of staying execution by way of mitigating the accu sations against me I .offer the sad history appended ; a history about whose obvious moral there can be no question whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals which form the title of the tale. I should have credit for this arrangement a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the impres sion to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end of their fables. Defuncti injurid ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, and De morluis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction even if the dead in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design, therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad dog, it is true, and a dog s death it was that he died ; but he himself was not to blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an infant for duties to her well-regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like tough steaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the better for beating but, poor woman ! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left unfloggecL The world re volves from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an evil pro pensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby s chastise ments, and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive that he was getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all ; and, one day, when he had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might have mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice, made pro phecy of his ruin. The fact is that his precocity in vice was awf nl. At five months of age he used to get into such passions that he was unable to arti culate. At six months I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months, he was in the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight months, he peremptorily refused to 28-2 436 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. put his signature to the temperance pledge. Thus he went on in creasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and for backing his assertions by bets. Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had " grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength," so that, when he came to be a man, he could scarcely utter a sen tence without interlarding it with a proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid wagers no. I will do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With him the thing was a mere formula nothing more. His expressions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple, if not altogether innocent expletives imaginative phrases wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said, " I ll bet you so and so," nobody ever thought of taking him up ; but still I could not help thinking it my duty to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgar one this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by society here I said nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act of Congress here I had not the slightest intention of telling a lie. I remonstrated but to no purpose. I demonstrated in vain. I entreated he smiled. I implored he laughed. I preached he sneered. I threatened he swore. I kicked him he called for the police. I pulled his nose he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil his head that I would not venture to try that experiment again. Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of Dammit s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detest ably poor ; and this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about betting seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I ever heard him make use of such a figure of speech as " I ll bet you a dollar." It was usually " I ll bet you what you please," or " I ll bet you what you dare," or " I ll bet you a trifle," or else, more significantly still, " I ll bet the Devil my head." This latter form seemed to please him best : perhaps because it involved the least risk ; for Dammit had become excessively par simonious. Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have been small too. But these are my own NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD. 437 reflections, and I am by no means sure that I am right in attribut ing them to him. At all events the phrase in question grew daily in favour, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a man betting his brains like bank-notes : but this was a point which my friend s perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend. In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave him self up to " I ll bet tlie Devil my liead" with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his offensive expression something in his manner of enunciation which at first interested and afterwards made me very uneasy something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to call queer ; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Caiiyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyper- quizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammit s soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to serve him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is said to have served the toad, that is to say, " awaken him to a sense of his situation." I addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt at expostulation. When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in some very equivocal behaviour. For some moments he remained silent, merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head to one side, and elevated his eye brows to great extent. Then he spread out the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he shut them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very wide that I became seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb to his nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the rest of his fingers. Finally, setting his arms akimbo, he condescended to reply. I can call to mind only the heads of his discourse. He would be obliged to me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I still think him baby Dammit ? 438 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Did I mean to say anything against his character 1 Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool] Was my maternal parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence v He would put this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My con fusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet the Devil his head that she did not. Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused, For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have won for the Arch- Enemy Mr. Dammit s little head for the fact is, my mamma ivas very well aware of my merely temporary absence from home. But Khoda she/a midehed Heaven gives relief as the Mus- sulmen say when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me, however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I forbore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his society altogether. I even went so far as to humour some of his less reprehensible propensities ; and there were times when I found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyes : so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk. One fine clay, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route led us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the archway having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare, and the interior gloom, struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped. He seemed to be in an unusual good humour. He was excessively lively so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the point ; and unhappily NEVER BET THE DEVIL TOUR HEAD. 439 there were none of my friends of the " Dial " present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain species of austere Merry- Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that came in his way ; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we Approached the termination of the foot way, when our progress was impeded by a turn-stile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon- wing over it in the air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style, was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as I knew lie could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done by Toby Dammit. I there fore told him, in so many words, that he was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this, I had reason to be sorry afterwards ; for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his head that he could. .. I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation " ahem !" I started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a nook of the framework of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little lame old gentleman of ven erable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend than his whole appearance ; for he not only had on a full suit of black, but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl s. His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head. Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk apron over his small clothes ; and this was a thing which I thought very odd. Before I had time to make any remark, how ever, -upon so singular a circumstance, he interrupted me with a second " ahem /" To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. 440 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. The fact is, remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word "Fudge/" I am not ashamed to say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance. "Dammit," said I, "what are you about? don t you hear? the gentleman says ahem !\ " I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him ; for to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is pretty sure to look like a fool. " Dammit," observed I although this sounded very much like an oath, than which nothing was farther from my thoughts "Dammit," I suggested " the gentleman says ahem/ " I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of pro fundity ; I did not think it profound myself ; but I have noticed that the effect of our speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own eyes ; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him in the head with the " Poets and Poetry of America," he could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those simple words "Dammit, what are you about 1 ? don t you hear? the gentleman says ahem / " " You don t say so 1" gasped he at length, after turning more colours than a pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. " Are you quite sure he said that ? Well, at all events, I am in for it now, and may as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then ahem J" At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased God only knows why. He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all the while straight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine; " I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit," said he with the frankest of all smiles, " but we are obliged to have a trial you know, for the sake of mere form." " Ahem !" replied my friend, taking off his coat with a deep sigh, tying a pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes, and bringing down the corners of his mouth "ahem!" And " ahem," said he again, after a pause ; and not another word NEVER BET THE DEVIL VOUR PIE AD. 441 more than "ahem!" did I ever know him to say after that. " Aha !" thought I, without expressing myself aloud " this is quite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals." "Ahem !" here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and looking like a very old sheep ki a reverie. The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade of the bridge a few paces back from the turnstile. " My good fellow," said he, " I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don t omit any flourishes of the pigeon- wing. A mere form, you know. I will say, one, two, three, and away/ Mind you start at the word * away. ;J Here he took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked up and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as agreed upon One two three and away. Punctually at the word " away," my poor friend set off in a strong gallop. The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord s- nor yet very low, like that of Mr. Lord s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear it. And then what if he did not 1 ah, that was the question what if he did not ] " What right," said I, " had the old gentleman to make any other gentle man jump 1 The little old dot-and-carry-one ! who is he ? If he asks me to jump, I won t do it, that s flat, and I don t care who the devil he is." The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words of my remark. But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an instant. In less than five seconds] from his starting, my poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful 442 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN Pd. flourishes with his legs as he went up. I saw him high in the aif> pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the stile ; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any profound reflec tions, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At the same instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapped up in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished ; but I had no leisure to think, for Mr. Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere ; so I determined to take him home, and send for the homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adja cent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the footpath, so as to constitute a brace, there extended a great iron bar, lying with its breath horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact. He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and for the general expenses of his funeral sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dogs meat. SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY, HE symposium of the preceding evening had been a little too much for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy. Instead of going out, therefore, to spend the evening, as I had proposed, it occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and go immediately to bed. A light supper, of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three, there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon four. My wife will have it five ; but, clearly, she has confounded two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to admit ; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of brown stout, without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed. Having thus concluded a frugal meal and donned my night-cap, with the serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon the pillow, and through the aid of a capital con science, fell into a profound slumber forthwith. But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled ] I could not have completed my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell, and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once. In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran thus : "Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my examination of the Mummy you know the one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it, and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present you, of course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven to-night. "Yours ever, "PONNONNER." By the time I had reached the " Ponnonner," it struck me that I was as wide awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstasy, overthrowing all in my way ; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous ; and set off. at the top of my speed, for the doctor s. 444 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me with much impatience ; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table ; and the moment I entered, its examination was commenced. It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner s, from a tomb near Eleithias, in the Lybian Mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile. The grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from which our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such illustrations the walls being completely covered with fresco-paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased. The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it ; that is to say, the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood, subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the complete Mummy at our disposal ; and to those who are aware how very rarely the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once, that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune. Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was oblong not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be the wood of the sycamore (platanm), but upon cutting into it, we found it to be pasteboard, or, more pro perly, papier-mdche, composed of papyrus. It was thickly orna mented with paintings, representing funeral scenes, and other mournful subjects interspersed among which, in every variety of position, were certain series of hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the name of the departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party ; and he had no difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and represented the word, Allamistakeo. We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury ; but, having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second, coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the exterior SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 445 one, but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between the two was filled with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the colours of the interior box. Upon opening this latter, (which we did quite easily,) we arrived at a third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no particular, except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odour of that wood. Between the second and the third case there was no interval the one fitting accurately within the other. Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls or bandages of linen ; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath, made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and painted. The paintings represented subjects con nected with the various supposed duties of the soul, and its presen tation to different divinities, with numerous identical human figures, intended, very probably, as portraits of the persons em balmed. Extending from head to foot, was a columnar, or per pendicular inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations. Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads, diverse in colour, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the scarabaeus, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist was a similar collar or belt Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preser vation, with no perceptible odour. The colour was reddish. The skin was hard, smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes (it seemed) had been removed, arid glass ones substituted, which were very beautiful, and wonderfully life like, with the exception of somewhat too determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded. Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum . but, on scraping the surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the powder thus obtained, the flavour of cam phor and other sweet-scented gums became apparent. We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover none. No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened mummies are not unfrequently met. 446 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The brain it was customary to withdraw through the nose ; the intestines through an incision in the side ; the body was then shaved, washed, and salted ; then laid aside for several weeks, when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began. As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was preparing his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then past two o clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until the next evening ; and we were about to separate for the present, when some one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic pile. The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original, and we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths in jest, we arranged a battery in the doctor s study, and conveyed thither the Egyptian. It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than other parts of the frame, but which, as we had antici pated, of course, gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night, when my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the tunica albu- ginea remained visible. With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became imme diately obvious to all. I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because " alarmed" is, in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for the brown stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of the company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright fright which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr. Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk Buckingham > I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his way, upon all fours, under the table. After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a, SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 447 matter of course, upon farther experiment forthwith. Our opera tions were now directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over the outside of the exterior os sesamoideum pollicis pedis, and thus got at the root of the abductor muscle. He-adjusting the battery, we now applied the fluid to the bisected nerves, when, with a movement of exceeding life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner, which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a catapult, through a window into the street below. We rushed out en masse to bring in the mangled remains of the victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in an unaccountable hurry, brimfull of the most ardent philosophy, and more than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiments with rigour and with zeal. It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a profound incision into the tip of the subject s nose, while the doctor himself, laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehe ment contact with the wire. Morally and physically figuratively and literally was the effect electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes, and winked very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the panto mime ; in the second place, it sneezed ; in the third, it sat upon end ; in the fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor Ponnonner s face ; in the fifth, turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, it ad dressed them, in very capital Egyptian, thus : " I must say. gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified, at your behaviour. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He is a poor little fat fool who knoivs no bet ter. I pity and forgive him. But you, Mr. Gliddon and you, Silk who have travelled and resided in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manor born you, I say, who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I think, as you write your mother tongue you, whom I have always been led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies I really did anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins, and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold 448 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, climate ! In what light (to come to the point) am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose V It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of conduct might have been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the other. But, perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the age, which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now usually admitted as the solution of everything in the way of paradox and impos sibility. Or perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy s exceed ingly natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible. However this may be, the facts are clear, and no member of our party betrayed any very particular trepidation, or seemed to consider that anything had gone very especially wrong. For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside, out of the range of the Egyptian s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew excessively red in the face. Mr. Gliddon stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his right thumb into the left corner of his mouth. The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes, and at length, with a sneer, said : " Why don t you speak, Mr. Buckingham 1 Did you hear what I asked you, or not 1 Do take your thumb out of your mouth !" Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indem nification, inserted his left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned. Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what we all meant. Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics ; and but for the deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his very excellent speech. SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 449 I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subse quent conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other untravelled members of the company) through the medium, I say, of Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke the mother-tongue of the mummy with inimitable fluency and grace ; but I could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger,) the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr. Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian comprehend the term " politics," until he sketched upon the wall, with a bit of charcoal, a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows, standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, his right arm thrown forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward heaven, and the mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr. Buckingham failed to convey the abso lutely modern idea, " whig," until, (at Doctor Ponnonner s sug gestion,) he grew very pale in the face, and consented to take off his own. It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon s discourse turned chiefly upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and disembowelling of mummies ; apologizing, upon this score, for any disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the individual mummy called Allamistakeo ; and concluding with a mere hint (for it could scarcely be considered more), that, as these little matters were now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments. In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the apologies tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the company all round. When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied our selves in repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged Jhis foot, and applied a square inch of black plaster to the tip of his Inose. 29 450 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of Allamistakeo), had a slight fit of shivering no doubt from the cold. The doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a black dress coat, made in Jennings best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a napped vest of brocade, a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim, patent-leather boots, straw- coloured kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of whiskers, and a water fall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was some little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of the Egyptian ; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a comfortable chair by the fire, while the doctor rang the bell upon the spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine. The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course, expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo s still remaining alive. " I should have thought," observed Mr. Buckingham, " that it is high time you were dead." " Why," replied the Count, very much astonished, " I am little more than seven hundred years old ! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means in his dotage when he died." Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years, and some months, since he had been consigned to the cata combs at Eleithias. " But my remark," resumed Mr. Buckingham, " had no reference to your age at the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are still a young man) ; and my allusion was to the immensity of time during which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum." " In what]" said the Count. " In asphaltum," persisted Mr. B. " Ah, yes ; I have some faint notion of what you mean ; it might be made to answer, no doubt, but in my time we employed scarcely anything else than the Bichloride of Mercury." " But what we are especially at a loss to understand," said Doctor Ponnonner, "is, how it happens that, having been dead and buried SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 451 in Egypt five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive, and looking so delightfully well." " Had I been, as you say, dead" replied the Count, " it is more than probable that dead I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the infancy of galvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common thing among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy, and it was considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should be ; they accordingly embalmed me at once I presume you are aware of the chief principle of the em balming process V " Why, not altogether." " Ah, I perceive ; a deplorable condition of ignorance ! Well, I cannot enter into details just now : but it is necessary to explain that to embalm (properly speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal functions subjected to the process. I use the word animal in its widest sense, as including the physical not more than the moral and vital being. I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever condition the individual was, at the period of embalmment, in that condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of the Scarabceus, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present." " The blood of the Scarabceus I" exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner. " Yes. The Scarabceus was the insignium, or the arms, of a very distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be of the blood of the Scarabceus, is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabceus is the insignium, I speak figuratively." " But what has this to do with your being alive 1" " Why it is the general custom in Egypt, to deprive a corpse- before embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of Scarabcei alone did not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scara bceus, therefore, I should have been without bowels and brains ; and without either it is inconvenient to live." " I perceive that," said Mr. Buckingham ; " and T presume that all the entire mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scara bcei." " Beyond doubt." " I thought," said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, " that the Scara bceus was one of the Egyptian gods." 29 2 45 2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " One of the Egyptian what ?" exclaimed the mummy starting to its feet. " Gods !" repeated the traveller. " Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to IIGPT you talk in this style," said the Count, resuming his seat. ; Xo nation upon the face of the earth has ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabceus, the Ibis, etc., were with us (as similar creatures have been with others), the symbols, or media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be more directly approached." There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor Ponnonner. " It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained," said he, "that among the catacombs near the Nile, there may exist other mummies of the Scarabseus tribe, in a condition of vitality." " There can be no question of it," replied the Count ; " all the Scaraboei embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive. Even some of those purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and still remain in the tombs." " Will you be kind enough to explain," I said, " what you mean by purposely so embalmed V " " With great pleasure," answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely through his eye-glass for it was the first time I had ventured to address him a direct question. " With great pleasure," he said. " The usual duration of man s life, in my time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most extraordinary accident, before the age of six hun dred ; few lived longer than a decade of centuries ; but eight were considered the natural term. After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of science much advanced, by living this natural term in instalments. In the case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this kind was indis pensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age of five hundred, would write a book with great labour and then get himself carefully embalmed ; leaving instructions to his executors pro tern., that they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period say five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of hap-hazard note-book SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 453 that is to say, into a kind of literary arena for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole herds of exasperated com mentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go about with a lantern to discover his own book. When discovered, it was never worth the trouble of the search. After re writing it throughout, it was regarded as the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work, immediately, in correcting, from his own private knowledge and experience, the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally lived. Now this process of re-scription and personal rectification, pursued by various individual sages, from time to time, had the effect of pre venting our history from degenerating into absolute fable." " I beg your pardon," said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, lay ing his hand gently upon the arm of the Egyptian " I beg your pardon, sir, but may I presume to interrupt you for one moment V " By all means, sir" replied the Count, drawing up. " I merely wished to ask you a question," said the doctor. " You mentioned the historian s personal correction of traditions respect ing his own epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average, what proportion of these Kabbala were usually found to be right V " The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-rewritten histories themselves ; that is to say, not one indivi dual iota of either was ever known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and radically wrong." " But since it is quite clear," resumed the doctor, "that at least five thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted that your histories at that period, if not your traditions, were sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the Creation, which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten centuries before." " Sir !" said the Count Allamistakeo. The doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much ad ditional explanation that the foreigner could be made to compre hend them. The latter at length said, hesitatingly : " The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the universe (or this world if you will have it so), ever 454 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. had a beginning at all. I remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted by a man of many speculations concern ing the origin of the human race ; and by this individual the very word Adam (or Red Earth), which you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just as a thousand of the lower genera si creatures are germinated) the spontaneous ger mination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously upspring- ing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe." Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham, first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the siniciput of Allamistakeo, spoke as follows : " The long duration of human life in your time, together with the occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in in stalments, must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, there fore, that we are to attribute the marked inferiority of the old Egyp tians in all particulars of science, when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the Yankees, altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull." " I confess again," replied the Count, with much suavity, " that I am somewhat at a loss to comprehend you ; pray, to what particu lars of science do you allude T Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal mag netism. Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes, which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim had flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very contemptible tricks when put in collation with the posi tive miracles of the Theban savans, who created lice, and a great many other similar things. I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses He smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were. This put me a little out ; but I began to make other inquiries in regard to his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the com pany, who had never as yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on this head I had better consult Ptolemy, (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one Plutarch defnde lunce.. SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 455 I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses and, in general, about the manufacture of glass ; but I had not made an end of my queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow, and begged me, for God s sake, to take a eep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the Count, lie merely asked me, liftlie way of reply, if we moderns possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this question, little Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very extraordinary way. " Look at our architecture !" he exclaimed, greatly to the indig nation of both the travellers, who pinched him black and blue to no purpose. " Look !" he cried, with enthusiasm, " at the Bowling-green Foun tain in New York ! or, if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for "a moment the Capitol at Washington, D.C. !" and the good little medical man went on to detail, very minutely, the proportions of the fabric to which he referred. He explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less than four arid twenty columns, five feet in diameter, and ten feet apart. The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the prin cipal buildings of the City of Aznac, whose foundations were laid in the night of Time, but the ruins of which were still standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in a vast plain of sand to the west ward of Thebes. He recollected, however (talking of porticoes), that one affixed to an inferior palace in a kind of suburb called Cariiac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four columns, thirty-seven feet each in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart. The ap proach of this portico, from the Nile, was through an avenue two miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues and obelisks, twenty, sixty, and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself (as well as he could remember) was, in one direction, two miles long, and might have been, altogether, about seven in circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over, within and without, with hierogly phics. He would not pretend to assert that even fifty or sixty of the Doctor s Capitols might have been built within these walls, but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred of them might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace at Carnac was an insignificant little building after all. He (the Count) however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the ingenuity, 456 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. magnificence, and superiority of the fountain at the Bowling-green, as described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow, had ever been seen in Egypt or elsewhere-. I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads. " Nothing," he replied, " in particular." They were rather slight, rather ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not be compared, of course, with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved causeways, upon which the Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and fifty feet in altitude. I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces. He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I should have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even the little palace at Carnac. This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any idea of Artesian wells ; but he simply raised his eyebrows ; while Mr. Gliddon winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone,, that one had been recently discovered by the engineers em ployed to bore for water in the Great Oasis. I then mentioned our steel ; but the foreigner elevated his nose, and asked me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved work seen on the obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper. Thisdisc oncerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called the " Dial," and read out of it a chapter or two about some thing which is not very clear, but which the Bostonians call the Great Movement or Progress. The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common things in his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite a nuisance, but it never progressed. We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Demo cracy, and were at much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the advantages we enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum, and no king. He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little amused. When we had done he said that, a great while ago there had occurred something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined all at once to be free, and so set a magnifi cent example to the rest of mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious constitution it is possible SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. 45? to conceive. For a while they managed remarkably well ; only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism that ever was heard of upon the face of the Earth. I ask what was the name of the usurping tyrant. As well as the Count could recollect it was Mob. Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and de plored the Egyptian ignorance of steam. The Count looked at me v, Itli much astonishment, but made no answer. The silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his elbows told me I had sufficiently exposed my self for once and demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern steam engine is derived from the invention of Hero, through Solomon de Caus. We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited ; but, as good luck would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, re turned to our rescue, and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the moderns in the all important particu lar of dress. The Count, at this, glanced downwards to the straps of his pan taloons, and then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it up close to his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended itself very gradually from ear to ear ; but I do not remember that he said anything in the way of reply. Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approach ing the Mummy with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honour as a gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended at any period the manufacture of either Ponnonner s lozenges, or Brandreth ; s pill& We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer ; but in vain. It was not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was triumph more consummate ; never was defeat borne with so ill a grace. Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mammy s mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave. Upon getting home I found it past four o clock, and went imme diately to bed. It is now ten, A.M. I have been up since seven, penning these memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall behold no more. My wife is a 458 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that everything is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be Presi dent in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow^ cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner s and get embalmed for a couple of hundred years. WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING, |T S on my wisiting cards sure enough (and it s them that s all o pink satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin words, " Sir Pathrick O Grandison, Barronitt, 39, Southampton Row, Ptussell Square. Parrish o Bloomsbury." And shud ye be wantin to diskiver who is the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl city o Lonon why it s jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder at all at all, (so be plased to stop curling your nose), for every inch o the six wakes that I ve been a gintleman, and left aff wid the bog-throthing to take up wid the Barronissy, it s Path- rick that s been living like a houly imperor, andgitting the iddica- tion and the graces. Och ! and wouldn t it be a blessed thing for your sperrits if ye cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O Grandison, Barronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for the hop- peror, or stipping into the Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it s the illigant big figgur that I ave, for the rason o which all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn t it my own swate silf now that ll missure the six fut, and the three inches more nor that, in me stockings, and that am excadingly will proportioned all over to match 1 And is it ralelly more than the three fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that s a oggling and a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him), at the purty widdy Misthress Trade that s my own nixt door neighbour, (God bliss her) and a most particuller frind and acquaintance 1 You percave the little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a sling ; and it s for that same thing, by yur lave, that I m going to give you the good rason. THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 459 The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough ; for the very first day that I com d from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case althegither wid the heart o the purty Misthress Trade. I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that s God s thruth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o them, and divil may burn me if it didn t spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the spy-glass, " Och ! the tip o the mornin to ye, Sir Pathrick O Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen ; and it s a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and it s mesilf and me forten jist that ll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o day at all at all for the asking." And it s not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness ; so I made her a bow that wud ha broken yur heart althegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to say, " Thrue for you, yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Trade, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog if it s not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O Grandison, Barronitt, that ll make a houl bushel o love to yur leddy-ship, in the twinkling o the eye of a Londonderry purraty." And it was the nixt mornin, sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither it wouldn t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o writin to the widdy by way of a love-litter, when up cum d the delivery sarvant wid an illigant card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver cud rade the copper-plate printin on account of being lift-handed) was all about Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look- aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that the houl of the divilish lingo was the spaipeeny long name of the little ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way. And jist wid that in cum d the little willian himself, and thin he made me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing me the honour of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I compre- hind what he wud be afther the tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said " pully wou, woolly wou," and tould me among a bushel o lies, bad luck to him, that he was mad for the love o my widdy Misthress Trade, and that my widdy Mrs. Trade had a puncheon for him. 460 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. At the hearin of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a grasshopper, but I renumbered that I was Sir Patlirick O Graridi- son, Barronitt, and that it wasn t althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the upper hand o the purliteness, so I made light o the matter and kipt dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy s, saying he wud give me the feshionable introduction to her leddyship, " Is it there ye are 1 ?" said I thin to mesilf, " and it s thrue for you, Patlirick, that ye re the fortunnittest mortal in life. We ll soon see now whither its your swate silf, or whither its little Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Trade is head and ears in the love wid." Wid that we wint aff to the widdy s, next door, and ye may well say it was an illigant place ; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a jews- harp, and the divil knows what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate little angel, Misthress Trade. " The tip o the morning to ye," says I, " Mrs. Trade," and thin J made sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the brain o ye. " Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud," says the little fur- renner Frinchman, " and sure Mrs. Trade," says he, that he did, " isn t this gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O Grandi- son, Barronitt, and isn t he althegither and entirely the most pur- ticular f rind and acquaintance that I have in the houl world V And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest curtchy nor iver was seen ; and thin down she sits like an angel ; and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon ! I ixpicted the two eyes o me wud ha cum d out of my head on the spot, I was so dispirate mad 1 How- iver, " Bait who V says I, after a while. " Is it there ye are, Moun seer Maiter-di-dauns]" and so down I plumped on the lift side of her leddyship, to be aven wid the willain. Botheration ! it wud ha done your heart good to percave the illigant double wink that I gived her jist thin right in the face wid both eyes. But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all at all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her led- THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 461 dysbip. " Woully won," says lie, "Pnlly won/ says lie, "Plump in the mud," says he. " That s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen," thinks I ; and I talked as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was mesilf jist that divarted her leddyship complately and in- tirely, by rason of the illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the dear bogs of Connaught. And by and by she gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of her mouth to the ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and 1 jist took hould of the ind of her little finger in the most dilikittest manner in natur, looking at her all the while out o the whites of my eyes. And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner did she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, shan she up wid it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as to say, " Now thin, Sir Pathrick O Grandison, there s a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen, for its not altogether the gen- taal thing to be afther the squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns." Wid that I giv d her a big wink jist to say, " lit Sir Pathrick alone for the likes o them thricks," and thin I wint aisy to work, and you d have died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm betwane the back o the sofy and the back of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, " the tip o the mornin to ye, Sir Pathrick O Grandison, Barronitt." And wasn t it mesilf, sure, that jist giv d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to be too rough with her leddyship ? and och, botheration, wasn t it the gentaalest and dilikittest of all the little squazes that I got in return ? " Blood and thunder, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen," thinks I to myself, "fait it s jist the mother s son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that s the handsomest and the fortunittest young bogthrotter that ever cum d out of Con- naught !" And wid that I giv d the flipper a big squaze, and a big squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship giv d to me back. But it would ha split the seven sides of you wid the laffin to be hould, jist then all at once, the consated behaviour of Mounseer Mater-di-dauns. The likes o sich a jabbering, and a smirking, and a parly- wouing as he begin d wid her leddyship, niver was known before upon arth ; and divil may burn me if it wasn t me own very two peepers that cotch d him tipping her the wink out of one eye. 462 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Och lion ! if it wasn t mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould who it was ! " Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns," said I, as pur- lite as iver ye seed, that it s not the gentaal thing at all at all, and not for the likes o you inny how, to be after the oggling and a goggling at her leddyship in that fashion," and jist wid that such another squaze as it was I giv d her flipper, all as much as to say, " isn t it Sir Pathrick now, my jewel, that ll be able to the pro tecting o you, my daiiint 1" and then there cum d another squaze back, all by way of the answer. " Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick," it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the world, " Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it s a proper nate gintleman you are that s God s truth," and wid that she opened her two beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha coni d out of her hid althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad as a cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o doors at mesilf. " Thin," says he, the willian, " Och hon ! and a woolly- wou, pully- wou," and then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git out o the spalpeen. Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unrasonable mad thin, and the more by token that the Frinchman kept an wid his winking at the widdy ; and the widdy she kipt an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much as to say, "At him again, Sir Pathrick O Grandison, mavourneen ;" so I just ripped out wid a big oath, and says I, "Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun !" and jist thin what d ye think it was that her leddyship did ? Troth she jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I turned my head round afther her, in a complete bewilderment and botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a reason of my own for knowing that she couldn t git down the stares althegither and en tirely ; for I knew very well that I had hould of her hand, for divil the bit had I iver let it go. And says I, " Isn t it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye ve been afther the making, yer leddyship 1 Come back now, that s a clarlint, and I ll give ye yur flipper." But aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and then I turned round to the little Frinch THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 463 furrener. Ocli hon ! if it wasn t his spalpeeny little paw that I had hould of in my ownwhy thin thin it wasn t that s all. And maybe it wasn t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin, to behould the little chap when he found out that it wasn t the widdy at all at all that he had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick O Grandison. The ould divil himself niver be- hild sich a long face as he pet an ! As for Sir Pathrick O Grandi son, Barronitt, it wasn t for the likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say, though (for it s God s thruth), that afore I lift hould of the flipper of the spalpeen, (which was not till afther her leddyship s futmen had kicked us both down the stairs,) I gived it such a nate little broth of a squaze, as made it all up into raspberry jam. " Wouly-wou," says he, " pully-wou," says he" Cot tarn !" And that s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his left hand in a sling. THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB 3 ESQ. (LATE EDITOR OF THE " GOOSETHERUMFOODLE,") BY HIMSELF. AM now growing in years, and since I understand that Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased it is not im possible that I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that 1 may as well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels. But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary sceptre by some important bequest to posterity ; and, perhaps, I cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to admit the naturalness of the interest which it has every where excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such land marks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore, in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling "Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,") to give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first steps, by which, at 464 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, length, I attained the high, road to the pinnacle of human renown. Of one s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say mur-h. My father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people of the place, and especially of the editorial corps a body which inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august mouths during the process of what is styled " lather." My first moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that ever- memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the " Gad-Fly," in the intervals of the important process just mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices, an inimitable poem in honour of the "Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob," (so called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which effusion the editor of the " Fly " was remunerated with a regal liberality, by the firm of Thomas Bob and company, merchant-barbers. The genius of the stanzas to the " Oil-of-Bob " first breathed into me, I say, the divine afflatus, I resolved at once to become a great man and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father. " Father," I said, " pardon me ! but I have a soul above lather. It is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor I would be a poet I would pen stanzas to the * Oil-of-Bob. Pardon me and aid me to be great !" " My dear Thingum," replied my father, (I had been christened Thingum, after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) " My dear Thingum," he said, raising me from my knees by the ears " Thingum, my boy, you re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains. This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a politician don t pay. Upon the /vhole you judge wisely ; the trade of editor is best : and if you can be a poet at the same time, as most of the editors are, by the by, why you will kill two birds with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I will allow you a garret ; pen, ink and paper ; a rhyming dictionary ; and a copy of the Gad- Fly/ I suppose you would scarcely demand any more." THE LITERARY LIFE OF THfifGUM BOB, ESQ. 465 "I would be an ungrateful villain if I did," I replied with, enthusiasm. " Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by making you the father of a genius." Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immedi ately upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical labours ; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate elevation to the editorial chair. In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to " The Oil-of-Bob " rather a drawback than otherwise. Their splendour more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with my own abortions ; so that for a long time I laboured in vain. At length there came into my head one of those exquisitely ori ginal ideas which now and then will permeate the brain of a man of genius. It was this : or, rather, thus was it carried into execution. From the rubbish of an old book- stall, in a very remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a translation of one Dante s " Inferno," I copied with remarkable neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a parcel of brats. From another, which contained a good many old plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about " angels " and " ministers saying grace," and " goblins damned," and more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a Choctaw I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle exactly I took about fifty verses beginning with "Achilles wrath," and "grease," and something else. From a fourth, which I recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or two all about "hail" and " holy light ;" and although a blind man has no business to write about light, still the verses were sufficiently good in their way. Having made fair copies of these poems I signed every one of them " Oppodeldoc," (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the four principal magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and prompt pay. The result of this well-conceived plan, however, (the success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life), served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled, and gave 30 466 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the coup-de-grace (as they say in France) to my nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals). The fact is, that each and every one of the magazines in question gave Mr. " Oppodeldoc " a complete using-up, in the " Monthly Notices to Correspondents." The Hum-Drum gave him a dressing after this fashion : " Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is), has sent us a long tirade concerning a bedlamite whom he styles Ugolino, who had a great many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame not to say fiat. Oppodeldoc (whoever he is), is entirely devoid of imagination and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not only the soul of POESY, but also its very heart. Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is), has the audacity to demand of us, for his twattle, a speedy insertion and prompt pay. We neither insert nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt, however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the Rowdy-Dow, the Lollipop, or the Gooseiherumfoodle." All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon " Oppo deldoc " but the unkindest cut was putting the Avord POESY in small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a w T orld of bit terness is there not involved ! But "Oppodeldoc" was punished with equal severity in the Rowdy-Doiv, which spoke thus : "We have received a most singular and insolent communication from a person, (whoever he is), signing himself Oppodeldoc thus dese crating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so named. Accompanying the letter of Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is), we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about angels and ministers of grace rant such as no madman short of a Nat "Lee, or an Oppodeldoc, could possibly perpetrate. And for this trash of trash we are modestly requested to pay p romptly. No sir no ! We pay for nothing of that sort. Apply to the Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, or the Goosetherumfoodle. These periodicals will unoubtedly accept any literary offal you may send them and as undoubtedly promise to pay for it." This was bitter indeed upon poor " Oppodeldoc ;" but, in this instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the Hum-Drum, the Lollipo2^, an( i tne Gooseiherumfoodle, who are pungently styled "periodicals" in italics, too a thing that must have cut them to the heart. Scarcely less savage was the Lollipop, which thus discoursed : "Some individual, who rejoices in the appellation Oppodeldoc, (to THE LITERARY LIFE OP THING UM BOB, ESQ. 467 what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often applied), has enclosed us some fifty or sixty verses commencing after this fashion: Achilles wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c. Oppodeldoe, (whoever he is), is respectfully informed that there is not a printer s devil in our office who is not in the daily habit of com posing better lines. Those of Oppodeldoc will not scan. Oppodeldoc should learn to count. But why he should have conceived the idea that we, (of all others, we !) would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense is utterly beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good enough for the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, the Goosetherumfoodle things that are in the practice of publishing Mother Goose s Melodies as original lyrics. And Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is) has even the assurance to demand pay for this drivel. Does Oppodel doc, whoever he is) know is he aware that we could not be piad to insert it?" As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered at the poem as " verses," there Avas little more than an ounce of me left. As for " Oppodeldoc," I began to experience compassion for the poor fellow. But the Goosetherumfoodle showed, if possible less mercy than the Lollop. It was the Goosetherumfoodle that said : " A wretched poetaster, who signs himself Oppodeldoc, is silly enough to fancy that we will print and pay for a medley of incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to us, and which commences with the following most intelligible line : Hail, Holy Light ! Offspring of Heaven, first born. "We say, most intelligible. Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is), will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how hail* can be holy light. We always regarded it as frozen rain. Will he inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same time, both holy light, (whatever that is), and an offspring ? which latter term, (if we understand any thing about English), is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant upon such absurdity although Oppodeldoc, (whoever he is), has the unpara- lelled effrontery to suppose that we will not only insert his ignorant ravings, but ( absolutely ) pay fo r them ! "Now this is fine it is rich ! and we have half a mind to punish this young scribbler for his egotism by really publishing his effusion, verbatim et literatim, as he has written it. We could inflict no punish ment so severe, and we would inflict it, but for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing. "Let Oppodeldoc/ (whoever he is,) send any future composition of like character to the Hum-Drum the Lollipop, or the Rowdy-Dow. They will insert it. They insert every month just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with impunity." 302 468 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. This made an end of me ; and jas for the Hum-Drum, the Roivdy-Doiv, and the Lollipop, I never could comprehend how they survived it. The putting them in the smallest possible minion (that was the rub thereby insinuating their lowness their baseness), while WE stood looking down upon them in gigantic capitals ! oh it was too bitter ! it was wormwood it was gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared no pains to have the Goosetherumfoodle, prosecuted. It might have been done under the Act for the " Prevention of Cruelty to Animals." As for " Oppodeldoc," (whoever he was), I had by this time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympa thized with him no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt (who ever he was), and got not a kick more than he deserved. The result of my experiment with the old books convinced me, in the first place, that " honesty is the best, policy," and, in the second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least, be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore, and determined to prosecute the " entirely original " (as they say on the covers of the magazines), at whatever cost of study and pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant stanzas on "The Oil-of-Bob" by the editor of the Gad-Fly, and resolved to construct an Ode on the same sublime theme, in rivalry of what had already been done. With my first verse I had no material difficulty. It ran thus j " To pen an Ode upon the Oil-of-Bob. " Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes to " Bob," I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had recourse to paternal aid ; and, after some hours of mature thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem : " To pen an Ode upon the Oil-of-Bob Is all sorts of a job. (Signed) SNOB." To be sure, this composition was of no very great length but / " have yet to learn," as they say in the Edinburgh [Review, that the mere extent of a literary work has anything to do with its merit. As for the Quarterly cant about " sustained effort," it is impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I THE LITERARY LIPE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. 469 was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My father suggested that I should send it to the Gad-Fly but there were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I dreaded the jealousy of the editor and I had ascertained that he did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages of the Lollipop,w&& awaited the event in anxiety, but with resignation. In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with the following significant words prefixed in italics and between brackets : " [ We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable stanzas on ( The Oil-of-Bob. We need say nothing of their sublimity, or of their pathos: it is impossible to peruse them without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on the name august topic from the goose-quill of the editor of the Gad-Fly, will do well to compare the two compositions. "P. S. We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which envelops the evident pseudonym Snob. May we hope for a personal interview ?} " All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess, rather more than I had expected : I acknowledged this, be it observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of the Lollipop, and had the good fortune to find this gentleman at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in him, no doubt by my appearance of extreme youth and inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon the subject of my poem : but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor s name), were, however, by no means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with much freedom and great ability not hesitating to point out a few trivial defects a circumstance which elevated him highly in my esteem. The Gad-Fly was, of course, brought upon the tapis, and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of the Gad-Fly as something superhuman ; but Mr. Crab soon dis* 470 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. abused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated the rival editor), in its true light. He, the Fly, was very little better than he should be. He had written infamous things. He was a penny- a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon himself (Mr. Crab), and the temerity to style him " an ass." Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the pages of the Lollipop, Mr. Crab assured me, were at my unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a rival poem on the " Oil- of-Bob," he (Mr. Crab), would take it upon himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab). Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, the latter portion of which I found it impossible to comprehend, I ventured to sug gest something about the remuneration which I had been taught to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the Lollipop, declaring that it, (the Lollipop^) "insisted upon being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted contributions ; frequently expending more money for a single brief poem than the whole annual cost of the Hum-Drum, the Howdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle combined." As I mentioned the word " remuneration," Mr. Crab first opened his eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent ; causing his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly- agitated elderly duck in the act of quacking ;- and in this condition he remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his fore head, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had nearly made an end of what I had to say. Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behaviour so alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the bell-rope ; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a table and im- THE LITERARY LIFE OF THIXGUM BOB, ESQ. 471 mediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to imagine,) when, all at one, there came a benign smile over his features, and he sank placidly back in his chair. " Mr. Bob," he said (for I had sent up my card before ascending myself), " Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume very ? " I assented ; adding that I had riot yet concluded my third lustrum, " Ah !" he replied, " very good ! I see how it is say no more ! Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very just : in fact it is excessively so. But ah ah the first contribu tion the first, I say it is never the magazine custom to pay for you comprehend, eh 1 The truth is, we are usually the recipients in such case." [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he emphasized the. word "recipients."] "For the most part, we are paid for the insertion of a maiden attempt especially in verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, the magazine rule is never to disburse what we term in France the argent comptant : I have no doubt you underr stand. In a quarter or two after publication of the article or in a year or two we make no objection to giving our note at nine months : provided always that we can so arrange our affairs as to be quite certain of a burst up in six. I really do hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this explanation as satisfactory/ Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the tears stood in his eyes. Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to apolo gize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat speech, I took leave. One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, " I awoke and found myself famous." The extent of my renown will be best estimated by reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions, it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number of the Lollipop containing my poem, and are perfectly satisfactory, conclusive, and clear, with the exception, perhaps, of the hiero- glyphical marks, " Sep. 151 t." appended to each of the critiques. The Owl, a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the deliberate gravity of its literary decisions the Owl, I say, spoke as follows : ollipop ! The October number of this delicious magazine sur- 472 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. passes its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In the beauty of its typography and paper in the number and excellence of its steel plates, "as well as in the literary merit of its contributions the Lollipop compares with its slow-paced rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the GoosetJierumfoodle excel, it is true, in braggadocio, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop ! How this celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can understand. To be sure it has a circulation of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth during the last month ; but, on the other hand, the sums it disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty- seven-and-a-half cents for his inimitable paper on Pigs. With Mr. CRAB, as editor, and with such names \\pon the list of contributors as SNOB and Slyass, there can be no such word as fail for the Lollipop. Go and subscribe. Sep. 151 t." I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from a paper so respectable as the Owl. The placing my name that is to say, my nom de guerre in priority of station to that of the great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be deserved. My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the Toad a print highly distinguished for its uprightness and independence for its entire freedom from sycophancy and subservience to the givers of dinners : " The Lollipop for October is out in advance of all its contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the splendour of its embel lishments, as well as in the richness of its literary contents . The Hum- Drum, the Roivdy-Dow, and the GoosetJierumfoodle excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop. How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can imderstaiid. To be sure it has a circulation of 200,000, and its subscription list has increased one-third during the last fortnight, but, on the other hand, the sums it disburses monthly for contributions are fearfully great. We learn that Mr. Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late Monody in a Mud-Puddle. "Among the original contributors to the present number we notice, (besides the eminent editor, Mr. CRAB, ) such men as SNOB, Slyass, and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by Snob, on the Oil- of-Bob ; but our readers must not suppose from the title of this incom parable bijou, that it bears any similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain contemptible individual whose name is unmention able to ears polite. The present poem On the Oil-of-Bob has excited universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the evident pseudonym Snob a curiosity which, happily, we have it in our power to satisfy. Snob is the nom-de-plume of Mr. Thingum Bob, of this city a relative of the great Mr. Thingum, (after whom he is named, ) and other wise connected with the most illustrious families of the state. His father, Thomas Bob. Esq., is an opulent merchant in Smug. Sep. 151 t." This generous approbation touched me to the heart the more THE LITERARY LIFE OF THIN GUM BOB, ESQ. 473 especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly so prover bially pure as the Toad. The word " balderdash/ 5 as applied to the " Oil-of-Bob" of the Fly, I considered singularly pungent and appropriate. The words "gem" and "bijou," however, used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some degree, feeble. They seemed to me to be deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononces (as we have it in France). I had hardly finished reading the Toad, when a friend placed in my hands a copy of the Mole, a daily, enjoying high reputation for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The Mole spoke of the Lollipop as follows : " We have just received the Lollipop for October, and must say that never before have we perused any single number of any periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak advisedly. The Hwn-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle must look well to their laurel,?. These prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension, but. in all other points, give us the LolUpnp ! How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a circu lation of 300,000 ; and its subscription-list has increased one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses, monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than sixty-two cents and a half for his late Domestic Nouvelette, the Dish -Clout. "The contributors to the number before us are Mr. CRAB (the eminent editor), SXOB, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others ; but, after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who writes over the signature Snob a nom de yuerre which we predict will one day extinguish the radiance of Boz. SNOB, we learn, is a Mr. THJNGUM BOB, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B. s admirable poem is the Oil-of-Bob a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the compositions. Sep. 15 1 t." The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the Mole penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which occurred to me was, that the terms "contemptible vagabond" might have been better written " odious and contemptible wretch, villain and vagabond." This would iiave sounded more gracefully, I think. " Diamond-like," also, was scarcely, it will be admitted, of sufficient intensity to express what the Mole evidently thought of the brilliancy of the " Oil-of-Bob." 474 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the Oivl, the Toad, and the Mole, I happened to meet with a copy of the Daddy -Long- Legs, a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent of its understanding. And it was the Daddy -Long-Legs which spoke thus : " The Lollipop ! ! This gorgeous Magazine is already before the public for October. The question of pre-eminence is forever put to rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the Hum-Drum, the Roivdy-Dow, or the Goosetherumfoodle, to make any farther spas modic attempts at competition. These journals may excel the Lolli pop in outcry, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop ! How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous ex penses, is past comprehension. To be sure it has a circulation of pre cisely half a million, and its subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the last couple of days ; but then the sums it disburses monthly for contributions are scarcely credible ; we are cognizant of the fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than eighty- seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary Tale, entitled The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill Katy-Didn t. "The most able papers in the present number are, of course, those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. CRAB, ) but there are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as SNOB, Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb, Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack.. The world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of genius. "The poem over the signature SNOB is, wefind, attracting universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves, if possible, even more applause than it has received. The Oil-of-Bob is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and art. One or two of our readers may have a very faint, although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?) simi larly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints about the purlieus of the city ; we beg them, for God s sake, not to confound the compositions. The author of the Oil- of-Bob is, we hear, THINGUM BOB, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a scholar. Snob is merely a nom-de-guerre. Sept. 151 t." I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the yea-nay manner not to say the gentlenesss the positive forbear ance with which the Daddy -Long -Legs spoke of that pig, the editor of the Gad-Fly it was evident to me, I say, that this "gentle ness of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for the Fly whom it was clearly the intention of the Daddy- Long-Legs to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that had the real design of the Daddy been what it wished to appear, it, (the Daddy,} might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more pungent. THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. 475 and altogether more to the purpose. The words " penny-a-liner," " mendicant," " scullion," and " cut-throat," were epithets so in tentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is meant by " damning with faint praise," and, on the other hand, who could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the Daddy that of glorifying with feeble abuse ? What the Daddy chose to say of the Fly, however, was no business of mine. What it said of myself was. After the noble manner in which the Oiul, the Toad, the Mole, had expressed themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be coolly spoken of by a thing like the Daddy-Long- Legs, as merely " a gentleman of high genius and a scholar." Gentleman indeed ! I made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the Daddy -Long -Legs or to call it out. Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor of the Lollipop had given me marked tokens of regard, I at length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion. I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory to my own understanding, for the very peculiar countenance and demeanour with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided as before, and he began to- act and speak in a rational way. He declined bearing the cartel, however, and, in fact, dissuaded me from sending it at all ; but was candid enough to admit that the Daddy -Long -Leg s had been disgracefully in the wrong more es pecially in what related to the epithets "gentleman and scholar." Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested to me that I might turn an honest penny, arid, at the same time, advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for the Lollipop. I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how it was expected that I should play him. Here Mr. Crab again "made great eyes" (as we say in Germany), but at length recovering himself from a profound attack of astonish- 476 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ment, lie assured me that he employed the words "Thomas Hawk" to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low but that the true idea was Tommy Hawk or tomahawk and that by " playing tomahawk" he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise using-up the herd of poor-devil authors. I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab desired me to use-up the editor of the Gad-Fly forthwith, in the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of the original " Oil-of-Bob," occupying thirty-six pages of the Lollipop. I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less onerous occupation than poetizing ; for I went upon system altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of " Lord Brougham s Speeches," "Cobbett s Complete Works," the "New Slang-Syllabus," the "Whole Art of Snubbing," "Prentice s Billingsgate" (folio edition), and " Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue." These works I cut up tho roughly with a curry-comb, and then, throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that might be thought decent (a mere trifle); reserving the hard phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of foolscap with the white of a gander s egg ; then, shred ding the thing to be reviewed as I had previously shredded the books, only with more care, so as to get every word separate I threw the latter shreds in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egg d foolscap, where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the world. At first, through bashfulness the result of inexperience I was a little put out by a certain inconsistency a certain air of the bizarre (as we say in France), worn by the composition as a whole. All the phrases did not fit (as we say in the Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were up-side-down ; and there were none of them which were not, in some measure, injured in regard to effect by this latter species of accident, when it occurred i with the exception of Mr. Lewis THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. 477 Clarke s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory, whether on their heads or on their heels. What became of the editor of the Gad-Fly ^ after the publication of my criticism on his " Oil-of-Bob," it is somewhat difficult to determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept him self to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of him since. . This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies appeased, I grew at once into high favour with Mr. Crab. He took me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas Hawk of the Lollipop, and, as for the present he could afford me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice. " My dear Thingum," said he to me one day after dinner, " I respect your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When I die I will bequeath you the Lollipop. In the mean time I will make a man of you I will provided always that you follow my counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore. "Boar?" said I inquiringly **pigj ebtGp&f (as we say in Latin) who 1 where 1" " Your father/ said he. " Precisely," I replied, "pig." "You have your fortune to make, Thingum," resumed Mr. Crab, " and that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must cut him at once." [Hore I took out my knife.] " We must cut him," continued Mr. Crab, " decidedly and forever. He won t do he won t. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane him, or something of that kind." " What do you say," I suggested modestly, "to my kicking him in the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by tweaking his nose V Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then answered : " I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer as it ciently well indeed remarkably well that is to say, as farsufti- went but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think, upon 478 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades. After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any more. However it might be just as well to roll him once or twice in a gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an assault." I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr. Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was, for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort ; but at length, by carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to be brought about. I say " thing " be it observed for they tell me the Latin for it is rem. By the way, talking of Latin, can any one tell me the meaning of quocunque or what is the meaning of modo ? My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth of the Snapping- Turtle: that was all. The thing was done> and I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements afterwards, to be sure ; but these formed no portion of the plan. They were a consequence a result. For example, I bought pen, ink and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus completed a magazine article, I gave it, for appella tion, " FoL-LoL, by the Author of The OiL-OF-BoB, " and en veloped it to the Goosetherumfoodle. That journal, however, having pronounced it " twattle " in the " Monthly Notices to Cor respondents," I reheaded the paper " Hey-Diddle-Diddle, by THINGUM BOB, Esq., Author of the Ode on The Oil-of-Bob, and Editor of the Snapping -Turtle" With this amendment, I re- enclosed it to the Goosetkerumfoodle, and, while I awaited a reply, published daily, in the Turtle, six columns of what may be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the literary merits of the Goosetherumfoodle, as well as of the personal character of the editor of the Goosetherumfoodle. At the end of a week the Goose- therumfoodle discovered that it had, by some odd mistake, "con founded a stupid article, headed * Hey-Diddle-Diddle/ and com posed by some unknown ignoramus, with a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of Thingum Bob, Esq., the THE LITERARY LIFE OF TH1NGUM BOB, ESQ. 479 celebrated author of The Oil-of-Bob. " The Goosetherumfoodle deeply " regretted this very natural accident," and promised, more over, an insertion of the genuine " Hey-Diddle-Diddle " in the very next number of the magazine. The fact is, I thought I really thought I thought at the time I thought then and have no reason for thinking otherwise now that the Goosetherumfoodle did make a mistake. With the best intentions in the world, I never knew anything that made as many singular mistakes as the Goosetherumfoodle. From that day I took a liking to the Goosetherumfoodle, and the result was I soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not fail to expatiate upon them in the Turtle, whenever a fitting opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar coincidence as one of those positively remarkable coincidences which set a man to serious thinking that just such a total revolution of opinion just such entire bouleversement, (as we say in French,) just such thorough topsiturviness, (if I may be permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as happened, pro and con, between myself on the one part, and the Goosetherumfoodle on the other, did actu^ ally again happen, in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar circumstances, in the case of myself and the Rowdy-Dow, and in the case of myself and the Hum-Drum. Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length con summated my triumphs by "putting money in my purse," and thus may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, " I have made history" "J aifait I histoire." I have indeed " made history." From the bright epoch which I now record, my actions my works are the property of mankind. They are familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to de tail how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the Lollipop how I merged this journal into the Hum- Drum how again I made purchase of the Rowdy-Dow, thus combining the three periodicals how, lastly, I effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all the literature of the country in one magnificent magazine, known every where as the Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum, and GOOSETEEHUMFOODLE. 480 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Yes ; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the immortal THINGUM BOB. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr. Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am meek, and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it this in describable something which men will persist in terming " genius 1" I agree with Buffon with Hogarth it is but diligence after all. Look at me! how I laboured how I toiled how I wrote ! Ye gods, did I not write? I knew not the word "ease." By day I adhered to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight oil. You should have seen me you should. I leaned to the right. I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon end. I sat tete baissee (as they have it in the Kickapoo), bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all, I wrote. Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst I ivrote. Through good report and through ill report, I ivrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I ivrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The style / that was the thing. I caught it from Fatquack whizz ! fizz ! and I am giving you a specimen of it now. HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE, " In the name of the Prophet figs ! !" Cry of Turkish fig-pedlar. PRESUME everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. No body but my enemies ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means " the soul" (that s me, I m all soul), and sometimes "a butterfly," which latter meaning undoubtedly al ludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of green agra/ as, and the seven flounces of orange-coloured auriculas. As for Snobbs any person who should look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn t Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propa gated that report through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed ! POPS SCHOOL AT STOKE NE WING 7 ON. The Playground, with Ancient Gateway. The Front of School-house, facing Church Street. HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE. 481 Oh the little wretch ! But what can we expect from a turnip ? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about " blood out of a tur nip," &c. [Mem. : put her in mind of it the first opportunity.] [Mem. again pull her nose.] Where was I % Ah ! I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a queen (so am I. Dr. Moneypenny always calls me the Queen of Hearts) and that Zenobia, as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was " a Greek," and that, consequently, I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia, and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. As I said before, everybody has^neard of me. I am that very Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding secre tary to the Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Associ ation, To, Civilize, Humanity. Dr. Moneypenny made the title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big, like an empty rum puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes but he s deep.) We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the fashion of the R.S.A., Royal Society of Arts the S.D.U.K., Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c., &c. Dr. Moneypenny says that S stands for stale, and that D.U.K. spells duck (but it don t), and that S. D.U.K. stands for Stale Duck, and not for Lord Brough am s society but then Dr. Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H. that is to say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Associ ation, To, Civilize, Humanity one letter for each word, which is a decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have it that our initials give our true character, but for my life I can t see what he means. Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the stren uous exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no in vestigation of first causes, first principles. There was no investiga tion of anything at all. There was no attention paid to that great 482 WOKKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. point, the " fitness of things." In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all low very ! No profundity, no reading, no metaphysics nothing which the learned call spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatise as cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell " cant " with a capital K but I know better.] When I joined the society it was my endeavour to introduce a better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P.E.E.T.T.Y.B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H. as any to be found even in Blackwood. I say Blackwood, because I have been assured that the finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the pages of that justly celebrated magazine. We now take it for our model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice accord ingly. And, after all, it s not so very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only goes pro perly about it. Of course, I don t speak of the political articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr. Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of tailor s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for orders. One hands him the Times, another the Examiner, and a third a " Gully s New Com pendium of Slang- Whang." Mr. B. merely cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done nothing but Examiner, Slang- Whang, and Times then Times, Slang- Whang, and Examiner and then Times, Examiner, and Slang-Whang. But the chief merit of the magazine lies in its miscellaneous articles ; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the lizarreries (whatever that may mean), and what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of writ ing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B. s, and making known to him the wishes of the society, he received me with great civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation of the whole process. " My dear madam," said he, evidently struck with my majestic appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green agra/as, and orange-coloured auriculas, " My dear madam," said he, " sit down. The matter stands thus. In the first place your writer of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with a HOW TO WRITE A BLACK WOOD ARTICLE. 483 very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zeuobia !" he con tinued, after a pause, with the most impressive energy and solemnity of manner, "mark me that pen musti never be mended ! Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume upon my self to say, that no individual, of however great genius, ever wrote with a good pen, understand me, a good article. You may take it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end." He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions. " It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to an article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study; yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let me see. There was The Dead Alive] a capital thing ! the record of a gentleman s sensations when entombed before the breath was out of his body full of taste, terror, sentiment, metaphysics, and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the Confessions of an Opium- eater fine, very fine ! glorious imagination deep philosophy acute speculation plenty of fire and fury, and a good spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully. They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper but not so. It was com posed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands and water, * hot, without sugar. " [This I could scarcely have believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood who assured me of it.] " Then there was The Involuntary Experimentalist 1 all about a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was The Diary of a Late Physician, 1 where the merit lay in good rant, and indifferent Greek both of them taking things with the public. And then there was * The Man in the Bell 1 a paper by-the-by, Miss Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention. It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are the great things 31-2 484 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations." " That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood," said I. " Good!" he replied. " I see you are a pupil after my own heart. But I must put you cm fait to the details necessary in composing what maybe denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the sen sation stamp the kind which you will understand me to say I consider the best for all purposes. " The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance, that was a good hit. But if you have no oven, or big bell, at hand, and if you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will have to be contented with simply imagining some similar misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an experimental know ledge of the matter in hand. * Truth is strange, you know, stranger than fiction besides being more to the purpose." Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would go and hang myself forthwith. " Good ! J; he replied, " do so ; although hanging is somewhat hackneyed. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Bran- dreth s pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my in structions will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter. But to proceed. " Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic, the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural all common place enough. But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus : Can t be too brief. Can t be too snappish. Always a full stop. And never a paragraph. " Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional. Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This is the HO IV TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE. 485 best of all possible styles wliere the writer is in too great a hurry to think. " The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big words, this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic schools of Archytas, Gorgias and Alcmseon. Say some thing about objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let slip anything a little too absurd, you need not be at the trouble of scratching it out, but just add a foot-note, and say that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the Kritik der reinem Vernunft, or to the Metaphysisclie Anfangsgrunde der jyaturwissenschaft. This will look erudite and and and frank. " There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall mention only two more the tone transcendental and the tone hetero geneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed. A little reading of the Dial will carry you a great way. Eschew, in this case, big words ; get them as small as possible, and write them upside down. Look over Channing s poems, and quote what he says about a fat little man with a delusive show of Can/ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don t say a syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo. Hint everything assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say bread and butter, do not by any means say it outright. You may say anything and everything approaching to bread and butter. You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to say bread and butter !" I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I lived. He kissed me, and continued : "As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture, in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is, consequently, made up of everything deep, great, odd, piquant, pertinent, and pretty. " Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and tone. The most important portion in fact, the soul of the whole business, is yet to be attended to I allude to the filling up. It is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been leading the life of a book-worm. And yet above all things it is l86 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I ll put you in the way of accomplishing this point. See here !" (pulling down some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at random). " By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism, which are the very thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well note down a jew while I read them to you. I shall make two divisions : first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes; and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may require. "Write now! " and I wrote as he dictated. " PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. There were originally but three Muses Melete, Mneme, Arede meditation, memory, and singing. You may make a great deal of that little fact if properly worked. You see it is not generally known, and looks recherche. You must be careful and give the thing with a downright improvise air. "Again. The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged without injury to the purity of its waters. Rather stale that, to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up. will look quite as fresh as ever. " Here is something better. * The Persian Iris appears to some persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless. Fine that, and very delicate! Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We ll have some thing else in the botanical line. There s nothing goes down so well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write ! " The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance for years. That s capital ! That will do for the similes. Now for the Piquant Expressions. " PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. The venerable Chinese novel Ju- Kiao-Li Good ! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may possibly get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German, HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE. 487 Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each. Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write ! " Aussi tendre que Zaire as tender as Zaire French. Alludes to the frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating (write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone) was not altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write ! Van muerte tan escondida, Que no te sienta venir, Poryiie el plazer del morir No me tome a dar la vida. That s Spanish from Miguel de Cervantes. Come quickly, O death ! but be sure and don t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back again to life. This you may slip in quite ct, prcpos when you are struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write ! II pover huomo eke non se n era accorto, Andava combattendo, e era morto. That s Italian, you perceive from Ariosto. It means that a great hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The applica tion of this to your own case is obvious ; for I trust, Miss Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour and a half after you have been choked to death by that chicken-bone. Please to write ! * Und sterUicli dock, no sterVicli denn Durch sie durcli sie / That s German from Schiller. And if I die, at least I die for thee for thee ! Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady either) of sense, wouldn t die, I should like to know, for a well-fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with orange jellies en mosaiques. Write ! (You can get them that way at Tortoni s.) Write, if you please ! " Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too (one can t be too recherche or brief in one s Latin, it s getting so common) ignoratio 488 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. elmchi. He has committed an ignoratio elenchi that is to say, he has understood the words of your proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor fellow whom you address while choking with that chicken-bone, and who, therefore, didn t precisely understand what you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth, and, at once, you have him annihi lated. If he dare to reply, you can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere anemonae verborum anemone words. The anemone, with great brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begin to bluster, you may be down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries bf Jupiter a phrase which Silius Italicus (see here !) applies to thoughts pompous and inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write 1 " In Greek we must have something pretty from Demosthenes, for example. Ai/tpo fytvyuv KUI naXiv tia^totrai. [Anero pheugon kai palin makesetai.j There is a tolerably good translation of it in Hudibras For he that flies may fight again, Which he can never do that s slain. In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them. Only ob serve, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon ! That Phi ought certainly to be a bishop ! Was ever there a smarter fellow than that Omicron 1 Just twig that Tau ! In short, there is nothing like Greek for a genuine sensation paper. In the present case your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Kap out the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the good- for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn t understand your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He ll take the hint and be off, you may depend upon it." These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me Upon the topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient. I Was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and de termined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written ; but as he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a sum. Not withstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects, and indeed treated tiOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE. 489 me with, the greatest civility. His parting words made a deep im pression upon my heart, and I hope I shall always remember them with gratitude. " My dear Miss Zenobia," he said, while the tears stood in his eyes, " is there anything else I can do to promote the success of your laudable undertaking 1 ? Let me reflect ! It is just possible that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to to get your self drowned, or choked with a chicken-bone, or or hung, or bitten by a but stay ! Now I think me of it, there are a couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard fine fellows, I assure you savage, and all that indeed just the thing for your money they ll have you eaten up, auriculas and all, in less than five minutes (here s my watch !) and then only think of the sensations ! Here ! I say Tom ! Peter ! Dick, you villain ! let out those "but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my departure, and accordingly took leave at once somewhat more abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise allowed. It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures adventures adequate to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I was attended by one negro-servant Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not, however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is the sub* stance and result. X-ING A PARAGRABi | S it is well known that the " wise men East," and as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man ; and if collateral proof of the matter be needed, here w r e have it Mr. B. was an editor. Irascibility was his sole foible ; for in fact the obstinacy of which men accused him was anything but his 490 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. foible, since he justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point his virtue ; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to convince him that it was " anything else." I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man ; and the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when, abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some place of a similar title, out West. I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the impres sion that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed in that particular section of the country. In establishing The Teapot, he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence in Alexander- the-Great-o-nopolis, had he been aware that, in Alexander-the- Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John Smith (if I rightly remember), who/ for many years, had there quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the Alexander-the-Great-o-nopoli$ Gazette. It was solely, therefore, on account of having been mis informed, that Mr. Bullet-head found himself in Alex suppose we call it Nopolis, " for short " but, as he did find himself there, he determined to keep up his character for obst for firmness, and remain. So remain he did ; and he did more ; he unpacked his press, type, etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the Gazette, and on the third morning after his arrival, issued the first number of the Alexan that is to say of The Nopolis Teapot as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the new paper. The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant not to say severe. It was especially bitter about things in general and as for the editor of The Gazette, he was torn all to pieces in particular. Some of Bullet-head s remarks were really so fiery that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I cannot pretend to give all The Teapot s paragraphs verbatim, but one of them runs thus : " Oh, yes ! Oh, we perceive ! Oh, no doubt ! The editor over the way is a genius 0, my ! Oh, goodness, gracious ! what is this world coming to 1 Oh, tempora / Oh, Moses ! }} A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets. Every X-ING A PARAGRAB. 491 one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared, as follows : " We quote from The Teapot of yesterday the subjoined para graph : * Oh, yes ! Oh, we perceive ! Oh, no doubt ! Oh, my ! Oh, goodness ! Oh, tempora ! Oh, Moses ! Why, the fellow is all O ! That accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything that he says. We really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn t an O in it. Wonder if this 0-ing is a habit of his ? By- the-by, he came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O s as much there as he does here ] ! it is pitiful. " The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous insinua tions, I shall not attempt to describe. On the eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to desperation. What ! he, Touch-and-go Bullet-head ! not able to write a word without an O in it ! He would soon let the jackanapes see that he was mistaken. Yes ! he would let him see how much he was mistaken, the puppy ! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he, Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole paragraph ay ! a whole article in which that con temptible vowel should not once not even once make its appear ance. But no ; that would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He, Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a thought ! The for ever ! He would persist in the O. He would be as O-wy as 0-wy could be. Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great Touch- and-go, in the next Teapot, came out merely with this simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy affair : " The editor of The Teapot has the honour of advising the editor of The Gazette that he (The Teapot^ will take an opportunity in to-morrow morning s paper, of convincing him (The Gazette) that he (The Teapot] both can and will be his own master, as regards style ; _i ie (The Teapot) intending to show him (The Gazette) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with which the criti cism of him (The Gazette] inspires the independent bosom of him (The Teapot] by composing for the especial gratification (?) of him (The Gazette] a leading article of some extent, in which the beautiful 492 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. vowel the emblem of Eternity yet so inoffensive to the hyper- exquisite delicacy of him (The Gazette), shall most certainly not be avoided by his (The Gazettes] most obedient, humble servant, The Teajiot. * So much for Buckingham P" In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf ear to all entreaties for " copy," and simply requesting his foreman to "go to the d 1," when he (the foreman assured him (The Tea pot /) that it was high time to " go to press :" turning a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the composition of the really unparalleled paragraph which follows : " So ho, John ! how now <\ Told you so. you know. Don t crow, another time, before you re out of the woods ! Does your mother know you re out 1 Oh, no, no ! so go home at once, now, John, to your odious old woods of Concord ! Go home to your woods, old owl, go ! You won t ? Oh, poh, poh, John, don t do so ! You ve got to go, you know ! So go at once, and don t go slow; for nobody owns you here, you know. Oh, John, John, if you don t go you re no homo no ! You re only a fowl, an owl ; a cow, a sow; a doll, a poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log dog, hog, or frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now cool ! Do be cool, you fool ! None of your crowing, old cock ! Don t frown so don t ! Don t hollo, nor howl, nor growl, nor bow- wow- wow ! Good Lord, John, how you do look ! Told you so, you know but stop rolling your goose of an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl !" Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly, composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS. to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home, retired, with ineffable dignity, to bed. Meantime the devil to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs to his " case," in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a commencement at "setting" the MS. "up." In the first place, of course, as the opening word was " So "he made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity but who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his astonishment X-ING A PARAGRAB. 49 3 and rage at perceiving, as lie rubbed his knuckles, that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the bottom of an vntyty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o hole ; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he found that, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar predicament. Awe-stricken his first impulse was to rush to the foreman. " Sir !" said he, gasping for breath, "I can t never set up nothing without no o s. " What do you mean by that ?" growled the foreman, who was in a very ill-humour at being kept up so late. " Why, sir, there beant an o in the office neither a big un nor a little un !" " What what the d 1 has become of all that were in the case V " / don t know, sir," said the boy, " but one of them ere G zette devils is been prowling bout here all ni,rht, and I spect he s gone and cabbaged em every one." " Dod rot him ! I haven t a doubt of it," replied the foreman, getting purple with rage " but I tell you what you do, Bob, that s a good boy you go over, the first chance you get, and hook every one of their i s and (d n them !) their izzards." " Jist so," replied Bob, with a wink and a frown " I ll be into em, Til let em know a thing or two ; but in de meantime, that ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know else there ll be the d 1 to pay, and " " And not a bit of pitch hot," interrupted the foreman, with a deep sigh and an emphasis on the " bit." " Is it a very long para graph, Bob r " Shouldn t call it a werry long paragrab," said Bob. " Ah, well, then ! do the best you can with it ! we must get to press," said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work ; "just stick in some other letter for o. nobody s going to read the fellow s trash, any how." " Werry well," replied Bob, " here goes it !" and off he hurried to his case ; muttering as he went " Considdeble veil, them ere expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn t swear. So I s to gouge out all their eyes, eh ] and d n all their gizzards ! Veil ! this here s the chap as is jist able for to do it." The fact is, that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way. The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence 494 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. in printing-offices ; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least ivas so in old times long enough to render the substitution in question an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed. " I shell have to x this ere paragrab," said he to himself, as he read it over in astonishment, "but it s jest about the awfulest o-wy paragrab I ever did see :" so x it he did, unflinchingly, and to press it went x-ed. Next morning the population of JSTopolis were taken all aback by reading, in The Teapot, the following extraordinary leader "Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw rixw ! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw! Dxn t crxw, anxther time, befxre yxu re xut xf the wxxds ! Dxcs yxur mxther knxw yxu re xut ] Xh, nx, nx ! sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur, xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd ! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl, gx ! Yxu wxn t 1 Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn t dx sx ! Yxu ve gxt tx gx, yxu knxw ! sx gx at xnce, and dxn t gx slxw ; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here, yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn t gx yxu re nx hxmx nx ! Yxu re xnly a fxwl, an xwl ; a cxw, a sxw ; a dxll, a pxll ; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nx- bxdy Ixg, dxg, hxg, xr frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw cxxl ! Dx be cxxl, yxu fxxl ! Nxne xf yxur crxwing xld cxck ! Dxn t frxwn sx dxn t ! Dxn t hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw ! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw yxu dx Ixxk ! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw, but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a bxwl !" The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article, is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in the hieroglyphics ; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head s resi dence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail ; but that gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could tell how ; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since. Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at length subsided ; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a medley of opinion about this unhappy affair. X-ING A PAR A GRAB. 495 One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke. Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-ube- ranee of fancy. A third admitted him X-entric, but no more. A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee s design to X-press in a general way, his X-asperation. " Say, rather, to set an X-arnple to posterity," suggested a fifth That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to all ; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was some talk about lynching the other one. The more common conclusion, however, was, that the affair was, simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town mathe matician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a problem. X, everybody knew was an unknown quantity \ but in this case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of X. The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark " about his having X-ed the paragrab "), did not meet with so much attention as I think it deserved, although it was very openly and very fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr. Bullet-head never could be persvaded fur to drink like other folks, but vas continu ally a s-vigging o that ere blessed XXX ale, and, as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage, and made him X (cross) in the X-treme. DIDDLING, CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES, " Hey, diddle diddle The cat and the fiddle." JINCE the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote a Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has been much admired by Mr. JohnJSTeal, and was a great man in a small way. The other gave name to the most important of the Exact Sciences, and was a great man in a great way I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways. Diddling or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle 496 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. is sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing diddling, is somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however, at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by defining not the thing, diddling, in itself but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would have been spared the affront of the picked chicken. Very pertinently it was den nded of Plato, why a picked chicken, which was clearly a " biped without feathers," was not, according to his own definition, a man 1 But I am not to be bothered by any similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hencoop of picked chickens to get over that. What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats and pantaloons. A crow thieves ; a fox cheats ; a weasel outwits ; a man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. " Man was made to mourn," says the poet. But not so : he was made to diddle. This is his aim his object his end. And for this reason when a man s diddled we say he s " done." Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, non chalance, originality, impertinence, and grin. Minuteness. Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes what we term " financier." This latter word conveys the diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto a " financial operation," as a diddle at Brobdingnag. The one is to the other, as Homer to " Flaccus "as a mastodon to a mouse as the tail of a comet to that of a pig. Interest. Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle for the mere sake of the diddle. He has an object in view his pocket and yours. He regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to yourself. Perseverance. Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily dis couraged. Should even the banks break, he cave nothings about it. He steadily pursues his end, and DIDDLING AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 497 Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto, so lie never lets go of his game. Ingenuity. Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout. Audacity. Your diddler is audacious. He is a bold man. He carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would not fear the daggers of the Frey Herren. With a little more pru dence Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler ; with a trifle less blarney, Daniel O Connell ; with a pound or two more brains, Charles the Twelfth. Nonchalance. Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He is never put out unless put out of doors. He is cool cool as a cucumber. He is calm " calm as a smile from Lady Bury." He is easy easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient Baise. Originality. Your diddler is original conscientiously so. His thoughts are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another. A stale trick is his aversion. He would return a purse, I am sure, upon discovering that he had obtained it by an unoriginal diddle. Impertinence. Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms akimbo. He thrusts his hands in his trowsers pockets. He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns. He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife. Grin. Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily work is done when his allotted labours are accomplished at night in his own closet, and altogether f orchis own private entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason a priori^ and a diddle would be no diddle without a grin. The origin of the diddle is referable to the infancy of the human race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events we can trace the science back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never dreamed 32 498 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to speak of the " old saws," therefore, I shall content myself with a compendi ous account of some of the more " modern instances." A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses. At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her views, and, upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent, lower than her expectations. She hastens \Q make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt, leaves her address, with a request that the article be sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a profusion of bows from the shopkeeper. The night arrives and no sofa. The next day passes, and still none. A servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole trans action is denied. No sofa has been sold no money received except by the diddler, who played shopkeeper for the nonce. Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford every facility for a trick of this kind. Visitors enter, look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen. Should anyone wish to purchase, or to inquire the price of an article, a bell is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient. Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed indi vidual enters a shop ; makes a purchase to the value of a dollar ; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his pocket-book in. another coat-pocket ; and says to the shopkeeper "My dear sir, never mind ! just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle home *[ But stay ! I really believe that I have nothing- less than a five-dollar bill, even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the bundle, you know." " Very good, sir," replies the shopkeeper, who entertains at once a lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. " I know fellows," he says to himself, " who would just have put the goods under their arm, and walked off with a promise to call and pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon." A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims : " Ah ! this is my bundle, I see ; I thought you had been home with it long ago. Well, go on ! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you the five dollars ; I left instructions with her to that effect. The DIDDLING AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 499 change you might as well give to me ; I shall want some silver for the post-office. Very good ! One, two, is this a good quarter 1 three, four quite right ! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way." The boy doesn t loiter at all but he is a very long time in get ting back from his errand for no lady of the precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles himself, however, that he has not been such a fool as to leave the goods without the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air, feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks him what has become of the change. A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship which is about to sail, is presented, by an official-looking person, with an unusually moderate bill of city charges. Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties pressing upon him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is handed him by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a diddler, and the original collection a diddle. And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is cast ing loose from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand, is discovered running towards the wharf at full speed. Suddenly he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up something from the ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and " Has any gentleman lost a pocket-book V he cries. No one can say that he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues, when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat, however, must not be detained. " Time and tide wait for no man," says the captain. " For God s sake stay only a few minutes," says the finder of the book " the true claimant will presently appear." " Can t wait !" replies the man in authority ; " cast off there, d ye heaH" " What am I to do T asks the finder, in great tribulation. " I am about to leave the country for some years, and I cannot consci entiously retain this large amount in my possession. I beg your pardon, sir," (here he addresses a gentleman on shore,) " but you have the air of an honest man. Will you confer upon me the favour of taking charge of this pocket-book I know I can trust you and of advertising it ? The notes, you see, amount to a very consider- 500 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE . able sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding you for your trouble " " Me /no, you /it was you who found the book." " Well, if you must have it so, / will take a small reward, just to satisfy your scruples. Let me see why these notes are all hundreds bless my soul ! a hundred is too much to take fifty would be quite enough, I am sure " " Cast off there !" says the captain. " But then I have no change for a hundred, and, upon the whole, you had better " Cast off there !" says the captain. " Never mind !" cries the gentleman on shore, who has been ex amining his own pocket-book for the last minute or so " never mind ! / can fix it here is a fifty on the Bank of North America throw me the book." And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked reluctance, and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while the steamboat fumes and fizzes on her way. In about half an hour after her departure the " large amount" is seen to be a " counterfeit presentment," and the whole thing a capital diddle* A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is to be held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of a free bridge. A diddler stations himself upon this bridge, re spectfully informs all passers-by of the new county law, which establishes a toll of one cent for foot-passengers, two for horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some grumble, but all sub mit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a great crowd of people is an excessively troublesome thing. A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler s promises to pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the ordi nary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases one or two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a bonne louche. The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with the did dler s dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps the diddler s dog, and devours it forthwith. The diddler is not only surprised, but vexed and incensed at the absurd behaviour of his DIDDLING AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 501 dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel the obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation shall be forthcoming. A very minute diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a diddler s accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her assist ance, and, giving his friend a comfortable thrashing, insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He bows with his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bids her adieu. She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be introduced to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do so. " Is there no way, then, sir," she murmurs, " in which I may be per mitted to testify my gratitude V " Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a couple of shillings V In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon fainting outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her purse-strings and delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a diddle minute for one entire moiety of the sum borrowed has to be paid to the gentleman who had the trouble of performing the insult, and who had then to stand still and be thrashed for performing it. Rather a small, but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of tobacco. These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined them, he says : " I don t much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me a glass of brandy and water in its place." The brandy and water is furnished and imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the door. But the voice of the tavern keeper arrests him. " I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and water." " Pay for my brandy and water ! didn t I give you the tobacco for the brandy and water ] What more would you have V " But, sir, if you please, I don t remember that you paid for the tobacco." " What do you mean by that, you scoundrel 1 ? Didn tl give you back your tobacco 1 Isn t that your tobacco lying there ? Do you expect me to pay for what I did not take 1" " But, sir," says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say, "but, sir-" " But me no buts, sir," interrupts the diddler, apparently in very 502 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. high, dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his escape." But me no buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon travellers." Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is not its least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being really lost, the loser inserts in one of the daily papers of a large city, a fully descriptive advertisement. Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement, with a change of heading, of general phraseology, and address. The original, for instance, is long, and verbose, is headed " A Pocket- Book lost !" and requires the treasure, when found, to be left at No. 1, Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being headed with "Lost " only, indicates No. 2, Dick, or No. 3, Harry Street, as the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day, while in point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours after the original. Should it be read by the loser of the purse, he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own misfortune. But, of course, the chances are five or six to one, that the finder will repair to the address given by the diddler, rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps. Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped, somewhere in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value. For its recovery, she offers some forty of fifty dollars reward giving, in her advertisement, a very minute description of the gem, and of its setting, and declaring that, upon its restoration to No. so-and-so, in such-and-such Avenue, the reward will be paid in- stanter, without a single question being asked. During the lady s absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a ring is heard at the door of No. so-and-so, in such-and-snch Avenue ; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for, and is declared to be out, at which astounding information the visitor expresses the most poig nant regret. His business is of importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the good fortune to find her diamond ring. But, perhaps it would be as well that he should call again. " By no means !" says the servant ; and " By no means !" says the lady s sister, and the lady s sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith. The ring is clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder nearly thrust out of doors. The lady returns, and expresses some DIDDLING AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 50^ little dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they happen to have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond ring a fac-simile made out of real pinchbeck and unques tionable paste. But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or inflec tions, of which this science is susceptible. I must bring this paper, perforce, to a, conclusion, and this I cannot do better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the theatre, not very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success, in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A middle-aged gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is remarkably precise, cautious,- staid, and deliberate in his demeanour. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain, unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample waistcoat, made with an eye to comfort alone; thick -soled cosy- looking shoes, and pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable " man of business," par excellence one of the stern and outwardly hard, internally soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high comedies fellows whose words are so many bonds, and who are noted for giving away guineas, in charity, with the one hand, while, in the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost fraction of a, farthing with the other. He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding- house. He dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits are methodical and then he would prefer getting into a private and respectable small family, piously inclined. Terms, however, are no object only he must insist upon settling his bill on the first of every month (it is now the second), and begs his landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not on any account to forget his instructions upon this point but to send in a bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o clock on the first day of every month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the second. These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a reputable rather than in a fashionable quarter of the town. There is nothing he more despises than pretence. " Where there is much show," he says, " there is seldom anything very solid behind "an observation which so profoundly impresses his landlady s fancy, that she makes a pencil memorandum of it forthwith, in her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon, 504 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this, in the principal business sixpennies of this city the pennies are eschewed as not " respectable " and as demanding payment for all advertisements in advance. Our man of business holds it as a point of his faith that work should never be paid for until done. WANTED. The advertisers, being about to commence extensive business operations in this city, will require the services of three or four intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal salary will be paid. The very best recommendations not so much for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected. Indeed, as the duties to be performed involve high responsibilities, and large amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of those engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply, therefore, who is not prepared to leave this sum in the possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young gentlemen piously inclined will be preferred. Application should be made between the hours of ten and eleven, A.M., and four and five, P.M., of MESSRS, BOGS, HOGS, LOGS, FROGS, & Co., No. 110, Dog Street. By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has brought to the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or twenty young gentlemen piously inclined. But our man of business is in no hurry to conclude a contract with any no man of business is ever precipitate and it is not until the most rigid catechism in respect to the piety of each young gentleman s inclination, that his services are engaged and his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper precaution, on the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning of the first day of the next month, the landlady does not present her bill, according to promise a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of the house ending in ogs, would no doubt have chided her severely, could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two for that purpose. As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running hither and thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of business most emphatically, a " hen knee high "by which some persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is n. e. i by which again DIDDLING AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 505 the very classical phrase non est inventus, is supposed to be under stood. In the meantime the young gentlemen, one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before, while the landlady purchases a shilling s worth of the best India rubber, and very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that some fool has made in her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon. THE ANGEL OF THE ODD, AN EXTRAVAGANZA. [ T was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consum mated 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," Wilkie s " Epigoniad," Lamartine s " Pilgrimage," Barlow s " Columbiad," Tuckerman 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 news paper 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 run away," I attacked with great reso lution 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 critics 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 506 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 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 possibilites 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 marvellous increase of late in these odd accidents is by far the oddest acci dent of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing hence forward 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 niy ears such as a 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 side." 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 Falstafh an air. In its nether extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes THE ANGEL OF THE ODD. of legs. For arms there dangled from the upper carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the ne^ks outward for hands. All the head that I saw the monster^Cssessed 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 pre cise 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 mos 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 f " As vor ow I com d ere," replied the figure, " dat iz none of your pizziness ; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat 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 II can t do what V " Ring de pell ;" he replied, attempting a grin with his little villanous 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 V* 508 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ""iNTo oivio !" I replied, much alarmed, "you are no chicken certainly not.V " Well den, zitlteV 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 head-teuffel 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 vat a low bred buppy you mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness !" This language w r as 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 accom plished 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 ; "mem Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry. You mos not trink it so strong you mos put te 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 colourless 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 modified 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 contretemps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents which are continu ally astonishing the sceptic. 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 THE ANGEL OF THE ODD. 569 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 filliping the stems about the room. But by-and-by, the Angel suddenly construed this behaviour 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 honheur et un pen 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 agreedthat, 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 mantelpiece (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 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 1" Upon examining it I discovered that one of the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the room during the, discourse of the Angel of the Odd, had flown through the fractured $ 16 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 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 harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, 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 run 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 odour assailed my nostrils ; the house, I clearly per ceived 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 THE ANGEL OF THE ODD. 511 made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow dis consolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant con sent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration. She blushed, and bowed her luxuriant tresses 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 im placable 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 eight, 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 anyone 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 high time to die (since fortune had so deter mined 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 head long 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 his 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 u pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness which the case $12 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 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 terra-Jirma; the fact is, I had thrown myself over a precipice, and should in evitably have been dashed to pieces but for my good fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended 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 seronaut 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 corner of his mouth, he condescended to speak. " Who pe you," he asked, " und what der teuffel you pe do dare V 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 your self, 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 I" 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 ]" THE ANGEL OF THE ODD. 513 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 1 You pelief, ten, in te possibility of te odd V 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 und te vool 1" I nodded once more. " Put your right hand into your left-hand breeches pocket, ten, in token ov your vull zubmizzion 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 J }> 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 head long 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 fallen from the balloon. My head gro velled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the frag ments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a newspaper some broken glasses and shattered bottles, and an empty jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the Angel of the Odd. 33 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. MELLONTA TAUTA, ON BOARD BALLOON " SKYLARK, "April 1, 2848. |OW, my dear friend now, for your sins, you are to suffer the infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you dis tinctly that I am going to punish you for all your imper tinences by being as tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as un satisfactory as possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with some one or two hundred of the canaille, all bound on & pleasure excursion, (what a funny idea some people have of pleasure !) and I have no prospect of touching terra ftrma for a month at least. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do. When one has nothing to do, then is the time to correspond with one s friends. You perceive, then, why it is that I write you this letter it is on account of my ennui and your sins. G et ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I mean to write at you every day during this odious voyage. Heigho ! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium 1 Are we for ever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the balloon 1 Will nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of progress 7 This jog-trot movement, to my thinking, is little less than positive torture. Upon my word we have not made more than a hundred miles the hour since leaving home ! The very birds beat us at least some of them. I assure you that I do not exaggerate at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it actually is this on account of our having no objects about us by which to estimate our velocity, and on account of our going with the wind. To be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have a chance of perceiving our rate, and then, I admit, things do not appear so very bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode of travelling, I cannot get over a kind of giddiness whenever a balloon passes us in a current directly overhead. It always seems to me like an immense bird of prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise, and so nearly over head that its drag-rope actually brushed the net-work suspending our car, and caused us very serious apprehension. Our captain said that if the material of the bag had been the trumpery varnished " silk " of five hundred or a thousand years ago, we should inevi tably have been damaged This silk, as he explained it to me, was MELLONTA TAUT A. 515 a fabric composed of the entrails of a species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully fed on mulberries a kind of fruit resembling a water-melon and, when sufficiently fat, was crushed in a mill. The paste thus arising was called papyrus in its primary state, and went through a variety of processes until it finally became " silk." Singular to relate, it was once much admired as an article offemak chess ! Balloons were also very generally constructed from it. A better kind of material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called euphor- bium, and at that time botanically termed milk-weed. This latter kind of silk was designated as silk-buckingham, on account of its superior durability, and was usually prepared for use by being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc a substance which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha now in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called India rub ber or rubber of whist, and was no doubt one of the numerous fungi. Never tell me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian. Talking of drag-ropes our own, it seems, has this moment knocked a man overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that swarm in ocean below us a boat of about six thousand tons, and, from all accounts, shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques should be prohibited from carrying more than a definite number of passengers. The man, of course, was not permitted to get on board again, and was soon out of sight, he and his life-pre server. I rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an age so en lightened that no such a thing as an individual is supposed to exist. It is the mass for which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talk ing of Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is not so original in his views of the Social Condition and so forth, as his cotemporaries are inclined to suppose ? Pundit assures me that the same ideas were put, nearly in the same way, about a thousand years ago, by an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on account of his keeping a retail shop for cat peltries and other furs. Pundit knows, you know ; there can be no mistake about it. How very wonder fully do we see verified every day, the profound observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by Pundit) " Thus must we say that, not once or twice, or a few times, but with almost infinite re petitions, the same opinions come round in a circle among men." April 2. Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle section of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this 33 -2" 516 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. species of telegraph, was first put into operation by Horse, it was considered quite impossible to convey the wires over sea ; but now we are at a loss to comprehend where the difficulty lay ! So wags the world. Tempora mutantur excuse me for quoting the Etrus can. What would we do without the Atlantic telegraph 1 (Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient adjective.) We lay to a few minutes to ask the cutter some questions, and learned, among other glorious news, that civil war is raging in Africia, while the plague is doing its good work beautifully both in Yurope and Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent light shed upon phi losophy by Humanity, the world was accustomed to regard War and Pestilence as calamities 3 Do you know that prayers were actually offered up in the ancient temples to the end that these evils (!) might not be visited upon mankind ] Is it not really difficult to compre hend upon what principle of interest our forefathers acted ? Were they so blind as not to perceive that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only so much positive advantage to the mass ! April 3. It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the rope- ladder leading to the summit of the balloon-bag and thence survey the surrounding world. From the car below, you know, the pro spect is not so comprehensive you can see little vertically. But seated here (where I write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned open piazza of the summit, one can see everything that is going on in all directions. Just now, there is quite a crowd of balloons in sight, and they present a very animated appearance, while the air is re sonant with the hum of so many millions of human voices. I have heard it asserted that when Yellow or (as Pundit will have it) Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut, maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in all directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favourable current was at tained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his cotemporaries, who looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort of madman, be cause the philosophers (!) of the day declared the thing impossible. Really now it does seem to me quite unaccountable how anything so obviously feasible could have escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages the great obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the so-cal]ed men of science. To be sure, our men of science are not quite so bigoted as those of old : oh, I have something so queer to tell you on this topic. Do you know that it is not more than a thousand years ago since the metapbysi- MELLONTA TAUTA. 51^ cians consented to relieve the people of the singular fancy that there existed but two possible roads for the attainment of Truth ! Be lieve it if you can ! It appears that long, long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo possibly) called Aries Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events propagated, what was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He started with what he maintained to be axioms or " self-evident truths," and thence proceeded " logically " to results. His greatest disciples were one Neuclid and one Cant. Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme until the advent of one Hog, surnamed the " Ettrick Shepherd," who preached an entirely different system, which he called the a posteriori or ^ductive. His plan referred altogether te Sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing and classifying facts instantioe naturce, as they were affectedly called into general laws. Aries Tottle s mode, in a word, was based on noumena ; Hog s on phenomena. Well, so great was the admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first introduc tion, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute ; but finally he recovered ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth with his more modern rival. The savans new maintained that the Aristo telian and Baconian roads were the sole possible avenues to know ledge. " Baconian," you must know, was an adjective invented as equivalent to Hog-ian and more euphonious and dignified. Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority ; arid you can easily understand how a notion so absurd on its very face must have operated to retard the progress of all true knowledge which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive bounds. The ancient idea confined investigation to crawling; and for hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking properly so-called. No man dared utter a truth to which he felt himself indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the truth was even demonstrable/ a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They would not even look at the end. " Let us see the means," they cried, " the means !" If, upon investigation of the means, it was found to come neither under the category Aries (that is to say Earn) nor under the cate gory Hog, why then the savans went no farther, but pronounced the "theorist " a fool, and would have nothing to do with him or his truth. $i8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system the greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series of ages, for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be compensated for by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these. Inglitch and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an ob ject the better the more closely he holds it to his eyes. These people blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded Hoggishly, their " facts " were by no means always facts a matter of little con sequence had it not been for assuming that they were facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When they pro ceeded on the path of the Earn, their course was scarcely as straight as a ram s horn, for they never had an axiom which was an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not to see this, even in their own day; for even in their own day many of the long "estab lished" axioms had been rejected. For example "Ex nihilo, nihil fit? "a body cannot act where it is not;" "there cannot exist antipodes ;" " darkness cannot come out of light " all these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which I speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to per sist in putting faith in " axioms " as immutable bases of Truth ! But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in general. Who was the soundest of their logicians ? Let me see ! I will go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute. . . . Ah, here we have it ! Here is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and lately translated from the Inglitch which, by the way, ap pears to have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit says it is decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, Logic. The author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or Mill ; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some import ance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us glance at the treatise ! Ah ! " Ability or inability to conceive," says Mr. Mill, very properly, " is in no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth." What modern in his senses would ever think of disputing this truism ? The only wonder with us must be, how it happened MELLONTA TAUTA. 519 that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at anything so obvious. So far good but let us turn over another page. What have we here 1 " Contradictories cannot both be true that is, cannot co-exist in nature." Here Mr. Mill means, for example that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree that it cannot be at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well ; but I ask him why. His reply is this and never pretends to be any thing else than this " Because it is impossible to conceive that contradict ories can both be true." But this is no answer at all, by his own showing ; for lias he not just admitted as a truism that " ability or inability to conceive is in no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth V Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their logic is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and fantastic altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile pro scription of all other roads to Truth, of all other means for its attainment than the two preposterous paths the one of creeping and the one of crawling to which they have dared to confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar. By-the-by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled these ancient dogmaticians to have determined by ivhich of their two roads it was that the most important and most sublime of all their truths was, in effect, attained 1 I mean the truth of Gravita tion. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his three laws were guessed at these three laws of all laws which led the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of all physical principle to go behind which we must enter the Kingdom of Metaphysics. Kepler guessed that is to say imagined. He was essentially a "theorist" that word now of so much sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by which of the two " roads " a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than usual secresy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which resulted from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics 1 One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it not passing strange that, with their eternal prating about roads to Truth, these bigoted people missed what we now so clearly per ceive to be the great highway that of Consistency 1 Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to deduce from the 520 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency must be ail absolute truth ? How plain has been our progress since the late announcement of this proposition ! Investigation has been taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task, to the trtte and only true thinkers, the men of ardent imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout of scorn with which my words would be received by our progenitors were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder 1 These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply corrected, reduced, system atized cleared, little by little, of their dross of inconsistency until, finally, a perfect consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit, because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an unquestionable truth. April 4. The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with tlu new improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious, manageable, and in every respect convenient, are our modern bal loons ! Here is an immense one approaching us at the rate of at least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be crowded with people perhaps there are three or four hundred passengers &nd yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile, looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling after all. Do you remem ber our flight on the railroad across the Kanadaw continent? fully three hundred miles the hour that was travelling. Nothing to be seen, though nothing to be done but flirt, feast, and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you remember what an odd sensa tion was experienced when, by chance, we caught a glimpse of external objects while the cars were in full flight 1 Everything seemed unique in one mass. For iny part I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have glass windows even to have them open and something like a distinct view of the country was attainable. * * . . Pundit says that the route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some measure marked out about nine hundred years ago ! In fact, he goes so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are still discernible traces refer able to a period quite as remote as that mentioned. The track, it appears, was double only ; ours, you know, has twelve paths ; and three or four new ones are in preparation. The ancient rails were very slight, and placed so close together as to be, according to MELLONTA TAUTA. 521 modern notions, quite frivolous, if not dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track fifty feet is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part, I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in very remote times, as Pundit asserts ; for nothing can be clearer, to my mind, than that, at some period not less than seven centuries ago, certainly the northern and southern Kanadaw continents were united ; the Kanawdians, then, would have been driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent. April 5. I am almost devoured by ennui. Pundit is the only conversible person on board ; and he, poor soul ! can speak of nothing but antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the attempt to convince me that the ancient Amriccans governed them selves ! did ever anybody hear of such an absurdity 1 that they existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy^ after the fashion of the " prairie dogs" that we read of in fable. He says that they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz., that all men are born free and equal this in the very teeth of the laws of gradation so visibly impressed upon all things both in the moral and physical universe. Every man " voted," as they called it that is to say, meddled with public affairs until, at length, it was dis* covered that what is everybody s business is nobody s, and that the " Piepublic" (so the absurd thing was called) was without a govern ment at all. It is related, however, that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly, the self-complacency of the phi losophers who constructed this " Republic," was the startling dis covery that universal suffrage gave opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any desired number of votes might at any time be polled, without the possibility of prevention or even detection, by any party which should be merely villanous enough not to be ashamed of the fraud. A little reflection upon this dis covery sufficed to render evident the consequences, which were that rascality must predominate in a word, that a republican govern ment could never be anything but a rascally one. While the philo sophers, however, were busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen these inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of the name of Mob, who took everything into his own hands and set up a despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This 522 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said to have been the most odious of all men that ever encumbered the earth. He was a giant in stature insolent, rapacious, filthy ; had the gall of a bullock with the heart of an hyena, and the brains of a peacock. He died, at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him. Never theless, he had his uses, as everything has, however vile, and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger of forget tingnever to run directly contrary to the natural analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it upon the face of the earth unless we except the case of the " prairie dogs," an exception which seems to demonstrate, if anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of government for dogs. April 6. Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrse, whose disk, through our captain s spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a degree, looking very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a misty day. Alpha Lyrse, although so very much larger than our sun, by-the-by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing between these two orbs began even to be suspected. The evident motion of our system in the heavens was (strange to say) referred to an orbit about a pro digious star in the centre of the galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of gravity common to all the globes of the Milky Way, and supposed to be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was declared to be revolving, our own perform ing the circuit in a period of 117,000,000 of years ! We, with our present lights, our vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it difficult to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first instance ; but, this being the case, he should have at least adhered to analogy in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested ; so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, how ever, dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding orbs taken together. The question might then have been asked " Why do we not see it V we especially, who occupy the mid region of the cluster the very locality near which, at least, must be situ ated this inconceivable central sun. The astronomer, perhaps, at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity ; and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the central MELLONTA TAUT A. 523 orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of glorious suns glaring in all directions about it 1 No doubt what he finally maintained was merely a centre of gravity common to all the revolving orbs- but here again analogy must have been let fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of gravity, but it does this in con nection with and in consequence of a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest of the system. The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an infinity of straight lines ; but this idea of the circle this idea of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we consider as merely the mathematical, in contradis tinction from the practical, idea is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human imaginations but attempt to take a single step towards the comprehension of a circuit so unutterable ! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say that a flash of lightning itself, travelling for ever upon the circumference of this inconceivable circle, would still for ever be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our sun along such a circumference that the direction of our system in such an orbit would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a proposition not to be entertained ; and yet these ancient astrono mers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into believing that a deci sive curvature had become apparent during the brief period of their astronomical history during the mere point during the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years ! How incom prehensible, that considerations such as this did not at once indicate to them the true state of affairs that of the binary revo lution of our sun and Alpha Lyree around a common centre of gravity ! April 7. Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a fine view of the five Nepturian asteroids, and watched with much interest the putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels in the new temple at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a mechanical ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult, too, to con- 52 j. WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. ceive the vast masses which these people handle so easily, to be as light as our reason tells us they actually are. April 8. Eureka ! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw spoke us to-day and threw onboard several late papers; they contain some exceedingly curious information relative to Kanawdian or rather to Amriccan antiquities. You know, I pre sume, that labourers have for some months been employed in preparing the ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the emperor s principal pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally speaking, an island time out of mind that is to say, its northern boundary was always (as far back as any records extend) a rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was gradually widened Until it attained its present breadth a mile. The whole length of the island is nine miles ; the breadth varies materially. The entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them twenty stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason) being considered as especially precious just in this vicinity. The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our antiquarians have never yet been able to obtain from the site any sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions) wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants. Nearly all that we have hitherto known of them is, that they were a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the continent at its first discovery by Recorder Biker, a knight of the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilised, however, but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many respects, but were oddly afflicted with a monomania for building what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated " churches" a kind of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the island became, nine-tenths of it, church. The women, too, it appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the region just below the small of the back although most unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women have, in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd, very like something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary. MELLONTA TAUTA. 525 Well, tliese few details are nearly all that have descended to us respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that while digging in the centre of the emperor s garden, (which, you know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a cubical and evidently chiselled block of granite, weighing several hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received, apparently, little injury from the convulsion which en tombed it. On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it !) an inscription a legible insolation. Pundit is in ecstasies. Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters of intense interest to the antiquarian ! There can be no doubt that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typo- graphy, &c., &c. I copy for your amusement, the Knickerbocker inscription on the marble slab : This Corner Stone of a Monument to the Memory of GEORGE WASHINGTON, was laid with appropriate ceremonies on the 19xii DAY OF OCTOBER, 1847, the anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis to General Washington at York town, A.D. 1781, under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association of the city of New York. This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit him self, so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge, not the least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse as was all very proper the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future time ; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself " solitary and 526 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. alone" (excuse me for quoting the great Amriccan poet Benton !) as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We ascertain too, very distinctly, from the admirable inscription, the how, as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription com memorates the surrender of what 1 why, " of Lord Cornwallis." The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered for ] But when we remember that these savages were undoubt edly cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage) " under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association" no doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of corner stones. But, Heaven bless me ! what is the matter 1 Ah, I see the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a hasty in spection of the fac-similesof newspapers, &c. &c., I find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor. Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter or not is a point of little importance, as I write altogether for my own amusement. I shall cork the MS, up in a bottle, however, and throw it into the sea. Yours everlastingly, THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP. A TALE OP THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN. "Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, etfondez vous en eauf La mottle 1 de ma vie a mis I autre au tomleau" COENEILLE. 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 THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP. 527 doubt at some place or other, I feel convinced, whose name I have unaccountably forgotten. The truth is that the introduc tion was attended, upon my part, with a degree of anxious embar rassment 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 honour to a Brutus ; nothing could be more richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty black ; which was also the colour, or more properly the no colour, 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 over shadowed, 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 peculiarity 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. Isor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, 523 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 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 acquaint ance, 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 carnage a degree of measured, and, if 1 may so express it, of rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which, observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least little savour 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 favourite, 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 down right 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 \2?rodigies of valour ! heard of him of course 1 you know he s the man " " Man alive, how do you do ? why how are ye 1 very glad to see THE MAN THAT WAS USED Uf. 529 Jre, 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 inter ruption just at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and insinua tions aforesaid, my interest had been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign. However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Bri gadier 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 forbore, 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 com menting 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 won derful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and rail roads man-traps 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 use/id the most truly useful mechanical contrivances, are daily springing up like mush rooms, if I may so express myself, or, more figuratively, like, ah grasshoppers like grasshoppers, Mr Thompson, about us and, ah ah ah around us!" Thompson, to be sure, is not my name ; but it is needless to say 34 530 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 alto gether 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 magnafuit, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign. The first opportunity which presented itself, and which (horresco refer ens} 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 my self, and with much reason, upon the very flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything 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, sotto 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 valour 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 Rantapole Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of affa bility and omniscience, the Misses Arabelli and Miranda Cogno scenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing L;-o to a very THE MAN- THAT WAS USED UP. 531 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 1" said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the purport of my query ; " Smith r \ why, not General John A. B. C. V> "Smith?" inquired Miranda, musingly. "God t>less me, did you ever behold a finer figure V " Never, madam, but do tell me " V* Or so inimitable grace V . Never, upon my word ! but pray inform me " " Or so just an appreciation of stage effect V "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 1" said she, "why, not General John A. B. C. ? Horrid affair that, wasn t it 1 ? great wretches, those Bugaboos savage and so on but we live in a wonderfully inventive age ! Smith ! O yes ! great man ! perfect desperado immortal renown pro digies of valour ! 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 oVdst yesterday 1" here roared out Climax jus\in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I couldn t stand, and I ivouldrit. 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 to the day of his death. At the soiree of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen 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-&-vis, than I propounded those questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential to my peace. " Smith V said my partner, " why, not General John A. B. C. ? Horrid affair that, wasn t it 1 ? diamonds, did you say 1 ? 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, 342 534 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. quite a hero perfect desperado ! no hearts, Mr. Tattle 1 I don t believe it ! immortal renown and all that prodigies of valour ! Never heard ! /why, bless me, he s the man " " Mann {Captain Mann T here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner 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 of hung, or should have been both shot and bung, Yes ! Mrs. O Trump, she went on, and I I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything further that evening in regard to Brevet Briga dier General John A. B. C. Smith. Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me f orevc r, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette. " Smith 1" said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a 2)as de zephyr, " Smith ? why, not General John A. B. C. 1 Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn t it ? terrible 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 Oh! dear me, I m out of breath quite a desperado prodigies of valour ! Never heard / f 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 W&n-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means !&&n-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 true 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 te> 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 V said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling THE MAN TffA T WAS USED UP. 533 out his syllables ; " Smith ? why, not General John A. B. C. 1 Savage affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn t it ! Say ! don t you think so 1 ? perfect despera-a-ado great pity, pon my honour! wonderfully inventive age ! pro-o-odigies of valour ! By-the- by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n 1" " 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 Fiance. Smith, eh ? Brigadier General John A B C. 1 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 con scientiously, 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 m , he s the ma-a-an " "Mr. Sinivate," said I, imploringly, "is he the man in the mask V " 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 un gentlemanly 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, peremp tory 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 humour 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, be tween a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence. 534 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " 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 1 I really believe you don t know me at all." What could I say to all this what could 1 1 I staggered into an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder. " Strange you shouldn t know me, though, isn t it V presently re- squeaked 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 up 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 ! Pettitt makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you ll 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 Family s at once : high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Buga boo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle." " Butt end ! ram down ! ! my eye ! !" " yes, by-the-by, my eye here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in i Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge ; but he s a THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP. 535 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 Bri gadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pom- pey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the ap pearance 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 posi tively 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," xliere 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 Mm 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. 0. Smith was the man was the mem that was used up. 53<3 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. THE BUSINESS MAN, " Method is the soul of business." Old Saying. 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 viola ting 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 V 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 three times, d d my eyes for a " skreeking little spalpeen," and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the bed-post. 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 anything 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 can not mpJ.ce 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 crea tures are always going off at a tangent into some fantastic em ployment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at variance with the " fitness of things," and having no business whatever to be consi dered as a business at all. Thus you may tell these characters im mediately 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 j or THE BUSINESS MAN. 537 getting to be a dry-goods dealer, or soap-boiler, or something of that kind ; or pretending to be a lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician anything 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 fellow men. 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 everything, and in auto-biography 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 he termed " a respectable hardware and commission mer chant doing a capital bit of business !" A capital bit of fiddle stick ! 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 round 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 " a respectable hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of business," and I felt grateful to the protu berance which had been the means of my salvation, as well as to the kind-hearted 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 th^at ! I resolved to be off forth with, 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 538 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 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 characterised 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 hand some person about, so as to bring successively into view every por tion 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 and Come- again. 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 quarrelled 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 and Comeagain, Merchant Tailors. To Peter Profit, Walking Advertiser. Drs. July 10. 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 ; recom mending milled sattinet as broadcloth . . 75 July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shaft collar or dickey, to set off gray Petersham . . . 2 Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock (thermometer 706 in the shade) ..... 25 Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off new-style strapped pants at 12^ cents per leg per hour . 37^ Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought (fat man) ...... 50 Aug. 18. To do. do. (medium size) 25 Aug. 19. To do. do. (small man and bad pay) 6 $2 96 THE BUSINESS MAN. 539 The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honour 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 and Come- again, 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 nourishing 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 hap pened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual business opera tions 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, arid this every intelligent person knows. The fact in ques tion 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 mer chants secure a nice corner of the lot in contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining or right in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way up, and then we pay some tasty archi tect 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 Esquimaux, 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 wet 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 ; 540 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 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 deli cate 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 I. I 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. 1. New-year s day. Met Snap in the street, groggy. Mem. he ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterwards, blind drunk. Mem. he ll 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 sit ting 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. THE BUSINESS MAN. $41 " Feb. 15. Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in journal fifty cents which see. " Feb. 16. Cast by that villain, Gruff, who made me a present of five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents. Nett profit see journal 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 me"t 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 igno ramus 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 th^se means I got to be well known as a man to be trusted ; and this is one-half the battle, let ms 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 suf ficiently understood, I never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn t have put up with it, if I had. Never imposing upon anyone 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 indi- 542 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAti POE. viduals, 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 in the Cur-Spattering a somewhat analo gous, 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 quar relled 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. It 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 tan-bark 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. Pre - sently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence, with a request to " Hush up and go on," <fec. 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 laboured tinder the disadvantage of having no monkey and American streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obtrusive, and so full of demnition mischievous little boys. I was now out of employment for some months, but at length THE BUSINESS MAN. $43 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 corner 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 this 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 cab-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 meang 544 WORKS OF ED CAR ALLAN POE. of Macassar oil, I can force three crops in a year. It delights me td find, too, that the animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have the appendages cut off than otherwise. I con sider, myself, therefore, a made man. and am bargaining for a country seat on the Hudson. CRITICAL ESSAYS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,* WELL-BRED man," says Sir James Puckle, in his " Gray Cap for a Green Head," " will never give himsell the liberty to speak ill of women." We emphasize the " man." Setting aside, for the present, certain rare commentators and compilers of the species creatures neither precisely men, women, nor Mary Wollstonecroft s setting these aside as unclassi- fiable, we may observe that the race of critics are masculine men. With the exception, perhaps, of Mrs. Anne Royal, we can call to mind no female who has occupied, even temporarily, the Zoilus throne. And this, the Salic law, is an evil ; for the inherent chivalry of the critical man renders it not only an unpleasant task to him " to speak ill of a woman," (and a woman and her book are identical,) but an almost impossible task not to laud her ad nauseam. In general, therefore, it is the unhappy lot of the authoress to be subjected, time after time, to the downright degradation of mere puffery. On her own side of the Atlantic, Miss Barrett has indeed, in one instance at least, escaped the infliction of this lamentable contumely and wrong ; but if she had been really solicitous of its infliction in America, she could not have adopted a more effectual plan than that of saying a few words about " the great American people," in^an American edition of her work, published under the superintendence of an American author.t Of the innumerable * The Drama of Exile, and other Poems : By Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Author of "The Seraphim," and other Poems. t We are sorry to notice, in the American edition, a multitude of typographical errors, many of which affect the sense, and should there fore be corrected in a second impression, if called for. How far they are chargeable to the London copy, we are not prepared to say. "Froze, " for instance, is printed "frore." "Foregone," throughout, is printed "forgone." " Wordless " is printed "worldless" "worldly," "wordly" "spilt," "split," etc., etc., while transpositions, false accents, and mispunctuations abound. We indicate a few pages on which such inad vertences are to be discovered. Vol. I. 23, 26, 37, 45, 53, 56, 80, 166, 174, 180, 185, 251. Vol. II. 109, 114, 240, 247, 253, 272. 352 548 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE, " native " notices of " The Drama of Exile," which have come under our observation, we can call to mind not one in which there is anything more remarkable than the critic s dogged determination to find nothing barren, from Beersheba to Dan. Another in the " Democratic Ifteview " has proceeded so far, ifc is true, as to venture a very delicate insinuation to the effect that the poetess " will not fail to speak her mind though it bring upon her a bad rhyme ;" beyond this, nobody has proceeded : and as for the elabo rate paper in the new Whig Monthly, all that anybody can say or think, and all that Miss Barrett can feel respecting it is, that it is an eulogy as well written as it is an insult well intended. Now of all the friends of the fair author, we doubt whether one exists, with more profound with more enthusiastic reverence and admiration of her genius, than the writer of these words. And it is for this very reason, beyond all others, that he intends to speak of her the truth. Our chief regret is, nevertheless, that the limits of this work will preclude the possibility of our speaking this truth so fully, and so much in detail, as we could wish. By far the most valuable criticism that we, or that any one could give, of the volumes now lying before us, would be the quotation of three- fourths of their contents. But we have this advantage that the work has been long published, and almost universally read and thus, in some measure, we may proceed, concisely, as if the text of our context were an understood thing. In her preface to this, the "American edition" of her late poems, Miss Barrett, speaking of the " Drama of Exile/ says : " I decided on publishing it, after considerable hesitation and doubt. Its subject rather fastened on me than was chosen ; and the form, approaching the model of the Greek tragedy, shaped itself under my hand rather by force of pleasure than of design. But when the compositional excitement had subsided, I felt afraid of my position. My own object was the new and strange experiment of the fallen Humanity, as it went forth from Paradise in the Wilderness, with a peculiar reference to Eve s allotted grief, which, considering that self -sacrifice belonged to her womanhood, and the consciousness of being the organ of the Fall to her offence, appeared to me imper fectly apprehended hitherto, and more expressible by a woman than by a man." In this abstract announcement of the theme, it is difficult to understand the ground of the poet s hesitation to pub lish j for the theme in itself seems admirably adapted to the pur- EL1ZABE TH BARRE TT BARRE TT. 549 poses of the closest drama. The poet, nevertheless, is, very properly, conscious of failure a failure which occurs not in the general, but in the particular conception, and which must be placed to the ac count of " the model of the Greek tragedies." The Greek tragedies had and even have high merits ; but we act wisely in now substi tuting for the external and typified human sympathy of the antique Chorus, a direct, internal, living and moving sympathy itself ; and although ^Eschylus might have done service as "a model/ to either Euripides or Sophocles, yet were Sophocles, and Euripides in London to-day, they would, perhaps, while granting a certain formless and shadowy grandeur, indulge a quiet smile at the shallow- ness and uncouthness of that Art which, in the old amphitheatres, had beguiled them into applause of the CEdipus at Colonos. It would have been better for Miss Barrett jf ? throwing herself independently upon her own very extraordinary resources, and forgetting that a Greek had ever lived, she had involved her Eve in a series of adventures merely natural, or if not this, of adventures preternatural within the limits of at least a conceivable relation a relation of matter to spirit and spirit to matter, that should have left room for something like palpable action and comprehensible emotion that should not have utterly precluded the development of that womanly character which is admitted as the principal object of the poem. As the case actually stands, it is only in a few snatches of verbal intercommunication with Adam and Lucifer, that we behold her as a woman at all. For the rest, she is a" mystical something or nothing, enwrapped in a fog of rhapsody about Transfiguration, and the Seed, and the Bruising of the Heel, and other talk of a nature that no man ever pretended to under stand in plain prose, and which, when solar-microscoped into poetry " upon the model of the Greek drama," is about as convincing as the Egyptian Lectures of Mr. Silk Buckingham about as much to any purpose under the sun as the hi presto I conjurations of Signer Blitz. What are we to make, for example, of dramatic colloquy such as this ? the words are those of a Chorus of Invisi ble Angels addressing Adam : " Live, work on, Earthy 1 By the Actual s tension Speed the arrow worthy Of a pure ascension. From the low earth round you Reach the heights above you % $$0 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. From the stripes that wound you Seek the loves that love you ! God s divinest burneth plain Through the crystal diaphane Of our loves that love you." Now we do not mean to assert that, by excessive "tension" of the intellect, a reader accustomed to the cant of the transcendenta- lists (or of those who degrade an ennobling philosophy by styling themselves such) may not succeed in ferreting from the passage quoted, and indeed from each of the thousand similar ones through out the book, something that shall bear the aspect of an absolute idea but we do mean to say, first, that in nine cases out of ten, the thought when dug out will be found very poorly to repay the labour of the digging ; for it is the nature of thought in general, as it is the nature of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial. And we do mean to say, secondly, that, in nineteen cases out of twenty, the reader will suffer the most valuable ore to remain unmined to all eternity, before he will be put to the trouble of digging for it one inch. And we do mean to assert, thirdly, that no reader is to be condemned for not putting himself to the trouble of digging even the one inch ; for no writer has the right to impose any such necessity upon him. What is worth thinking is distinctly thought : what is distinctly thought can and should be distinctly expressed, or should not be expressed at all. Never theless, there is no more appropriate opportunity than the present for admitting and maintaining, at once, what has never before been either maintained or admitted that there is a justifiable exception to the rule for which we contend. It is where the design is to convey the fantastic not the obscure. To give the idea of the latter we need, as in general, the most precise and definite terms, and those who employ other terms but confound obscurity of ex pression with the expression of obscurity. The fantastic in itself, however, phantasm may be materially furthered in its develop ment by the quaint in phraseology : a proposition which any moralist may examine at his leisure for himself. The "Drama of Exile" opens with a very palpable bull: " Scene, the outer side of the gate of Eden, shut fast with clouds" (a scene out of sight !) " from the depth of which revolves the sword of fire, self-moved. A watch of innumerable angels, rank above rank, slopes up from around it to the zenith ; and the glare EL1ZABE TH BARRE TT BARRE TT. 551 cast from their brightness and from the sword, extends many miles into the wilderness. Adam and Eve are seen in the distance, flying along the glare. The angel Gabriel and Lucifer are beside the gate." These are the " stage directions " which greet us on the threshold of the book. We complain first of the bull : secondly, of the blue-fire melo-dramatic aspect of the revolving sword ; thirdly, of the duplicate nature of the sword, which, if steel, and sufficiently inflamed to do service in burning, would, perhaps, have been in no temper to cut ; and on the other hand, if sufficiently cool to have an edge, would have accomplished little in the way of scorching a personage so well accustomed to fire and brimstone, and all that, as we have very good reason to believe Lucifer was. We cannot help objecting, too, to the " innumerable angels," as a force alto gether disproportioned to the one enemy to be kept out; either the self -moving sword itself, we think, or the angel Gabriel alone, or five or six of the " innumerable " angels, would have sufficed to keep the devil (or is it Adam 1) outside of the gate which, after all, he might not have been able to discover, on account of the clouds. Far be it from us, however, to dwell irreverently on matters which have venerability in the faith or in the fancy of Miss Barrett. We allude to these niaiseries at all found here in the very first paragraph of her poem, simply by way of putting in the clearest light the mass of inconsistency and antagonism in which her subject has inextricably involved her. She has made allusttm to Milton, and no doubt felt secure in her theme (as a theme merely) when she considered his "Paradise Lost." But even in Milton s own day, when men had the habit of believing all things, the more nonsen sical the more readily, and of worshipping, in blind acquiescence, the most preposterous of impossibilities even then, there were not wanting individuals who would have read the great epic with more zest, could it have been explained to their satisfaction, how and why it was, not only that a snake quoted Aristotle s ethics, and behaved otherwise pretty much as he pleased, but that bloody battles were continually being fought between bloodless "innumer able angels," that found no inconvenience in losing a wing one minute and a head the next, and if pounded up into puff-paste late in the afternoon, were as good " innumerable angels " as new the next morning, in time to be at reveille roll-call. And now at the present epoch there are few people who do not occasionally think. This is emphatically the thinking age ; indeed it may very well 552 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. be questioned whether mankind ever substantially thought before 1 . The fact is, if the " Paradise Lost" were written to-day (assuming that it had never been written when it was), not even its eminent, although over-estimated merits would counterbalance, either in the public view or in the opinion of any critic at once intelligent and honest, the multitudinous incongruities which are part and parcel of its plot. But in the plot of the drama of Miss Barrett it is something even worse than incongruity which affronts : a continuous mystical fitrain of ill-fitting and exaggerated allegory if, indeed, allegory is not much too respectable a term for it. We are called upon, for example, to sympathise in the whimsical woes of two Spirits, who, upspringing from the bowels of the earth, set immediately to be wailing their miseries in jargon such as this : I arn the spirit of the harmless earth ; God spake me softly out among the stars, As softly as a blessing of much worth And then his smile did follow unawares, That all things, fashioned, so, for use and duty, Might shine anointed with his chrism of beauty Yet I wail ! I drave on with the worlds exultingly, Obliquely down the Godlight s gradual fall Individual aspect and complexity Of gyratory orb and interval, os t in the flm Los*t in the fluent motion of delight Toward the high ends of Being, beyond Sight Yet I wail !" Innumerable other spirits discourse successively after the same fashion, each ending every stanza of his lamentation with the "yet I wail !" When at length they have fairly made an end, Eve touches Adam upon the elbow, and hazards, also, the profound and pathetic observation" Lo, Adam, they wail !" which is nothing more than the simple truth for they do and God deliver us from any such wailing again ! It is not our purpose, however, to demonstrate what every reader of these volumes will have readily seen self-demonstrated the utter indefensibility of "The Drama of Exile," considered uniquely, as a work of art, We have none of us to be told that a medley of metaphysical recitatives sung out of tune, at Adam and Eve, by all manner of inconceivable abstractions, is not exactly the best material for a poem. Still it may very well happen that ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 553 among the material there shall be individual passages of great beauty. But should anyone doubt the possibility, let him be sat isfied by a single extract such as follows : " On a mountain peak Half sheathed in primal woods and glittering In spasms of awful sunshine, at that liour A lion couched, part raised upon his paws, With his calm massive face turned full on thine, And his mane listening. When the ended curse Left silence in the world, right suddenly He sprang up rampant, and stood straight and stiff, As if the new reality of death Were dashed against his eyes and roared so fierce, (Such thick carnivorous passion in his throat Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear) And roared so wild, and smote from all the hills Such fast keen echoes crumbling down the vales To distant silence, that the forest beasts, One after one, did mutter a response In savage and in sorrowful complaint Which trailed along the gorges." There is an Homeric force here a vivid picturesqueness which all men will appreciate and admire. It is, however, the longest quotable passage in the drama, not disfigured with blemishes of importance ; although there are many very many passages of a far loftier order of excellence, so disfigured, and which, therefore, it would not suit our immediate purpose to extract. The truth is and it may be as well mentioned at this point as elsewhere that we are not to look in Miss Barrett s works for any examples of what has been occasionally termed " sustained effort ;" for neither are there, in any of her poems, any long commendable paragraphs, nor are there any individual compositions which will bear the slightest examination as consistent Art-products. Her wild and magnificent genius seems to have contented itself with points to have exhausted itself in flashes ; but it is the profusion the unparalleled number and close propinquity of these points and flashes which render her book one flame, and justify us in calling her, unhesitatingly, the greatest the most glorious of her sex. The " Drama of Exile" calls for little more, in the way of comment, than what we have generally said. Its finest particular feature is, perhaps, the rapture of Eve rapture bursting through despair upon discovering that she still possesses in the unwaver ing love of Adam, an undreamed-of and priceless treasure, The 554 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. poem ends, as it commences, with a bull. The last sentence gives us to understand that " there is a sound through the silence, as of the falling tears of an angel." How there can be sound during silence, and how an audience are to distinguish, by such sound, angel tears from any other species of tears, it may be as well^ perhaps, not too particularly to inquire. Next, in length, to the Drama is " The Vision of Poets." We object to the didacticism of its design, which the poetess thus states : " I have attempted to express here my view of the mission of the veritable poet of the self-abnegation implied in it, of the uses of sorrow suffered in it, of the great work accomplished in it through suffering, and of the duty and glory of what Balzac has beautifully and truly called la patience angelique du genie. 3 " This * view may be correct, but neither its correctness nor its falsity has anything to do with a poem. If a thesis is to be demonstrated, we need prose for its demonstration. In this in stance, so far as the allegorical instruction and argumentation are lost sight of, in the upper current so far as the main admitted intention of the work is kept out of view so far only is the work a poem, and so far only is the poem worth notice, or worthy of its author. Apart from its poetical character, the composition is thoughtful, vivid, epigrammatic, and abundant in just observation although the critical opinions introduced are not always our own. A reviewer in " Blackwood s Magazine," quoting many of these critical portraits, takes occasion to find fault with the gram mar of this tristich : " Here ^Eschylus the women swooned To see so awful when he frowned As the gods did he standeth crowned." " What on earth," says the critic, " are we to make of the words the women swooned to see so awful V . . . The syntax will punish future commentators as much as some of his own corrupt choruses." Tn general, we are happy to agree with this reviewer, whose decisions respecting the book are, upon the whole, so nearly coincident with ours, that we hesitated, through fear of repetition, to undertake a critique at all, until we considered that we might say a very great deal in simply supplying his omissions ; but he frequently errs through mere hurry, and never did he err more singularly than at the point now in question. He evidently sup- ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 555 poses that " awful" lias been misused as an adverb, and made refer able to " women." But not so ; and although the construction of the passage is unjustifiably involute, its grammar is intact. Disen tangling the construction, we make this evident at once. " Here ^Eschylus (he) standeth crowned, (whom) the women swooned to see so awful, when he frowned as the gods did." The "he" is excessive, and the " whom" is understood. Respecting the lines, " Euripides, with close and mild Scholastic lips, that could be wild, And laugh or sob out like a child Right in the classes," the critic observes : " Right in the classes throws our intellect completely upon its beam-ends." But, if so, the fault possibly lies in the crankness of the intellect ; for the words themselves mean merely that Sophocles laughed or cried like a school-boy like a child right (or just) in his classes one who had not yet left school. The phrase is affected, we grant, but quite intelligible. A still more remarkable misapprehension occurs in regard to the triplet, And Goethe, with that reaching eye His soul reached out from, far and high, And fell from inner entity." The reviewer s remarks upon this are too preposterous not to be quoted in full ; we doubt if any commentator of equal dignity ever so egregiously committed himself before. " Goethe/ he says, "is a perfect enigma ; what does the word * fell mean? Stvog we sup pose that is, not to be trifled with. But surely it sounds very strange, although it may be true enough, to say that his fellness is occasioned by inner entity. But perhaps the line has some deeper meaning which we rvre unable to fathom." Perhaps it has : and this is the criticism the British criticism the " Blackwood" criticism to which we have so long implicitly bowed down ! As before, Miss Barrett s verses are needlessly involved, but their meaning requires no (Edipus. Their construction is thus in tended : " And Goethe, with that reaching eye from which his soul reached out, far and high, and (in so reaching) fell from inner entity." The plain prose is this : Goethe (the poet would say), in involving himself too far and too profoundly in external specu lations speculations concerning the world without him neglected, or made miscalculations concerning his inner entity, or being- concerning the world within. This idea is involved in the metaphor 5 6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. of a person leaning from a window so far that finally lie falls from it the person being the soul, the window the eye. Of the twenty-eight " sonnets" which immediately succeed the " Drama of Exile," and which receive the especial commendation of " Blackwood," we have no very enthusiastic opinion. The best sonnet is objectionable from its extreme artificiality ; and, to be effective, this species of composition requires a minute manage menta well-controlled dexterity of touch compatible neither with Miss Barrett s deficient constructiveness, nor with the fervid rush and whirl of her genius. Of the particular instances here given, we prefer " The Prisoner," of which the conclusion is particu larly beautiful. In general, the themes are obtrusively metaphysi cal, or didactic. " The Romaunt of the Page," an imitation of the old English ballad, is neither very original in subject, nor very skilfully put together. We speak comparatively, of course : it is not very good for Miss Barrett : and what we have said of this poem will apply equally to a very similar production, " The Rhyme of the Duchess May." The "Poet and the Bird"-" A Child Asleep"- " Crowned and Wedded"" Crowned and Buried"" To Flush my Dog"" The Four-fold Aspect"" A Flower in a Letter"" A Lay of the Early Rose" " That Day" "L. E. L. s Questio" " Catarina to Camoens" " Wine of Cyprus" "The Dead Pan" " Sleeping and Watching"" A Portrait"" The Mournful Mother" and " A Valediction" although all burning with divine fire, manifested only in scintillations, have nothing in them idiosyncratic, " The House of Clouds" and " The Last Bower" are superlatively lovely, and show the vast powers of the poet in the field best adapted to their legitimate display : the themes, here, could not be improved. The former poem is purely imaginative ; the latter is unobjection- ably because unobtrusively suggestive of a moral, and is, perhaps, upon the whole, the most admirable composition in the two volumes : or, if it is not, then " The Lay of the Brown Rosarie is. In this last the ballad-character is elevated etherealized and thus made to afford scope for an ideality at once the richest and most vigorous in the world. The peculiar foibles of the author are here, too, dropped bodily, as a mantle, in the tumultuous movement and excitement of the narrative. Miss Barrett has need only of real self-interest in her subjects, to do justice to her subjects and to herself. On the other hand, " A E LIZ ABE TH BARRE TT BARRE TT. 557 Rhapsody of Life s Progress," although gleaming with cold corrus- cations, is the least meritorious, because the most philosophical, effusion of the whole : this, we say, in flat contradiction of the " spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton genos" of Aristotle. " The Cry of the Human" is singularly effective, not more from the vigour and ghastly passion of its thought, than from the artistically-conceived arabesquerie of its rhythm. " The Cry of the Children," similar, although superior in tone and handling, is full of a nervous un flinching energy a horror sublime in its simplicity of which a far greater than Dante might have been proud. " Bertha in the Lane," a rich ballad, very singularly excepted from the wholesale com mendation of the " Democratic Review," as " perhaps not one of the best," and designated by " Blackwood," on the contrary, as " de cidedly the finest poem of the collection," is not the very best, we think, only because mere pathos, however exquisite, cannot be ranked with the loftiest exhibitions of the ideal. Of " Lady Geral- dine s Courtship," the magazine last quoted observes that " some pith is put forth in its passionate parts." We will not pause to examine the delicacy or lucidity of the metaphor embraced in the " putting forth of some pith ;" but unless by "some pith" itself, is intended the utmost conceivable intensity and vigour, then the critic is merely damning with faint praise. With the exception of Tennyson s " Locksley Hall," we have never perused a poem com bining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the most ethereal fancy, as the " Lady Geraldine s Courtship," of Miss Bar rett. We are forced to admit, however, that the latter work is a very palpable imitation of the former, which it surpasses in plot, or rather in thesis, as much as it falls below it in artistical manage ment, and a certain calm energy lustrous and indomitable such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten gold. It is in the " Lady Geraldine" that the critic of " Blackwood is again put at fault in the comprehension of a couple of passages. He confesses his inability " to make out the construction of the words, all that spirits pure and ardent are cast out of love and reverence, because chancing not to hold. " There are comparatively few American schoolboys who could not parse it. The prosaic con struction would run thus : all that (wealth understood) because chancing not to hold tvhich (or on account of not holding winch), all pure and ardent spirits are cast out of love and reverence." The " which" is involved in the relative pronoun " that" -the second 558 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. word of the sentence. All that we know is, that Miss Bawett is right .-here is a parallel phrase, meaning" all that (which) we know," etc. The fact is, that the accusation of imperfect grammar would have been more safely, if more generally urged : in descend ing to particular exceptions, the reviewer has been doing little more than exposing himself at all points. Turning aside, however, from grammar, he declares his incapacity to fathom the meaning of " She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant steam-eagles Follow far on the directing of her floating dove-like hand With a thunderous vapour trailing underneath the starry vigils, So to mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land." Now it must be understood that he is profoundly serious in his declaration he really does not apprehend the thought designed and he is even more than profoundly serious, too, in intending these his own comments upon his own stolidity, for wit : " We thought that steam coaches generally followed the directing of no hand except the stoker s, but it, certainly, is always much liker a raven than a dove." After this, who shall question the infallibility of Christopher North ] We presume there are very few of our readers who will not easily appreciate the richly imaginative conception of the poetess : The Lady Geraldine is supposed to be standing in her own door (positively not on the top of an engine), and thence pointing, " with her floating dove-like hand," to the lines of vapour, from the " resonant steam-eagles," that designate upon the " blasted heaven" the remote boundaries of her domain. But, perhaps, we are guilty of a very gross absurdity ourselves, in commenting at all upon the whimsicalities of a reviewer who can deliberately select for special animadversion the second of the four verses we here copy : Eyes, he said, now throbbing through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me ? Shining eyes like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! Underneath that calm white forehead are ye ever burning torrid O er the desolate sand desert of my heart and life undone ?" The ghost of the Great Frederick might, to be sure, quote at us, in his own Latin, his favourite adage, "Degustibus non est dispu- tandt^s;" but, when we take into consideration the moral de signed, the weirdness of effect intended, and the historical adapta tion of the fact alluded to, in the line italicized (a fact of which it is by no means impossible that the critic is ignorant), we cannot EL1ZABE TH BARRE TT BARRE T. 559 refrain from expressing our conviction and we here express it in the teeth of the whole horde of the Ambrosianians that from the entire range of poetical literature there shall not, in a century, be produced a more sonorous a more vigorous verse a juster a nobler a more ideal a more magnificent image than this very image, in this very verse, which the most noted magazine of Europe has so especially and so contemptuously condemned. " The Lady Geraldine " is, we think, the only poem of its author which is not deficient, considered as an artistical whole. Her con structive ability, as we have already suggested, is either not very remarkable, or has never been properly brought into play : in truth, her genius is too impetuous for the minuter technicalities of that elaborate Art so needful in the building up of pyramids for im mortality. This deficiency, then if there be any such is her chief weakness. Her other foibles, although some of them are, in fact, glaring, glare, nevertheless, to no very material ill purpose. There are none which she will not readily dismiss in her future works. She retains them now, perhaps, because unaware of their exist ence. Her affectations are unquestionably many, and generally inex cusable. We may, perhaps, tolerate such words as " ble," "chrysm," " nympholeptic," " cenomel," and " chrysopras " they have at least the merit either of distinct meaning, or of terse and sonorous ex pression ; but what can be well said in defence of the unnecessary nonsense of "ware" for "aware" of "bide" for "abide" of "gins" for "begins" of " las" for "alas" of "oftly," "ofter," and " oftest " for * often," " more often," and " most often "or of " erelong " in the sense of " long ago 1 ?" That there is authority for the mere words proves nothing ; those who employed them in their day would not employ them if writing now. Although we grant, too, that the poetess is very usually Homeric in her compounds, there is no intelligibility of construction, and therefore no force of meaning in " dew-pallid," " pale-passioned," and " silver-solemn." Neither have we any partiality for " drave," or " supreme," or /arnent"; and while upon this topic we may as well observe that there are few readers who do anything but laugh or stare at such phrases as " L. E. L. s Last Questio " " The Cry of the Human ;; " Leaning from my Human " " Heaven assist the Human " " the full sense of your mortal " " a grave for your divine " " falling off from our created " he sends this gage for thy pity s 560 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. counting " " they could not press their futures on the present of her courtesy " or " could another fairer lack to thee, lack to thee V There are few, at the same time, who do not feel disposed to weep outright, when they hear of such things as " Hope withdrawing her peradventure " " spirits dealing in pathos of antithesis" " angels in antagonism to God and his reflex beatitudes " " songs of glories ruffling down doorways" "God s possibles and "rules of Mandom." We have already said, however, that mere quaintness within reasonable limit is not only not to be regarded as affectation, but has its proper artistic uses in aiding a fantastic effect. We quote from the lines " To my dog Flush," a passage in exemplifica tion : "Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light ! Leap ! thy slender feet are bright, Canopied in fringes ! Leap ! those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine, Down their golden inches /" And again from the song of a tree-spirit, in the " Drama of Exile :" "The Divine impulsion cleaves In dim movements to the leaves Dropt and lifted, dropt, and lifted, In the sun-light greenly sifted, In the sun-light and the moon-light, Greenly sifted through the trees. Ever wave the Eden trees, In the night-light, and the noon-light, With a ruffling of green branches, Shaded off" to resonances, Never stirred by rain or breeze." The thoughts, here, belong to the highest order of poetry, but they could not have been wrought into effective expression with out the instrumentality of those repetitions those unusual phrases in a word, those quaintnesses, which it has been too long the fashion to censure, indiscriminately, under the one general head of " affectation." No true poet will fail to be enraptured with the two extracts above quoted but we believe there are few who would not find a difficulty in reconciling the psychal impossibility of refrain ing from admiration, with the too-hastily attained mental convic tion that, critically, there is nothing to admire. Occasionally, we meet in Miss Barrett s poems a certain far- ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 561 fetchedness of imagery, which is reprehensible in the extreme. What, for example, are we to think of " Now he hears the angel voices Folding silence in the room ? M Undoubtedly, that it is nonsense, and no more ; or of "How the silence round you shivers While our voices through it go ?" again, unquestionably, that it is nonsense, and nothing beyond. Sometimes we are startled by knotty paradoxes ; and it is not acquitting their perpetrator of all blame on their account to admit that, in some instances, they are susceptible of solution. It is really difficult to discover anything for approbation in enigmas such as "That bright impassive, passive angel-hood," or " The silence of my heart is full of sound." At long intervals, we are annoyed by specimens of repulsive imagery, as where the children cry : "How long, cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child s heart-^ Stifle doivn ivith a mailed heel its palpitation . ? " etc. Now and then, too, we are confounded by a pure platitude, as when Eve exclaims : "Leave us not In agony beyond what we can bear, And in abasement below thunder -mark /" or, when the Saviour is made to say : "So, at last, He shall look round on you with lids too straight To hold the grateful tears." " Strait " was, no doubt, intended, but does not materially elevate, although it slightly elucidates, the thought. A very remarkable passage is that, also, wherein Eve bids the infant voices "Hear the steep generations, how they fall Adown the visionary stairs of Time. Like supernatural thunders far yet near, Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills 1 M Here, saying nothing of the affectation in " ad own ;" not alluding to the insoluble paradox of " far yet near ;" not mentioning the in- 36 362 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. consistent metaphor involved in the " sowing of fiery echoes ;" ad verting but slightly to the misusage of " like," in place of " as," and to the impropriety of making anything fall like thunder, which has never been known to fall at all ; merely hinting, too, at the mis application of "steep," to the "generations," instead of to the "stairs" a perversion in no degree to be justified by the fact that so preposterous a figure as synecdoche exists in the school books ; letting these things pass, for the present, we shall still find it diffi cult to understand how Miss Barrett should have been led to think that the principal idea itself the abstract idea the idea of tum bling down stairs, in any shape, or under any circumstances either a poetical or a decorous conception. And yet we have seen this very passage quoted as " sublime " by a critic who seems to take it for granted, as a general rule, that Nat-Leeism is the loftiest order of literary merit. That the lines very narrowly missed sublimity, we grant ; that they came within a step of it, we admit ; but, un happily, the step is that one step which, time out of mind, has intervened between the sublime and the ridiculous. So true is this, that any person that even we with a very partial modifica tion of the imagery a modification that shall not interfere with its richly spiritual tone may elevate the quotation into unexception- ability. For example : and we offer it with profound deference Hear the far generations how they crash, From crag to crag, down the precipitous Time, In multitudinous thunders that upstartle, Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairs In the visionary hills I We have no doubt that our version has its faults but it has, at least, the merit of consistency. Not only is a mountain more poetical than a pair of stairs ; but echoes are more appropriately typified as wild beasts than as seeds ; and echoes and wild beasts agree better with a mountain, than does a pair of stairs with the sowing of seeds even admitting that these seeds be seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast " among the hills," by a steep generation, while in the act of tumbling down the stairs that is to say, of coming down the stairs in too violent a hurry to be capable of sowing the seeds as accurately as all seeds should be sown ; nor is the matter rendered any better for Miss Barrett, even if the con- strviction of her sentence is to be understood as implying that the fiery seeds were sown, not immediately by the steep generations ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 563 that tumbled down the stairs, but mediately, through the inter vention of the " supernatural thunders " that were occasioned by the " steep generations " that tumbled clown the stairs. The poetess is not unfrequently guilty of repeating herself. The " thunder cloud veined by lightning " appears, for instance, on pages 34 of the first, and 228 of the second volume. The " silver clash of wings " is heard at pages 53 of the first, and 269 of the second ; and angel tears are discovered to be falling as well at page 27, as at the conclusion of " The Drama of Exile." Steam, too, in the shape of Death s White Horse, comes upon the|ground, both at page 244 of the first, and 179 of the second volume and there are multitudinous other repetitions, both of phrase and idea but it is the excessive reiteration of pet words which is, perhaps, the most obtrusive of the minor errors of the poet. " Chrystalline," "Apocalypse," "foregone," "evangel," "ware," "throb," "level," " loss," and the musical term " minor," are forever upon her lips. The chief favourites, however, are " down " and " leaning," which are echoed and re-echoed not only ad infinitum, but in every whimsical variation of import. As Miss Barrett certainly cannot be aware of the extent of this mannerism, we will venture to call her attention to a few comparatively a very few examples, Pealing down the depths of Godhead...... Smiling down, as Venus doivntke waves Smiling down the steep world very purely Down the purple of this chamber , Moving down the hidden depths of loving Cold the sun shines down the door Which brought angels down our talk Let your souls behind you lean gently moved But angels leaning from the golden seats And melancholy leaning out of heaven And I know the heavens are leaning down Then over the casement she leaneth Forbear that dream, too near to heaven it leaned I would lean my spirit o er you Thou, sapient angel, leanest o er Shapes of brightness overlean thee They are leaning their young heads Out of heaven shall o er you lean While my spirit leans and reaches etc. etc. etc. In the matter of grammar, upon which the Edinburgh critic insists so pertinaciously, the author of " The Drama of Exile " seems to us even peculiarly without fault. The nature of her 36-2 564 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. studies has, no doubt, imbued her with a very delicate instinct of constructive accuracy. The occasional use of phrases so question able as " from whence " and the far-fetchedness and involution of which we have already spoken, are the only noticeable blemishes of an exceedingly chaste, vigorous, and comprehensive style. In her inattention to rhythm. Miss Barrett is guilty of an error that might have been fatal to her fame that would have been fatal to any reputation less solidly founded than her own. We do not allude, so particularly, to her multiplicity of inadmissible rhymes. We would wish, to be sure, that she had not thought proper to couple Eden and succeeding glories and floorwise burning and morning thither and aether enclose me and across me misdoers and flowers centre and winter guerdon and par don conquer and anchor desert and unmeasured atoms and fathoms opal and people glory and doorway trumpet and ac- compted taming and overcame him coming and woman is and trees off and sun-proof eagles and vigils nature and satire poems and interflowings certes and virtues pardon and burden thereat and great children and bewildering mortal and turtle moonshine and sunshine. It would have been better, we say, if such apologies for rhymes as these had been rejected. But de ficiencies of rhythm are more serious. In some cases it is nearly impossible to determine what metre is intended. " The Cry of the Children " cannot be scanned : w r e never saw so poor a specimen of verse. In imitating the rhythm of " Locksley Hall," the poetess has preserved with accuracy (so far as mere syllables are concerned) the forcible line of seven trochees with a final caesura. The " double rhymes ; have only the force of a single long syllable a caesura; but the natural rhythmical division, occurring at the close of the fourth trochee, should never be forced to occur, as Miss Barrett constantly forces it, in the middle of a word, or of an indivisible phrase. If it do so occur, we must sacrifice, in perusal, either the sense or the rhythm. If she will consider, too, that this line of seven trochees and a caesura, is nothing more than two lines written in one a line of four trochees, succeeded by one of three trochees and a caesura she will at once see how unwise she has been in composing her poem in quatrains of the long line with alternate rhymes, instead of immediate ones, as in the case of " Locksley Hall." The result is. that the ear, expecting the rhymes before they occur, does not appreciate them when they do. These ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 565 points, however, will be best exemplified by transcribing one of the quatrains in its natural arrangement. That actually employed is addressed only to the eye. " Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird In among its forest brothers Far too strong for it, then, drooping, Bowed her face upon her hands And I spake out wildly, fiercely, Brutal truths of her and others ! I, she planted in the desert, Swathed her wind-like, -with my sands." Here it will be seen that there is a paucity of rhyme, and that it is expected at closes where it does not occur. In fact, if we con sider the eight lines as two independent quatrains, (which they are,) then we find them entirely rhymeless. Now so unhappily are these metrical defects of so much importance do we take them to be, that we do not hesitate in declaring the general inferiority of the poem to its prototype to be altogether chargeable to them. "With equal rhythm "Lady Geraldine" had been far very far the superior poem. Inefficient rhythm is inefficient poetical expression ; and expression, in poetry, what is it ? what is it not 1 ? No one living can better answer these queries than Miss Barrett. We conclude our comments upon her versification, by quoting (we will not say whence from what one of her poems) a few verses without the linear division as it appears in the book. There are many readers who would never suspect the passage to be in tended for metre at all. "Ay ! and sometimes, on the hill-side, while we sat down on the gowans, with the forest green behind us, and its shadow cast before, and the river running under, and across it from the rowens a partridge whirring near us till we felt the air it bore there, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own read the pastoral parts of Spenser or the subtle inter- flowings found in Petrarch s sonnets ; here s the book ! the leaf is folded down !" With this extract we make an end of our fault-finding and now, shall we speak, equally in detail, of the beauties of this book 1 ? Alas ! here, indeed, do we feel the impotence of the pen. We have already said that the supreme excellence of the poetess whose works we review, is made up of the multitudinous sums of a world of lofty merits. It is the multiplicity it is the 5 66 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. (jation which excites our most profound enthusiasm, and enforces our most earnest respect. But unless we had space to extract three-fourths of the volumes, how could we convey this aggrega-- tion by specimens ? We might quote, to be sure, an example of keen insight into our psychal nature, such as this : "I fell flooded with a Dark, In the silence of a swoon When I rose, still cold and stark, There was night, I saw the inoon; And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was. And I walked as if apart From myself when I could stand And I pitied niy own heart, AB if I held it in my hand Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence." Or we might copy an instance of the purest and most radiant imagination, such as this : "So, young muser, I sat listening To my Fancy s wildest word On a sudden, through the glistening Leaves around, a little stirred, Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard. Softly, finely, it inwound me From the world it shut me in Like a fountain falling round me Which with silver waters thin Holds a little marble Naiad sitting smilingly within." Or, again, we might extract a specimen of wild Dantesque vigour, such as this in combination with a pathos never excelled : " Ay ! be silent let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth Let them touch each other s hands in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that the cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, wheels !" Or, still again, we might give a passage embodying the most elevated sentiment, most tersely and musically thus expressed : " And since, Prince Albert, men have called thy spirit high and rare, And true to truth, and brave for truth, as some at Augsburg were ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. 567 We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts and by thy poet-mind, Which not by glory or degree takes measure of mankind, Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring, And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing!" These passages, we say, and a hundred similar ones, exempli fying particular excellences, might be displayed, and we should still fail, as lamentably as the skolastilcos with his brick, in con veying an idea of the vast totality. By no individual stars can we present the constellatory radiance of the book. To the book, then, with implicit confidence we appeal. That Miss Barrett lias done more, in poetry, than any woman, living or dead, will scarcely be questioned : that she has sur passed all her poetical contemporaries of either sex (with a single exception,) is our deliberate opinion not idly entertained, wq think, nor founded on any visionary basis. It may not be uuin-* teresting, therefore, in closing this examination of her claims, to determine in what manner she holds poetical relation with these contemporaries, or with her immediate predecessors, and especially with the great exception to which we have alluded, if at all. If ever mortal " wreaked his thoughts upon expression," it was Shelley. If ever poet sang (as a bird sings) impulsively earnestly with utter abandonment to himself solely and for the mere joy of his own song that poet was the author of the Sensitive Plant. Of Art beyond that which is the inalienable instinct of Genius he either had little or disdained all. He really disdained that Rule which is the emanation from Law, because his own soul was Law in itself. His rhapsodies are but the rough notes the stenographic memoranda of poems memoranda which, because they were all-sufficient for his own intelligence, he cared not to be at the trouble of transcribing in full for mankind. In his whole life he wrought not thoroughly out a single conception. For this reason it is that he is the most fatiguing of poets. Yet he wearies in having clone too little, rather than too much ; what seems in him the diffuseness of one idea, is the conglomerate concision of many ; and this concision it is which renders him obscure. With such a man, to imitate was out of the question ; it would have answered no purpose for he spoke to his own spirit alone, which would have comprehended no alien tongue; he was, therefore, profoundly original. His quaintness arose from intuitive perception of that truth to which Lord Verulam alone lias given distinct voice;-; S 68 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " There is no exquisite beauty which has not some strangeness in its proportion." But whether obscure, original, or quaint, he was at all times sincere. He had no affectations. From the ruins of Shelley there sprang into existence, affronting the Heavens, a tottering and fantastic pagoda, in which the salient angles, tipped with mad jangling bells, were the idiosyncratic faults of the great original faults which cannot be called such in view of his purposes, but which are monstrous when .we regard his works as addressed to mankind. A " school " arose if that absurd term must still be employed a school a system of rules upon the basis of the Shelley who had none. Young men innumerable, dazzled with the glare and bewildered with the bizarrerie of the divine lightning that nickered through the clouds of the Prome theus, had no trouble whatever in heaping up imitative vapours, but, for the lightning, were content, perforce, with its spectrum,m which the bizarrerie appeared without the fire. Nor were great and mature minds unimpressed by the contemplation of a greater and more mature ; and thus gradually were interwoven into this school of all Lawlessness of obscurity, quaintness, exaggeration the misplaced didacticism of Wordsworth, and the even more preposterously anomalous metaphysicianism of Coleridge. Matters were now fast verging to their worst, and at length, in Tennyson, poetic inconsistency attained its extreme. But it was precisely this extreme (for the greatest error and the greatest truth are scarcely two points in a circle) it was this extreme which, follow ing the law of all extremes, wrought in him in Tennyson a natural and inevitable revulsion, leading him first to contemn and secondly to investigate his early manner, and, finally, to winnow from its magnificent elements the truest and purest of all poetical styles. But not even yet is the process complete ; and for this reason in part, but chiefly on account of the mere fortuitousness of that mental and moral combination which shall unite in one person (if ever it shall) the Shelleyan abandon, the Tennysonian poetic sense, the most profound instinct of Art, and the sternest Will properly to blend and vigorously to control all; chiefly, we say, because such combination of antagonisms must be purely fortuitous, has the world never yet seen the noblest of the poems of which it is pos sible that it may be put in possession. And yet Miss Barrett has narrowly missed the fulfilment of these conditions, Her poetic inspiration is the highest we can ELIZABE TH BARRE TT BARRE TT. 569 conceive nothing more august. Her sense of Art is pure in itself, but has been contaminated by pedantic study of false models a study which has the more easily led her astray, because she placed an undue value upon it as rare as alien to her character of woman. The accident of having been long secluded by ill health from the world has affected, moreover, in her behalf, what an innate reck lessness did for Shelley has imparted to her, if not precisely that abandon to which I have referred, at least a something that stands well in its stead a comparative independence of men and opinions with which she did not come personally in contact a happy au dacity of thought and expression never before known to one of her sex. It is, however, this same accident of ill health, perhaps, which has invalidated her original Will diverted her from proper in dividuality of purpose and seduced her into the sin of imitation. Thus, what she might have done, we cannot altogether determine. What she has actually accomplished is before us. With Tennyson s works beside her, and a keen appreciation of them in her soul appreciation too keen to be discriminative ; with an imagination even more vigorous than his, although somewhat less ethereally delicate; with inferior art and more feeble volition; she has written poems such as he could not ivrite, but such as he, under her conditions of ill health and seclusion, would have written during the epoch of his pupildom in that school which arose out of Shelley, and from which, over a disgustful gulf of utter incongruity and absurdity, lit only by miasmatic flashes, into the broad open meadows of Natural Art and Divine Genius, he Tennyson is at once the bridge and the transition. R, H, HORNED |R. R. H. HORNE. the author of the " Orion," has, of late years, acquired a high and extensive home reputation, although, as yet, he is only partially known in America, He will be remembered, however, as the author of a very well- written Introduction to Black s Translation of SchlegeFs "Lec tures on Dramatic Art and Literature," and as a contributor with Wordsworth, Hunt, Miss Barrett, and others, to "Chaucer Modern- * Orion : an Epic Poem in Three Books. By R. H. Home. Fourth Edition. London : Published by J. Miller, 570 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. ized." He is tlie author, also, of " Cosmo de Medici," of " The Death of Marlowe," and, especially, of " Gregory the Seventh," a fine tragedy, prefaced with an "Essay on Tragic Influence." " Orion" was originally advertised to be sold for a farthing ; and, at this price, three large editions were actually sold. The fourth edition (a specimen of which now lies before us) was issued at a shilling, and also sold. A fifth is promised at half a crown ; this likewise, with even a sixth at a crown, may be disposed of partly through the intrinsic merit of the work itself but chiefly through the ingenious novelty of the original price. We have been among the earliest readers of Mr. Home among the most earnest admirers of his high genius ; for a man of high, of the highest genius, he unquestionably is. With an eager wish to do justice to his " Gregory the Seventh," we have never yet found exactly that opportunity we desired. Meantime we looked, with curiosity, for what the British critics would say of a work which, in the boldness of its conception, and in the fresh originality of its management, would necessarily fall beyond the routine of their customary verbiage. We saw nothing, however, that either could or should be understood nothing, certainly, that was worth un derstanding. The tragedy itself was, unhappily, not devoid of the ruling cant of the day, and its critics (that cant incarnate) took their cue from some of its infected passages, and proceeded forth with to rhapsody and aesthetics, by way of giving a common-sense public an intelligible idea of the book. By " the cant of the day " we mean the disgusting practice of putting on the airs of an owl, and endeavouring to look miraculously wise ; the affectation of second sight of a species of ecstatic prescience of an intensely bathetic penetration into all sorts of mysteries, psychological oneb in especial ; an Orphic an ostrich affectation, which buries its head in balderdash, and, seeing nothing itself, fancies, therefore, that its preposterous carcass is not a visible object of derision for the world at large. Of " Orion " itself, we have, as yet, seen few notices in the British periodicals, and these few are merely repetitions of the old jargon. All that has been said, for example, might be summed up in some such paragraph as this : ; * Orion is the earnest outpouring of the oneness of the psy chological MAN. It has the individuality of the true SINGLENESS. t is not to be regarded as a Poem, but as a WOBK -as a multiple J?. H. HORN S. 571 THEOGONY as a manifestation of the WORKS and the DAYS. It is a pinion in the PROGRESS a wheel in the MOVEMENT that moveth ever and goeth always a mirror of SELF-INSPECTION, held up by the SEER of the Age essential of the Age in esse for the SEERS of the Ages possible in posse. We hail a brother in the work." Of the mere opinions of the donkeys who bray thus of their mere dogmas and doctrines, literary, aesthetical, or what not we know little, and, upon our honour, we wish to know less. Occupied, Laputically, in their great work of a progress that never progresses, we take it for granted, also, that they care as little about ours. But whatever the opinions of these people may be however portentous the "IDEA" which they have been so long threatening to "evolve" we still think it clear that they take a very roundabout way of evolving it. The use of Language IB in the promulgation of Thought. If a man if an Orphicist or a SEER or whatever else he may choose to call himself, while the rest of the world calls him an ass if this gentleman has an idea which he does not under stand himself, the best thing he can do is to say nothing about it ; for, of course, he can entertain no hope that what he, the SEER, cannot comprehend, should be comprehended by the mass of com mon humanity; but if he has an idea which is actually intelligible to himself, and if he sincerely wishes to make it intelligible to others, we then hold it as indisputable that he should employ those forms of speech which are the best adapted to further his object. He should speak to the people in that people s ordinary tongue. He should arrange words, such as are habitually employed for the several preliminary and introductory ideas to be conveyed he should arrange them in collocations such as those in which we are accustomed to see those words arranged. But to all this the Orphicist thus replies : " I am a SEER. My IDEA the idea which by Providence I am especially commissioned to evolve is one so vast so novel that ordinary words, in or dinary collocations, will be insufficient for its comfortable evolu tion." Very true. We grant the vastness of the IDEA it is mani fested in the sucking of the thumb but then, if ordinary lan guage be insufficient ordinary language which men understand a fortiori will be insufficient that inordinate language which no man has ever understood, and which any well-educated baboon would blush in being accused of understanding. The "SEER," therefore, has no resource but to oblige mankind by holding his 572 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. tongue, and suffering his IDEA to remain quietly " unevolved," until some Mesmeric mode of intercommunication shall be in vented, whereby the antipodal brains of the SEER and of the man of Common Sense shall be brought into the necessary rapport. Meantime we earnestly ask if bread-and-butter be the vast IDEA in question if bread-and-butter be any portion of this vast IDEA; for we have often observed that when a SEER has to speak of even so usual a thing as bread-and-butter, he can never be induced to mention it outright. He will, if you choose, say anything and everything but bread-and-butter. He will consent to hint at buck wheat cake. He may even accommodate you so far as to insinuate oatmeal porridge but, if bread-and-butter be really the matter intended, we never yet met the Orphicist who could get out the three individual words " bread-and-butter." We have already said that "Gregory the Seventh" was unhappily infected with the customary cant of the day the cant of the muddle-pates who dishonour a profound and ennobling philosophy by styling themselves transcendental ists. In fact, there are few highly sensitive or imaginative intellects for which the vortex of mysticism, in any shape, has not an almost irresistible influence, on account of the shadowy confines which separate the Unknown from the Sublime. Mr. Home, then, is, in some measure, infected. The success of his previous works has led him to attempt, zeal ously, the production of a poem which should be worthy his high powers. We have no doubt that he revolved carefully in mind a variety of august conceptions, and from these thoughtfully selected what his judgment, rather than what his impulses, designated as the noblest and the best. In a word, he has weakly yielded his own poetic sentiment of the poetic yielded it, in some degree, to the pertinacious opinion,"and talk, of a certain junto by which he is surrounded a junto of dreamers whose absolute intellect may, perhaps, compare with his own very much after the fashion of an ant-hill with the Andes. By this talk by its continuity rather than by any other quality it possessed he has been badgered into the attempt at commingling the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and of Truth. He has been so far blinded as to permit himself to imagine that a maudlin philosophy (granting it be worth enforcing) could be enforced by poetic imagery, and illus trated by the jingling of rhythm ; or, more unpardonably, he has been induced to believe that a poem, whose single object is the creation of Beauty the novel collocation of old forms of the . H. HORNE. 573 Beautiful and of the Sublime could be advanced by the ab stractions of a maudlin philosophy. But the question is not even this. It is not whether it be not possible to introduce didacticism, with effect, into a poem, or pos sible to introduce poetical images and measures, with effect, into a didactic essay. To do either the one or the other would be merely to surmount a difficulty would be simply a feat of literary sleight of hand. But the true question is, whether the author who shall attempt either feat will not be labouring at a disad vantage will not be guilty of a fruitless and wasteful expenditure of energy. In minor poetical efforts, we may not so imperatively demand an adherence to the true poetical thesis. We permit trifling to some extent in a work which we consider a trifle at best. Although we agree, for example, with Coleridge, that poetry and passion are discordant, yet we are willing to permit Tennyson to bring, to the intense passion- which prompted his " Locksley Hall," the aid of that terseness and pungency which are derivable from rhythm and from rhyme. The effect he produces, however, is a purely passionate, and not, unless in detached passages of this magnificent philippic, a properly poetic effect. His " CEnone," on the other hand, exalts the soul not into passion, but into a conception of pure beauty, which in its elevation its calm and intense rapture has in it a foreshadowing of the future and spiritual life, and as far transcends earthly passion as the holy radiance of the sun does the glimmering and feeble phosphores cence of the glow-worm. His " Morte D Arthur" is in the same majestic vein. The " Sensitive Plant" of Shelley is in the same sublime spirit. Nor, if the passionate poems of Byron excite more more intensely a greater number of readers than either the " CEnone" or the * Sensitive Plant" does this indisputable fact prove anything more than that the majority of mankind are more susceptible of the impulses of passion than of the impressions of beauty. Readers do exist, however, and always will exist, who, to hearts of maddening fervour, unite, in perfection, the sentiment of the beautiful that divine sixth sense which is yet so faintly understood that sense which phrenology has attempted to em body in its organ of ideality that sense which is the basis of all Cousin s dreams that sense which speaks of GOD through his purest, if not his sole attribute which proves, and which alone proves his existence. 574 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. To readers such as these and only to such as these must be left the decision of what the true Poesy is. And these with no hesitation will decide that the origin of Poetry lies in a thirst for a wilder Beauty than Earth supplies that Poetry itself is the im perfect effort to quench this immortal thirst by novel combinations of beautiful forms (collocations of forms) physical or spiritual, and that this thirst when even partially allayed this sentiment when even feebly meeting response produces emotion to which all other human emotions are vapid and insignificant. We shall now be fully understood. If, with Coleridge, who, how ever erring at times, was precisely the mind fitted to decide a question such as this if, with him, we reject passion from the true from the pure poetry if we reject even passion if we dis card as feeble, as unworthy of the high spirituality of the theme (which has its origin in a sense of the Godhead), if we dismiss even the nearly divine emotion of human love that emotion which, merely to name, causes the pen to tremblewith how much greater reason shall we dismiss all else 1 ? And yet there are men who would mingle with the august theme the merest questions of ex pediencythe cant topics of the day the doggerel aesthetics of the time who would trammel the soul in its flight to an ideal Helu- sion, by the quirks and quibbles of chopped logic. There are men who do this lately there are a set of men who make a practice of doing this and who defend it on the score of the advancement of what they suppose to be truth. Truth is, in its own essence, sublime but her loftiest sublimity, as derived from man s clouded and erratic reason, is valueless is pulseless is utterly ineffective when brought into comparison with the unerring sense of which we speak ; yet grant this truth to be all which its seekers and worshippers pretend they forget that it is not truth, per se, which is made their thesis, but an argumentation, often maudlin and pedantic, always shallow and unsatisfactory (as from the mere in- adaptation of the vehicle it must be) by which this truth t in casual and indeterminate glimpses, is or is not rendered manifest. We have said that, in minor poetical efforts, we may tolerate some deflection from the true poetical thesis ; but when a man of the highest powers sets himself seriously to the task of construct ing what shall be most worthy those powers, we expect that he shall so choose his theme as to render it certain that he labour not at disadvantage. We regret to see any trivial or partial imperfec* X. //. HORNE. 575 tion of detail ; but we grieve deeply when wa detect any radical error of conception. In setting about " Orion," Mr. Home proposed to himself (in accordance with the views of his junto), to "elaborate a morality" he ostensibly proposed this to himself--for, in the depths of his heart, we know that he wished all juntos and all moralities in Erebus. In accordance with the notions of his set, however, he felt a species of shamefacedness in not making the enforcement of some certain dogmas or doctrines (questionable or unquestionable) about PROGRESS, the obvious or apparent object of his poem. This shamefacedness is the cue to the concluding sentence of the Preface. " Meantime, the design of this poem of Orion is far from being intended as a mere echo or reflection of the past, and is, in itself, and in other respects, a novel experiment upon the mind of a nation." Mr. Home conceived in fact, that to compose a poem merely for that poem s sake and to acknowledge such to be his purpose would be to subject himself to the charge of imbecility of triviality of deficiency in the true dignity and force ; but, had he listened to the dictates of his own soul, he could not have failed to perceive, at once, that under the sun there exists no work more intrinsically noble, than this very poem written solely for the poem s sake. But let us regard " Orion " as it is. It has an under and an upper current of meaning ; in other words, it is an allegory. Bat the poet s sense of fitness (which, under no circumstances of mere conventional opinion, could be more than half subdued) has so far softened this allegory as to keep it, generally, well subject to the ostensible narrative. The purport of the moral conveyed is by no means clear showing conclusively that the heart of the poet was not with it. It vacillates. At one time a certain set of opinions predominate then another. We may generalize the subject, how ever, by calling it a homily against supineness or apathy in the cause of human PROGRESS, and in favour of energetic action for the good of the race. This is precisely the IDEA of the present school of canters. How feebly the case is made out in the poem how in sufficient has been all Mr. Home s poetical rhetoric in convincing even himself may be gleaned from the unusual bombast, rigma role, and mystification of the concluding paragraph, in which he has thought it necessary to say something very profound, by way of putting the sting to his epigram, the point to his moral. The 576 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. words put us much in mind of the "nonsense verses" of Da Bartas. And thus, in the end each scml may to itself, With truth before it as its polar guide, Become both Time and Nature, whose fixt paths Are spiral, and when lost will find new stars, And in the universal MOVEMENT join." The upper current of the theme is based upon the various Greek fables about Orion. The author, in his brief preface, speaks about " writing from an old Greek fable "but his story is, more properly, a very judicious selection and modification of a great variety of Greek and Roman fables concerning Orion and other personages with whom these fables bring Orion in collision. And here we have only to object that the really magnificent abilities of Mr. Home might have been better employed in an entirely original conception. The story he tells is beautiful indeed, and nil tetigit, certainly, quod non ornavitbut our memories our classic recol lections are continually at war with his claims to regard, and we too often find ourselves rather speculating upon what he might have done, than admiring what he has really accomplished. The narrative, as our poet has arranged it, runs nearly thus ; Orion, hunting on foot amid the mountains of Chios, encounters Artemis (Diana) with her train. The goddess, at first indignant at the giant s intrusion upon her grounds, becomes, in the second place, enamoured. Her pure love spiritualizes the merely animal nature of Orion, but does not render him happy. He is filled with vague aspirations and desires. He buries himself in sensual plea sures. In the mad dreams of intoxication, he beholds a vision of Merope, the daughter of (Enopion, king of Chios. She is the type of physical beauty. She cries in his ear, " Depart from Artemis ! She loves thee not thou art too full of earth." Awaking, he seeks the love of Merope. It is returned. (Enopion, dreading the giant and his brethren, yet scorning his pretensions, temporizes. He consents to bestow upon Orion the hand of Merope, on condition of the island being cleared, within six days, of its savage beasts and serpents. Orion, seeking the aid of his brethren, accomplishes the task. (Enopion again hesitates. Enraged, the giants make war upon him, and carry off the princess. In a remote grove, Orion lives, in bliss, with his earthly love. From this delirium of happi ness, he is aroused by the vengeance of CEnopion, who causes him X II. HORNE. 577 to be surprised while asleep, and deprived of sight. The princess, being retaken, immediately forgets and deserts her lover, who, in his wretchedness, seeks, at the suggestion of a shepherd, the aid of Eos (Aurora) who, also becoming enamoured of him, restores his sight. The love of Eos, less earthly than that of Merope, less cold than that of Artemis, fully satisfies his soul. He is at length happy. But the jealousy of Artemis destroys him. She pierces him with her arrows while in the very act of gratefully renovating her temple at Delos. in despair, Eos flies to Artemis, reproves her, represents to her the baseness of her jealousy and revenge, softens her, and obtains her consent to unite with herself with Eos in a prayer to Zeus (Jupiter) for the restoration of the giant to life. The prayer is heard. Orion is not only restored to life, but rendered immortal, and placed among the constellations, where he enjoys for ever the pure affection of Eos, and becomes extinguished, each morning, in her rays. In ancient mythology, the giants are meant to typify various energies of Nature. Pursuing, we suppose, this idea, Mr. Home has made his own giants represent certain principles of human action or passion. Thus Orion himself is the Worker or Builder, and is the type of Action or Movement itself but, in various portions of the poem, this allegorical character is left out of sight, and that of speculative philosophy takes its place ; a mere con sequence of the general uncertainty of purpose, which is the chief defect of the work. Sometimes we even find Orion a De stroyer in place of a Builder as, for example when he destroys the grove about the temple of Artemis, at Delos. Here he usurps the proper allegorical attribute of Rhexergon (the second of the seven giants named), who is the Breaker-down, typifying thei Revolutionary Principle. Autarces, the third, represents the Mob, or, more strictly, Waywardness Capricious Action. Harpax, the fourth, serves for Rapine Briastor, the fifth, for Brute Force Encolyon, the sixth, the " Chainer of the Wheel," for Conservatism and Akinetos, the seventh, and most elaborated, for Apathy. He is termed " The Great Unmoved," and in his mouth is put all the " worldly wisdom," or selfishness, of the tale. The philosophy of Akinetos is, that no merely human exertion has any appreciable effect upon the Movement ; and it is amusing to perceive how this great Truth (for most sincerely do we hold it to be such) speaks out from the real heart of the poet, through his Akinetos, in spite of 37 578 WORKS OP EDGAR ALLAN POti. all endeavour to overthrow it by the example of the brighter fate of Orion. The death of Akinetos is a singularly forcible and poetic con ception, and will serve to show how the giants are made to perish, generally, during the story,, in agreement with their allegorical natures. The " Great Unmoved" quietly seats himself in a cave after the death of all his brethren, except Orion. " Thus Akinetos sat from day to day, Absorbed in indolent sublimity, Reviewing thoughts and knowledge o er and o er ; And now he spake, now sang unto himself, Now sank to brooding silence. From above, While passing, Time the rock touch d, and it ooze d Petrifis drops gently at first and slow. Reclining lonely in his fixed repose, The Great Unmoved unconsciously became Attached to that he pressed ; and soon a part Of the rock. There clung th excrescence, till strong hands. Descended from Orion, made large roads, And built steep icalls, squaring down rocks for use." The italicised conclusion of this fine passage affords an instance, however, of a very blameable concision, too much affected through out the poem. In the deaths of Autarces, Harpax, and Encolyon, we recognise the same exceeding vigour of conception. These giants conspire against Orion, who seeks the aid of Artemis, who, in her turn, seeks the assistance of Phoibos (Phoebus). The conspirators arc in a cave, with Orion. " Now Phoibus thro the cave Sent a broad ray ! and lo ! the solar beam Pilled the great cave with radiance equable And not a cranny held one speck of shade. A moony halo round Orion came, As of some pure protecting influence, While with intense light glared the walls and roof, The heat increasing. The three giants stood With glazing eyes, fixed. Terribly the light Beat on the dazzled stone, and the cave hummed With reddening heat, till the red hair and beard Of Harpax showed no difference from the rest, Which once were iron-black. The sullen walls Then smouldered down to steady oven heat, Like that with care attain d when bread has ceased Its steaming and displays an angry tan. The appalled faces of the giants showed R. H. HORNE. 579 Full consciousness of their immediate doom. And soon the cave a potter s furnace glow d Or kiln for largest bricks, and thus remained The while Orion, in his halo clasped By some invisible power, beheld the clay Of these his early friends change. Life was gone. Now sank the heat the cave walls lost their glare, The red lights faded, and the halo pale Around him into chilly air expanded. There stood the three great images, in hue Of chalky white and red, like those strange shapes In Egypt s ancient tombs ; but presently Each visage and each form with cracks and flaws Was seamed, and the lost countenance brake up, As, with brief toppling, forward prone they fell." The deaths of Rhexergon and Biastor seem to discard (and this we regret not) the allegorical meaning altogether, but are related with even more exquisite richness and delicacy of imagination than those of the other giants. Upon this occasion it is the jealousy of Artemis which destroys. " But with the eve Fatigue o ercame the giants, and they slept. Dense were the rolling clouds, starless the glooms j But o er a narrow rift, once drawn apart, Showing a field remote of violet hue, The high moon floated, and her downward gleam Shone on the upturned giant faces. Rigid Each upper feature, loose the nether jaw ; Their arms cast wide with open palms ; their chests Heaving like some large engine. Near them lay Their bloody clubs, with dust and hair begrimed, Their spears and girdles, and the long-noosed thongs. Artemis vanished ; all again was dark. With day s first streak Orion rose, and loudly To his companions called. But still they slept. Again he shouted ; yet no limb they stirred, Tho scarcely seven strides distant. He approached, And found the spot, so sweet icith clover flower When they had cast them doivn, was now arrayed With many-headed poppies, like a crowd Of dusky Ethiops m a magic cirque Which had spruny up beneath them in the night, And all entranced the air." There are several minor defects in " Orion," and we may as well mention them here. We sometimes meet with an instance of bad taste in a revolting picture or image ; for example, at page 59 of this edition : " Naught fearing, swift, brimful of raging life, Stiff n ing they lay in pools of jellied yore." 37-2 5o WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. Sometimes indeed very often we en counter an altogether pur poseless oddness or foreignnessof speech. For example, at page 78: "As in Doclona once, ere driven thence Be Zeus for that Rhexergon burnt some oaks." Mr. Home will find it impossible to assign a good reason for not here using " because." Pure vaguenesses of speech abound. For example, page 89 : " one central heart wherein Time beats twin pulses with Humanity." Now and fhen sentences are rendered needlessly obscure through mere involution as at page 103 : " Star-rays that first played o er my blinded orbs, E en as they glance above the lids of sleep, Who else had never known surprise, nor hope, Nor useful action." Here the " who" has no grammatical antecedent, and would natu rally be referred to sleep ; whereas it is intended for " me," under stood, or involved, in the pronoun " my ;" as if the sentence were written thus " rays that first played o er the blinded orbs of me, who," &c. It is useless to dwell upon so pure an affectation. The versification throughout is, generally, of a very remarkable excellence. At times, however, it is rough, to no purpose ; as at page 44 : "And ever tended to some central point In some place nought more could I understand." And here, at page 81 : " The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream Swift rolling toward the cataract and drinks deeply" The above is an unintentional and false Alexandrine including a foot too much, and that a trochee in place of an iambus. But here, at page 106, we have the utterly unjustifiable anomaly of half a foot too little : "And Eos ever rises circling The varied regions of mankind," &c. All these are mere inadvertences, of course ; for the general handling of the rhythm shows the profe and metrical sense of the poet. He is, perhaps, somewhat too fond of " making the sound an echo to the sense." " Orion" embodies some of the most re- It. H. HORNE. 581 markable instances of this on record ; but if smoothness if the true rhythm of a verse be sacrificed, the sacrifice is an error. The effect is only a beauty, we think, where no sacrifice is made in its behalf. It will be found possible to reconcile all the objects in view. Nothing can justify such lines as this, at page 69 : "As snake-songs midst stone hollows thus has taught me." We might urge, as another minor objection, that all the giants are made to speak in the same manner with the same phraseology. Their characters are broadly distinctive, while their words are identical in spirit. There is sufficient individuality of sentiment, but little, or none, of language. We must object, too, to the personal and political allusions to the Corn-Law question, for example to "Wellington s statue, &c. These things, of course, have no business in a poem. We will conclude our fault-finding with the remark that, as a consequence of the one radical error of conception upon which we have commented at length, the reader s attention, throughout, ia painfully diverted. He is always pausing, amid poetical beauties, in the expectation of detecting among them some philosophical, allegorical moral. Of course, he does not fully, because he cannot uniquely, appreciate the beauties. The absolute necessity of re- perusing the poem, in order thoroughly to comprehend it, is also most surely to be regretted, and arises, likewise, from the one radical sin. But of the beauties of this most remarkable poem, what shall we say 1 And here we find it a difficult task to be calm. And yet we have never been accused of enthusiastic encomium. It is our de liberate opinion that, in all that regards the loftiest and holiest attributes of the true poetry, " Orion" has never been excelled. Indeed, we feel strongly inclined to say that it has never been equalled Its imagination that quality which is all in all is of the most refined the most elevating the most august character. And here we deeply regret that the necessary limits of this review will prevent us from entering, at length, into specification. In reading the poem, we marked passage after passage for extract but, in the end, we found that we had marked nearly every passage in the book. We can now do nothing more than select a few. This, from page 3, introduces Orion himself, and we quote it, not only as an instance of refined and picturesque imagination, but as evincing 582 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the high artistical skill with which a scholar in spirit can paint an elaborate picture by a few brief touches. " The scene in front two sloping mountains sides Displayed ; in shadow one and one in light. The loftiest on its summit now sustained The sunbeams, raying like a mighty wheel Half seen, which left the forward surface dark In its full breadth of shade ; the coming sun Hidden as yet behind ; the other mount, Slanting transverse, swept with an eastward face, Catching the golden light. JSIow while the peal Of the ascending chase told that the rout Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly Along the broad and sunny slope appeared The shadow of a stay that fled across Followed by a giant s shadow with a spear" These shadows are those of the coming Orion and his game. But who can fail to appreciate the intense beauty of the heralding shadows ? Nor is this all. This " Hunter of shadows, he himself a shade," is made symbolical, or suggestive, throughout the poem, of the speculative character of Orion ; and occasionally, of his pur suit of visionary happiness. For example, at page 81, Orion, pos sessed of Merope, dwells with her in a remote and dense grove of cedars. Instead of directly describing his attained happiness his perfected bliss the poet, with an exalted sense of art, for which we look utterly in vain in any other poem, merely introduces the image of the tamed or subdued shadow-stag, quietly browsing and drink ing beneath the cedars. " There, underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam Of sunrise, thro the roofing s chasm is thrown Upon a grassy plot below, whereon The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream, Swift rolling toward the cataract, and drinks. Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks, While ever and anon the nightingale, Not waiting for the evening, swells his hymn His one sustained and heaven- aspiring tone And when the sun hath vanished utterly, Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade, With arching wrist and long extended hands, And grave -ward fingers lengthening in the moon, Above that shadowy stag whose antlers still Hung o er the stream." There is nothing more richly more weirdly more chastely more sublimely imaginative in the wide realm of poetical litera- ;?. H. HORNE. ^3 ture. It will be seen that we have enthusiasm but we reserve it for pictures such as this. At page 62, Orion, his brethren dead, is engaged alone in ex tirpating the beasts from Chios. In the passages we quote, observe in the beginning, the singular hicidness of detail ; the arrangement of the barriers, &c., by which the hunter accomplishes his purpose, is given in a dozen lines of verse, with far more perspicuity than ordinary writers could give it in as many pages of prose. In this species of narration Mr. Home is approached only by Moore in his "Alciphron." In the latter portions of our extract, observe the vivid picturesqueness of the description. " Four days remain. Fresh trees he felled and wove More barriers and fences ; inaccessible To fiercest charge of droves, and to o erleap Impossible. These walls he so arranged That to a common centre each should force The flight of those pursued ; and from that centre Diverged three outlets. One, the wide expanse Which from the rocks and inland forests led ; One was the clear-skyed windy gap above A precipice ; the third, a long ravine Which through steep slopes, down to the seashore ran Winding, and then direct into the sea. " Two days remain. Orion, in each hand Waving a torch, his course at night began, Through wildest haunts and lairs of savage beasts. With long-drawn howl, before him trooped the wolves* The panthers, terror-stricken, and the bears With wonder and gruff rage ; from desolate crags, Leering hyenas, griffin, hippogrif, Skulked, or sprang madly, as the tossing brands Flashed through the midnight nooks and hollows cold, Sudden as fire from flint ; o er crashing thickets, With crouched head and curled fangs dashed the ivild boar, Gnashing forth 011 with reckless impulses, While the clear-purposed fox crept closely down Into the underwood, to let the storm, Whate er its cause, pass over. Through dark fens, Marshes, green rushy swamps, and margins reedy, Orion held his way and rolling shapes Of serpent and of dragon moved before him With high-reared crests, swan-like yet terrible, And often looking back with gem-like eyes. " All night Orion urged his rapid course In the vex d rear of the swift-droving din, And when the dawn had peered, the monsters all Were hemmed in barriers. These he now o erlieaped With fuel through the day, and when again 584 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Night darkened, and the sea a gulf -like voice Sent forth, the barriers at all points he fired, Mid prayers to Hephfestos and his Ocean-Sire. "Soon as the flames had eaten out a gap In the great barrier fronting the ravine That ran down to the sea, Orion grasped Two blazing boughs ; one high in air he raised, The other, ioith its roaring foliage trailed Behind him as he sped. Onward the droves Of frantic creatures with one impulse rolled Before this night-devouring thing of flames, With multitudinous voice and downward sweep Into the sea, which now first knew a tide, And, ere they made one effort to regain The shore, had caught them in its flowing arms, And bore them past all hope. The living mass, Dark heaving o er the waves resistlessly, At length, in distance, seemed a circle small, Mid&t ivJdch one creature in the centre rose, Conspicuous in the long, red quivering gleams That from the dying brands streamed o er the waves. It was the oldest dragon of the fens, Whose forky flag-wings and liorn-crested head O er crags and marshes regal sway had held; And now he rose up like an embodied curse, From all the doomed, fast sinking some just sunk Looked landward o er the sea, and flapped his vans, Until Poseidon drew them swirling doivn. " Poseidon (Neptune) is Orion s father, and lends him his aid. The first line italicised is an example of sound made echo to sense. The rest we have merely emphasized as peculiarly imaginative. At page 9, Orion thus describes a palace built by him for He- phsestos (Vulcan). " But, ere a shadow -hunter I became A dreamer of strange dreams by day and night For him I built a palace underground, Of iron, black and rough as his own hands. Deep in the groaning disembowelled earth, The tower-broad pillars and huge stanchions, And slant supporting wedges I set up, Aided by the Cyclops who obeyed my voice, Which through the metal fabric rang and pealed In orders echoing far, like thunder-dreams. With arches, galleries and domes all carved So that great figures started from the roof And lofty coignes, or sat and downward gazed On those who stood below and gazed above I filled it ; in the centre framed a hall ; Central in that, a throne ; and for the llr/J/t, R. H. HORNE. 583 Forged mighty hammers that should rise and fall On slanted rocks of granite and ofjlint, Worked by a torrent, for whose passage down A chasm I hewed. And here the God could take, Midst showery spark*, and swathes of broad gold fire His lone repose, lulled by the sounds he loved: Or, casting back the hammer-heads till they choked The water s course, enjoy, if so he ivished, Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron sleep." The description of the Hell in " Paradise Lost " is altogether inferior in graphic effect, in originality, in expression, in the true imagination to these magnificent to these unparalleled passages. For this assertion there are tens of thousands who will condemn us as heretical ; but there are a " chosen few" who will feel, in their inmost souls, the simple truth of the assertion. The former class would at least be silent, could they form even a remote conception of that contempt with which we hearken to their conventional jargon. We have room for no further extracts of length; but we refer the reader who shall be so fortunate as to procure a copy of " Orion," to a passage at page 22, commencing " One day at noontide, when the chase was done." It is descriptive of a group of lolling hounds, intermingled with sylvaus, fawns, nymphs, and oceanides. We refer him also to page 25, where Orion, enamoured of the naked beauty of Artemis, is repulsed and frozen by her dignity. These lines end thus : And ere the last collected shape he saw Of Artemis dispersing fast amid Dense vapoury clouds, the aching wintriuess Had risen to his teeth, and fixed his eyes, Like glistening stones in the congealing air." We refer especially, too, to the description of Love, at page 29 ; to that of a Bacchanalian orgie, at page 34 ; to that of drought succeeded by rain, at page 70 j and to that of the palace of Eos, at page 104. Mr. Home has a very peculiar and very delightful faculty of enforcing, or giving vitality to a picture, by some one vivid and intensely characteristic point or touch. He seizes the most salient feature of his theme, and makes this feature convey the whole. The combined naivete and picturesqueness of some of the passages thus enforced, cannot be sufficiently admired. For example : " The archers soon With bow-arm forn-ard thrust, on all sides twanged Around, above, buio\v." 586 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Now, it is this thrusting forward of the bow-arm which is the idiosyncrasy of the action of a mass of archers. Again : Rhex- ergon and his friends endeavour to persuade Akinetos to be king. Observe the silent refusal of Akinetos the peculiar passiveness of Ids action if we may be permitted the paradox. " Rise, therefore, Akinetos, thou art king. So saying, in his hand he placed a spear. As though against a wall twere sent aslant, Flatly the long spear fdl upon the ground." Here again : Merope departs from Chios in a ship. * And, as it sped along, she closely pressed The rich globes of her bosoni on the side O er which she bent with those black eyes, and gazed Into the sea that fled beneath her face." The fleeing of the sea beneath the face of one who gazes into it from a ship s side, is the idiosyncrasy of the action of the subject. It is that which chiefly impresses the gazer. We conclude with some brief quotations at random, which we shall not pause to classify. Their merits need no demonstration. They gleam with the purest imagination. They abound in pic turesqueness force happily chosen epithets, each in itself a pic ture, They are redolent of all for which a poet will value a poem. " her silver sandals glanc d i the rays, As doth a lizard playing on a hill, And on the spot where she that instant stood Naught but the bent and quivering grass was seen." " Above the Isle of Chios, night by night, The clear moon lingei ed ever on her course Covering the forest foliage, where it swept In its imbroken breadth along the slopes, With placid silver ; edging leaf and trunk Where gloom clung deep around ; but chiefly sought With melancholy splendour to illume The dark-mouthed caverns where Orion lay, Dreaming among his kinsmen." " The ocean realm below, and all its caves And bristling vegetation, plant and flower, And forests in their dense petrific shade Where the tides moan for sleep that never comes" " A fawn, who on a quiet green knoll sat Somewhat apart, sang a melodious ode, Mnde rich by harmonies of hidden strings." /*. //. HORNE. 587 " Autai ces seized a satyr, with intent, Despite his writhing freaks and furious face To dash him on a gong, but that amidst The struggling mass Encolyon thrust a pine, Heavy and black as Charon s ferrying pole, O er which they, like a bursting billow, fell " " then round the blaze, Their shadows brandishing afar and athwart, Over the level space and up the hills, Six giants held portentous dance " " his safe return To corporal sense, by shaking off these nets Of moonbeams from his soul " " old memories Slumbrously hung above the purple line Of distance, to the East, while odorously Glistened the tear-drops of a new-fall n shower " " Sing on ! Sing on, great tempest ! in the darkness sing ! Thy madness is a music that brings calm Into my central soul ; and from its waves, That now with joy begin to heave and gush The burning image of all life s desire, Like an absorbing, fire breathed, phantom god, Rises and floats ! here touching on the foam, There hovering o er it ; ascending swift Starward then swooping down the hemisphere Upon the lengthening javelins of the blunt! " " Now a sound we heard, Like to some well-known voice in prayer ; and next An iron clang that seemed to break great bonds Beneath the earth, shook us to conscious life " " It is Oblivion ! In his hand though naught Knows he of this a dusky purple flower Droops over its tall stem. Again ! ah see ! He wanders into mist and now is lost ! Within his brain what lovely realms of death Are pictured, and what knowledge through the doors Of his foryetf illness of all the earth A path may gain /" But we are positively forced to conclude. It was our design to give "Orion" a careful and methodical analysis- thus to bring clearly forth its multitudinous beauties to the eye of the American public. Our limits have constrained us to treat it in an imperfect and cursory manner. We have had to content ourselves chiefly with assertion, where our original purpose was to demonstrate. We have left unsaid a hundred things which a well-grounded en- 588 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. thusiasm would have prompted us to say. One thing, however, we must and will say, in conclusion. " Orion " will be admitted, by every man of genius, to be one of the noblest, if not the very noblest poetical work of the age. Its defects are trivial and con ventionalits beauties intrinsic and supreme, THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY,* [ACAULAY has obtained a reputation which, although deservedly great, is yet in a remarkable measure un deserved. The few who regard him merely as a terse, forcible and logical writer, full of thought, and abounding in original views, often sagacious and never otherwise than admirably expressed appear to us precisely in the right. The many who look upon him as not only all this, but as a comprehensive and profound thinker, little prone to error, err essentially themselves. The source of the general mistake lies in a very singular considera tion yet in one upon which we do not remember ever to have heard a word of comment. We allude to a tendency in the public mind towards logic for logic s sake a liability, to confound the vehicle with the conveyed an aptitude to be so dazzled by the luminousness with which an idea is set forth, as to mistake it for the luminousness of the idea itself. The error is one exactly analogous with that which leads the immature poet to think himself sublime wherever he is obscure, because obscurity is a source of the sub lime thus confounding obscurity of expression with the expression of obscurity. In the case of Macaulay and we may say en passant of our own Channing we assent to what he says, too often because we so very clearly understand what it is that he intends to say. Comprehending vividly the points and the sequence of his argument, we fancy that we areconcurring in the argument itself. It is not every mind which is at once able to analyze the satisfaction it receives from such Essays as we see here. If it were merely beauty of style for which they were distinguished if they were remarkable only for rhetorical flourishes we would not be apt to estimate these flourishes at more than their due value. We would * " Critical and Miscellaneous Essays." By T. Babington Macaulay. Carey & Hart : Philadelphia. THOMAS BABINGTON MA CA ULA Y. 589 hot agree with the doctrines of the essayist on account of the ele gance with which they were urged. On the contrary, we would be inclined to disbelief. But when all ornament save that of sim plicity is disclaimed when we are attacked by precision of lan guage, by perfect accuracy of expression, by directness and single ness of thought, and above all by a logic the most rigorously close and consequential it is hardly a matter for wonder that nine of us out of ten are content to rest in the gratification thus received as in the gratification of absolute truth. Of the terseness and simple vigour of Macaulay s style it is un necessary to point out instances. Everyone will acknowledge his merits on this score. His exceeding closeness of logic, however, is more especially remarkable. With this he suffers nothing to interfere. Here, for example, is a sentence in which, to preserve entire the chain of his argument to leave no minute gap ivhich the reader might have to Jill up with thought he runs into most unusual tautology : " The books and traditions of a sect may contain, mingled with propositions strictly theological, other propositions, purporting to rest on the same authority, which relate to physics. If new dis coveries should throw discredit on the physical propositions, the theological propositions, unless they can be separated from the physical propositions, will share in their discredit." These things are very well in their way ; but it is indeed ques tionable whether they do not appertain rather to the trickery of thought s vehicle, than to thought itself rather to reason s shadow than to reason. Truth, for truth s sake, is seldom so enforced. It is scarcely too much to say that the style of the profound thinker is never closely logical. Here we might instance George Combe than whom a more candid reasoner never, perhaps, wrote or spoke than whom a more complete antipode to Babington Ma- caulay there certainly never existed. The former reasons to dis cover the true. The latter argues to convince the world, and, in arguing, not unfrequently surprises himself into conviction. What Combe appears to Macanlay it would be a difficult thing to say. What Macaulay is thought of by Combe we can understand very well. The man who looks at an argument in its details alone, will not fail to be misled by the one ; while he who keeps steadily in view the generality of a thesis will always at least approximate the truth under guidance of the other. 590 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Macaulay s tendency and the tendency of mere logic in general to concentrate force upon minutiae, at the expense of a subject as a whole, is well instanced in an article (in the volume now before us) on Ranke s " History of the Popes." This article is called a review possibly because it is anything else as lucus is lucus a non lucendo. In fact it is nothing more than a beautifully written treatise on the main theme of Ranke himself ; the whole matter of the treatise being deduced from the History. In the way of criticism there is nothing worth the name. The strength of the essayist is put forth to account for the progress of Romanism by maintaining that divinity is not a progressive science. The enig mas, says he in substance, which perplex the natural theologian are the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we are to seek revealed truth, has always been what it is. The manner in which these two propositions are set forth, is a model for the logician and for the student of belles lettres yet the error into which the essayist has rushed headlong is egregious. He attempts to deceive his readers, or has deceived himself, by confounding the nature of that proof from which we reason of the concerns of earth, considered as man s habitation, and the nature of that evidence from which we reason of the same earth regarded as a unit of that vast whole, the universe. In the former case the data being palpable, the proof is direct : in the latter it is purely analogical. Were the indications we derive from science, of the nature and designs of Deity, and thence, by inference, of man s destiny were these indications proof direct, no advance in science would strengthen them for, as our author truly observes, " nothing could be added to the force of the argument which the mind finds in every beast, bird, or flower" but as these indications are rigidly analogical, every step in human knowledge every astronomical discovery, for instance throws additional light upon the august subject, by extending tlie range of analogy. That we know no more to-day of the nature of Deity of its purposes and thus of man himself than we did even a dozen years ago is a proposition disgracefully absurd ; and of this any astronomer could assure Mr. Macaulay. Indeed, to our own mind, the only irrefutable argument in support of the soul s immortality or, rather, the only conclusive proof of man s alternate dissolution and re-juvenescence ad infini- turn is to be found in analogies deduced from the modern THOMAS BA BING TON MAC A ULA V. 551 established theory of the nebular cosmogony.* Mr. Macaulay, in short, has forgotten that he frequently forgets, or neglects, the very gist of his subject. He has forgotten that analogical evidence cannot, at all times, be discoursed of as if identical with proof direct. Throughout the whole of his treatise he has made no distinction whatever. CHARLES LEYER.t | HE first point to be observed in the consideration of " Charles O Malley " is the great popularity of the work. We believe that in this respect it has surpassed even the inimitable com positions of Mr. Dickens. At all events it has met with a most ex tensive sale; and, although the graver journals have avoided its dis cussion, the ephemeral press has been nearly if not quite unanimous in its praise. To be sure the commendation, although unqualified, cannot be said to have abounded in specification, or to have been, in any regard, of a satisfactory character to one seeking precise ideas on the topic of the book s particular merit. It appears to us, in fact, that the cabalistical words " fun," " rollicking," and " devil- may-care," if indeed words they be, have been made to stand in good stead of all critical comment in the case of the work now under review. We first saw these dexterous expressions in a fly leaf of " Opinions of the Press " appended to the renowned " Harry Lorrequer," by his publisher in Dublin. Thence transmitted, with complacent echo, from critic to critic, through daily, weekly and monthly journals without number, they have come at length to form a pendant and a portion of our author s celebrity have come to be regarded as sufficient response to the few ignoramuses, who, obstinate as ignorant, and fool-hardy as obstinate, venture to pro pound a question or two about the true claims of " Harry Lorre quer or the justice of the pretensions of " Charles O Malley." We shall not insult our readers by supposing any one of them * This cosmogony demonstrates that all existing bodies in the universe are formed of a nebular matter, a rare ethereal medium, pervading space shows the mode and laws of formation and proves that all things are in a perpetual state of progress that nothing in nature is perfected. t "Charles O Malley, the Irish Dragoon." By Harry Lorrequer. With Forty Illustrations by Phiz. Complete in one volume. Carey & Hart : Philadelphia. 592 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. unaware of the fact, that a book may be even exceedingly popular without any legitimate literary merit. This fact can be proven by numerous examples which, now and here, it will be unnecessary and perhaps indecorous to mention. The dogma, then, is absurdly false, that the popularity of a work is primd facie evidence of its excellence in some respects; that is to say, the dogma is false if we confine the meaning of excellence (as here of course it must be con fined) to excellence in a literary sense. The truth is, that the popularity of a bookisjpwwd/aa e evidence of just the converse of the proposition it is evidence of the book s demerit, inasmuch as it shows a " stooping to conquer " inasmuch as it shows that the author has dealt largely, if not altogether, in matters which are susceptible of appreciation by the mass of mankind by unedu cated thought by uncultivated taste, by unrefined and unguided passion. So long as the world retains its present point of civiliza tion, so long will it be almost an axiom that no extensively j?opw/ar book, in the right application of the term, can be a work of high merit, as regards those particulars of the ivork which are popular. A book may be readily sold, may be universally read, for the sake of some half or two-thirds of its matter, which half or two-thirds may be susceptible of popular appreciation, while the one-half or one-third remaining may be the delight of the highest intellect and genius, and absolute caviare to the rabble. And just as " Omne tulit punctum qul miscuit utile dulcl" so will the writer of fiction, who looks most sagaciously to his own interest, combine all votes by intermingling with his loftier efforts such amount of less ethereal matter as will give general currency to his composition. And here we shall be pardoned for quoting some observations of the English artist, H. Howard. Speaking of imita tion, he says : " The pleasure that results from it, even when employed upon the most ordinary materials, will always render that property of our art the most attractive with the majority, because it may be enjoyed with the lotist mental exertion. All men are in some degree judges of it. The cobbler in his own line may criticise Apelles ; and popular opinions are never to be wholly disregarded concerning that which is addressed to the public who, to a certain extent, are generally right ; although as the lan guage of the refined can never be intelligible to the uneducated, so the higher styles of art can never be acceptable to the multitude. In pro portion as a work rises in the scale of intellect, it must necessarily be come limited in the number of its admirers. For this reason the judicious artist, even in his loftiest efforts, will endeavour to introduce some of CHARLES LEVER. 593 those qualities which are interesting to all, as a passport for those of a more intellectual character." And these remarks upon painting remarks which are mere truisms in themselves embody nearly the whole rationale of the topic now under discussion. It may be added, however, that the skill with which the author addresses the lower taste of the popu lace, is often a source of pleasure, because of admiration, to a taste higher and more refined, and may be made a point of comment and of commendation by the critic. In our review of " Barnaby Eudge," we were prevented, through want of space, from showing how Mr. Dickens had so well suc ceeded in uniting all suffrages. ^What we have just said, however, will suffice upon this point. While he has appealed, in innumer able regards, to the most exalted intellect, he has meanwhile in variably touched a certain string whose vibrations are omni-pre- valent. We allude to his powers of imitation that species of imitation to which Mr. Howard has reference the faithful depict ing of what is called still-life, and particularly of character in humble condition. It is his close observation and imitation of nature here which have rendered him popular, while his higher qualities, with the ingenuity evinced in addressing the general taste, have secured him the good word of the informed and intel lectual. But this is an important point upon winch we desire to be dis tinctly understood. We wish here to record our positive dissent (be that dissent worth what it may) from a very usual opinion the opinion that Mr. Dickens has done justice to his own genius that any man ever failed to do grievous wrong to his own genius in appealing to the popular judgment at all. A a matter of pecu niary policy alone, is any such appeal defensible 1 But we speak, of course, in relation to fame in regard to that " spur which the true spirit doth raise To scorn delight and live laborious days." That a perfume should be found by any "true spirit" in the incense of mere popular applause, is, to our own apprehension at least, a thing inconceivable, inappreciable, a paradox which gives the lie unto itself a mystery more profound than the well of De- mocritus. Mr. Dickens has no more business with the rabble than a seraph with a chateau de bras. What s Hecuba to him or he to 594 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Hecuba ? What is he to Jacques Bonhomme* or Jacques Bon- homme to him 1 ? The higher genius is a rare gift and divine. ATroXXwv on iravTi <f>attvtTat, og fitv <d/, ptyag OVTOQ not to all men Apollo shows himself ; he is alone great who beholds him.t And his greatness has its office God-assigned. But that office is not a low communion with low, or even with ordinary intellect. The holy the electric spark of genius is the medium of intercourse be tween the noble and more noble mind. For lesser purposes there are humbler agents. There are puppets enough, able enough, willing enough, to perform in literature the little things to which we have had reference. For one Fouque there are fifty Molieres. For one Angelo there are five hundred Jan Steens. For one Dickens there are five million Smollels, Fieldings, Marryats, Arthurs, Cocktons, Bogtons, and Frogtons. It is, in brief, the duty of all whom circumstances have led into criticism it is, at least, a duty from which ive individually shall never shrink to uphold the true dignity of genius, to combat its degradation, to plead for the exercise of its powers in those bright fields which are its legitimate and peculiar province, and which for it alone lie gloriously outspread. But to return to " Charles O Malley," and its popularity. We have endeavoured to show that this latter must not be considered in any degree as the measure of its merit, but should rather be understood as indicating a deficiency in this respect, when we bear in mind, as we should do, the highest aims of intellect in fiction. A slight examination of the work (for in truth it is worth no more) will sustain us in what we have said. The plot is exceedingly meagre. Charles O Malley, the hero, is a young orphan Irishman, living in Galway county, Ireland, in the house of his uncle Godfrey, to whose sadly encumbered estates the youth is heir apparent and presumptive. He becomes enamoured, while on a visit to a neigh bour, of Miss Lucy Dashwood, and finds a rival in a Captain Ham- mcrsley. Some words carelessly spoken by Lucy, inspire him with a desire for military renown. After sojourning, therefore, for a brief period, at Dublin University, he obtains a commission and proceeds to the Peninsula, with the British army under Wellington. Here he distinguishes himself ; is promoted ; and meets frequently with Miss Dashwood, whom obstinately, and in spite of the lady s * Nickname for the populace in the middle ages, t Callimachus Hymn to Apollo. CHARLES LEVER. 595 own acknowledgment of love for himself, lie supposes in love with Hammersley. Upon the storming of Ciudad Kodrigo he returns home ; finds his uncle, of course, just dead ; and sells his commis sion to disencumber the estate. Presently Napoleon escapes from Elba, and our hero, obtaining a staff appointment under Picton, returns to the Peninsula, is present at Waterloo (where Hammersley is killed), saves the life of Lucy s father for the second time, as lie has already twice saved that of Lucy herself ; is rewarded by the hand of the latter ; and making his way back to O Malley Castle, "lives happily all the rest of his days." . In and about this plot (if such it may be called) there are more absurdities than we have patience to enumerate. The author, or narrator, for example, is supposed to be Harry Lorrequer as far as the end of the preface, which by the way, is one of the best por tions of the book. ^O Malley then tells his own story. But the publishing office of the " Dublin University Magazine" (in which the narrative originally appeared) having been burned down, there ensues a sad confusion of identity between O Malley and Lorrequer, so that it is difficult, for the nonce, to say which is which. In the want of copy consequent upon the disaster, James, the novelist, comes in to the relief of Lorrequer, or perhaps of O Malley, with one of the flattest and most irrelevant of love-tales. Meantime, in the story proper are repetitions without end. We have already said that the hero saves the life of his mistress tivice, and of her father twice. But not content with this, he has ttvo mistresses, and saves the life of both, at different periods , in precisely the same man ner that is to say, by causing his horse, in each instance, to per form a Munchausen side-leap, at the moment when a spring forward would have impelled him upon his beloved. And then we have one unending, undeviating succession of junketings, in which " devilled kidneys" are never by anyjaccident found wanting. The unction and pertinacity with which the author discusses what he chooses to denominate " devilled kidneys," are indeed edifying, to say no more. The truth is, that drinking, telling anecdotes, and devouring " devilled kidneys," may be considered as the sum total, as the thesis of the book. Never in the whole course of his eventful life does Mr. O Malley get "two or three assembled together" without seducing them forthwith to a table, and placing before them a dozen of wine and a dish of " devilled kidneys." This ac complished, the parties begin what seems to be the business of the 596 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE, author s existence the narration of unusually broad tales like those of the Southdown mutton. And here, in fact, we have the plan of that whole work of which the " United Service Gazette" has been pleased to vow it " would rather be the author than of all the Pickwicks and Nicklebys in the world" a sentiment which we really blush to say has been echoed by many respectable mem bers of our own press. The general plot or narrative is a mere thread upon which after-dinner anecdotes, some good, some bad, some utterly worthless, and not one truly original, are strung with about as much method, and about half as much dexterity, as we see ragged urchins employ in stringing the kernels of nuts. It would, indeed, be difficult to convey to one who has not ex amined this production for himself, any idea of the exceedingly rough, clumsy, and inartistical manner in which even this bald conception is carried out. The stories are absolutely dragged in by the ears. So far from finding them result naturally or plausibly from the conversation of the interlocutors, even the blindest reader may perceive the author s struggling and blundering effort to intro duce them. It is rendered quite evident that they were originally " on hand," and that " O Malley" has been concocted for their intro duction. Among other niaiseries we observe the silly trick of whetting appetite by delay. The conversation over the " kidneys" is brought, for example, to such a pass that one of the speakers is called upon for a story, which he forthwith declines for any reason, or for none. At a subsequent " broil" he is again pressed, and again refuses, and it is not until the reader s patience is fairly exhausted, and he has consigned both the story and its author to Hades, that the gentleman in question is prevailed upon to discourse. The only conceivable result of this fahfarronade is the ruin of the tale when told, through exaggerating anticipation respecting it. The anecdotes thus narrated being the staple of the book, and the awkward manner of their interlocution having been pointed out, it but remains to be seen what the anecdotes are, in themselves, and what is the merit of their narration. And here, let it not be sup posed that we have any design to deprive the devil of his due. There are several very excellent anecdotes in " Charles O Malley" very cleverly and pungently told. Many of the scenes in which Monsoon figures are rich less, however, from the scenes them selves, than from the piquant, but by no means original character of Monsoon a drunken, maudlin, dishonest old major, given to CHARLES LEVER. 597 communicativeness and mock morality over Iris cups, and not over- careful in detailing adventures which tell against himself. One or two of the college pictures are unquestionably good, but might have been better. In general, the reader is made to feel that fine sub jects have fallen into unskilful hands. By way of instancing this assertion, and at the same time of conveying an idea of the tone and character of the stories, we will quote one of the shortest, and assuredly one of the best : "Ah, by-the-by, how s the Major? " Charmingly : only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir Arthur Lord Wellington, I mean had him up for his fellows being caught pil laging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few days ago. " Very disorderly corps, yours, Major O Shauglmessy, said the general ; more men up for punishment than any regiment in the service. " Shaugh muttered something, but his voice was lost in a loud cock-a- doo-doo-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the moment. " If the officers do their duty, Major O Shaiighnessy, these acts of in subordination do not occur. Cock-a-doo-doo-doo, was the reply. Some of the staff found it hard not to laugh ; but the general went on " If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I ll draft the men into West India regiments. Cock-a-doo-doo-doo ! And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected in the quarters, or about the persons of the troops Cock-a-doo-doo-ttoo/ screamed louder here than ever. Damn that cock where is it? There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in vain ; when a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from O Shaughnessy s coat-pocket : thus detecting the valiant Major himself in the very prac tice of his corps. There was no standing this : every one burst out into a peal of laughter; and Lord Wellington himself could not resist, .but turned away muttering to himself as he went Damned robbers every man of them, while a linal war-note from the Major s pocket closed the interview." Now this is an anecdote at which every one will laugh ; but its effect might have been vastly heightened by putting a few words of grave morality and reprobation of the conduct of his troops, into the mouth of O Shauglmessy, upon whose character they would have told well. The cock, in interrupting the thread of his dis course, would thus have afforded an excellent context. We have scarcely a reader, moreover, who will fail to perceive the want of tact shown in dwelling upon the mirth which the anecdote occa sioned. The error here is precisely like that of a man s laughing at his own spoken jokes. Our author is uniformly guilty of this mis take. He has an absurd fashion, also, of informing the reader, at 59 8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the conclusion of eacli of his anecdotes, that, however good the anecdote might be, he (the reader) cannot enjoy it to the full extent in default of the manner in which it was orally narrated. He has no business to say anything of the kind. It is his duty to convey the manner not less than the matter of his narratives. But we may say of these latter that, in general, they have the air of being remembered rather than invented. No man who has seen much of the rough life of the camp will fail to recognise among them many very old acquaintances. Some of them are as ancient as the hills, and have been, time out of mind, the common property of the bivouac. They have been narrated orally all the world over. The chief merit of the writer is, that he has been the first to collect and to print them. It is observable, in fact, that the second volume of the work is very far inferior to the first. The author seems to have exhausted his whole hoarded store in the beginning. His conclusion is barren indeed, and but for the historical details (for which he has no claim to merit) would be especially prosy and dull. flow the true invention never exhausts itself. It is mere cant and ignorance to talk of the possibility of the really imaginative man s * writing himself out." His soul but derives nourishment from the streams that flow therefrom. As well prate about the aridity of the eternal ocean, ountp rravrtQ iroraftoi. So long as the universe of thought shall furnish matter for novel combination 1 , so long will the spirit of true genius be original, be exhaustless be itself. A few cursory observations. The book is filled to overflowing with songs of very doubtful excellence, the most of which are put into the mouth of Mickey Free, an amusing Irish servant of O Mal- ley s, and are given as his impromptu effusions. The subject of the improvises is always the matter in hand at the moment of composition. The author evidently prides himself upon his poetical powers, about which the less we say the better ; but if anything were wanting to assure us of his absurd ignorance and inapprecia- tion of Art, we should find the fullest assurance in the mode in which these doggerel verses are introduced. The occasional sentiment with which the volumes are inter spersed there is an absolute necessity for skipping. Can anybody tell us what is meant by the affectation of the word E envoy which is made the heading of two prefaces 1 That portion of the account of the battle of Waterloo which gives O Malley s experiences while a prisoner, and in close juxta- CHARLES LEVER. 599 position to Napoleon, bears evident traces of having been translated, and very literally too, from a French manuscript. The English of the work is sometimes even amusing. We have continually, for example, eat, the present, for ate, the perfect page 17. At page 16 we have this delightful sentence : " Captain Ham- mersley, however, never took further notice of me, but continued to recount, for the amusement of those about, several excellent stories of his military career, which I confess were heard with every test of delight by all save me." At page 357 we have some sage talk about "the entire of the army ;" and at page 368 the accomplished O Malley speaks of " dr caving a last look upon his sweetheart." These things arrest our attention as we open the book at random. It abounds in them, and in vulgarisms even much worse than they. But why speak of vulgarisms of language ? There is a disgust ing vulgarism of thought which pervades and contaminates this whole production, and from which a delicate or lofty mind will shrink as from a pestilence. Not the least repulsive manifestation of this leprosy is to be found in the author s blind and grovelling worship of mere rank. Of the Prince Regent, that filthy compound of all that is bestial that lazarhouse of all moral corruption he scruples not to speak in terms of the grossest adulation sneering at Edmund Burke in the same villanous breath in which he extols the talents, the graces and the virtues of George the Fourth! That any man, to-day, can be found so degraded in heart as to style this reprobate, " one who, in every feeling of his nature, and in every feature of his deportment was every inch a prince "--is matter for grave reflection and sorrowful debate. The American, at least, who shall peruse the concluding pages of the book now under review, and not turn in disgust from the base sycophancy which infects them, is unworthy of his country and his name. But the truth is, that a gross and contracted soul renders itself unquestionably manifest in almost every line of the composition. And this this is the work, in respect to which its author, aping the airs of intellect, prates about his " haggard cheek," his " sunken eye," his " aching and tired head," " his nights of toil," and (good heavens!) "his days of thought !" That the thing is popular we grant while that we cannot deny the fact, we grieve. But the career of true taste is onward and now moves more vigorously on ward than ever and the period, perhaps, is not hopelessly distant. 600 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. when in decrying the mere balderdash of such matters as " Charles O Malley," we shall do less violence to the feelings and judgment even of the populace, than, we much fear, has been done in this article. CHARLES DICKENS/* often hear it said, of this or of that proposition, that it may be good in theory, but will not answer in practice ; and in such assertions we find the substance of all the sneers at critical art which so gracefully curl the upper lips of a tribe which is beneath it. We mean the small geniuses the literary Titmice animalculee which judge of merit solely by result, and boast of the solidity, tangibility, and infallibility of the test which they employ. The worth of a work is most accurately estimated, they assure us, by the number of those who peruse it ; and "does a book sell]" is a query embodying, in their opinion, all that need be said or sung on the topic of its fitness for sale. We should as soon think of maintaining, in the presence of these creatures, the dictum of Anaxagoras, that snow is black, as of dis puting, for example, the profundity of that genius which, in a run of five hundred nights, has rendered itself evident in " London Assurance." " What," cry they, " are critical precepts to us, or to anybody ? Were we to observe all the critical rules in creation we should still be unable to write a good book "a point, by the way, which we shall not now pause to deny. "Give us results," they vociferate, " for we are plain men of common sense. We contend for fact instead of fancy for practice in opposition to theory." The mistake into which the Titmice have been innocently led, however, is precisely that of dividing the practice which they would uphold, from the theory to which they would object. They should have been told in infancy, and thus prevented from exposing themselves in old age, that theory and practice are in so much one, that the former implies or includes the latter. A theory is only good as such, in proportion to its reducibility to practice. If the * "Barnaby Budge." By Charles Dickens, (Boz). Author of "The Old Curiosity Shop," "Pickwick," " Oliver Twist," etc., etc. With nume rous Illustrations, by Cattennole, Browne and Gibson. Lea & Blanchard : Philadelphia. CHARLES DICKENS. 601 practice fail, it is because the theory is imperfect. To say what they are in the daily habit of saying that such or such a matter may be good in theory but is false in practice, is to perpetrate a bull to commit a paradox to state a contradiction in terms in plain words, to tell a lie which is a lie at sight to the understand ing of anything bigger than a Titmouse. But we have no idea, just now, of persecuting the Tittlebats by too close a scrutiny into their little opinions. It is not our pur pose, for example, to press them with so grave a weapon as the argumentuxi ad absurdum, or to ask them why, if the popularity of a book be in fact the measure of its worth, we should not be at once in condition to admit the inferiority of "Newton s Principia" to "Hoyle s Games;" of "Ernest Maltravers" to "Jack-the- Giant-Killer," or "Jack Sheppard," or "Jack Brag;" and of "Dick s Christian Philosopher" to "Charlotte Temple, 5 * or the " Memoirs of de Grammont," or to one or two dozen other works which must be nameless. Our present design is but to speak, at some length, of a book which in so much concerns the Titmice, that it affords them the very kind of demonstration which they chiefly affect practical demonstration of the fallacy of one of their favourite dogmas; we mean the dogma that no work of fiction can fully suit, at the same time, the critical and the popular taste ; in fact, that the disregarding or contravening of critical rule is absolutely essential to success, beyond a certain and very limited extent, with the public at large. And if, in the course of our ran dom observations for we have no space for systematic review it should appear, incidentally, that the vast popularity of " Bamaby Rudge " must be regarded less as the measure of its value, than as the legitimate and inevitable result of certain well-understood critical propositions reduced by genius into practice, there will appear nothing more than what has before become apparent in the " Vicar of Wakefield" of Goldsmith, or in the " Robinson Crusoe" of De Foe nothing more, in fact, than what is a truism to all but the Titmice. Those who know us will not, from what is here premised, sup pose it our intention to enter into any wholesale laudation of " Barnaby Rudge." In truth, our design may appear, at a cursory glance, to be very different indeed. Boccalini, in his "Advertise ments from Parnassus," tells us that a critic once presented Apollo with a severe censure upon an excellent poem. The god nsked him 602 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only troubled himself about the errors. Apollo presented him with a sack of unwinnowed wheat, and bade him pick out all the chaff for his pains. Now we have not fully made up our minds that the god was in the right. We are not sure that the limit of critical duty is not very generally misapprehended. Excellence may be considered an axiom, or a proposition which becomes self-evident just in pro portion to the clearness or precision with which it is put. If it fairly exists, in this sense, it requires no farther elucidation. It is not excellence if it need to be demonstrated as such. To point out too particularly the beauties of a work, is to admit, tacitly, that these beauties are not wholly admirable. Regarding, then, excel lence as that which is capable of self-manifestation, it but remains for the critic to show when, where, and how it fails in becoming manifest ; and, in this showing, it will be the fault of the book itself if what of beauty it contains be not, at least, placed in the fairest light. In a word, we may assume, notwithstanding a vast deal of pitiable cant upon this topic, that in pointing out frankly the errors of a work, we do nearly all that is critically necessary in displaying its merits. In teaching what perfection is, how, in fact, shall we more rationally proceed than in specifying what it is not ? The plot of " Barnaby Rudge " runs thus : About a hundred years ago, Geoffrey Haredale and John Chester were schoolmates in England the former being the scape-goat and drudge of the latter. Leaving school, the boys become friends, with much of the old understanding. Haredale loves ; Chester deprives him of his mistress. The one cherishes the most deadly hatred ; the other merely contemns and avoids. By routes widely different both attain mature age. Haredale, remembering his old love, and still cherishing his old hatred, remains a bachelor and is poor. Chester, among other crimes, is guilty of the seduction and heartless aban donment of a gipsy-girl, who, after the desertion of her lover, gives birth to a son, and, falling into evil courses, is finally hung at Ty burn. The son is received and taken charge of at an inn called the Maypole, upon the borders of Epping forest, and about twelve miles from London. This inn is kept by one John Willet, a burly- headed and very obtuse little man, who has a son Joe, and who employs his protege, under the single name of Hugh, as perpetual hostler at the inn. Hugh s father marries, in the meantime, a rich 2)arvenue, who soon dies, but not before having presented Mr, CHARLES DICKENS. 603 Chester with a boy, Edward. The father (a thoroughly selfish man-of-the-world, whose model is Chesterfield), educates this son at a distance, seeing him rarely, and calling him to the paternal residence, at London, only when he has attained the age of twenty- four or five. He, the father, has, long ere this time, spent the for tune brought him by his wife, having been living upon his wits and a small annuity for some eighteen years. The son is recalled chiefly that by marrying an heiress, on the strength of his own per sonal merit and the reputed wealth of old Chester, he may enable the latter to continue his gaieties in old age. But of this design, as well as of his poverty, Edward is kept in ignorance for some three or four years after his recall ; when the father s discovery of what he considers an inexpedient love-entanglement on the part of the son, induces him to disclose the true state of his affairs, as well as the real tenour of his intentions. Now the love-entanglement of which we speak, is considered inexpedient by Mr. Chester for two reasons the first of which is, that the lady beloved is the orphan niece of his old enemy, Hare- dale, and the second is, that Haredale (although in circumstances, which have been very much and unexpectedly improved during he preceding twenty-two years) is still insufficiently wealthy to meet the views of Mr. Chester. We say that, about twenty-two years before the period in question, there came an unlooked-for change in the worldly cir cumstances of Haredale. This gentleman has an elder brother, Reuben, who has long possessed the family inheritance of the Haredales, residing at a mansion called "The Warren," not far from the Maypole Inn, which is itself a portion of the estate. Reuben is a widower, with one child, a daughter, Emma. Besides this daughter, there are living with him a gardener, a steward (whose name is Rudge), and two women servants, one of whom is the wife of Rudge. On the night of the nineteenth of March, 1733, Rudge murders his master for the sake of a large sum of money which he is known to have in possession. During the struggle, Mr. Haredale grasps the cord of an alarm-bell which hangs within his reach, but succeeds in sounding it only once or twice, "when it is severed by the knife of the ruffian, who then, completing his bloody business, and securing the money, proceeds to quit the chamber. While doing this, however, he is discon certed by meeting the gardener, whose pallid countenance evinces 604 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. suspicion of the deed committed. The murderer is thus forced to kill his fellow servant. Having done so, the idea strikes him of transferring the burden of the crime from himself. He dresses the corpse of the gardener in his own clothes, puts upon its finger his own ring, and in its pocket his own watch then drags it to a pond in the grounds, and throws it in. He now returns to the house, and disclosing all to his wife, requests her to become a partner in his flight. Horror-stricken, she falls to the ground. He attempts to raise her. She seizes his wrist, staining her hand with blood in the attempt. She renounces him for ever ; yet pro mises to conceal the crime. Alone, he flees the country. The next morning, Mr. Haredale being found murdered, and the steward and gardener being both missing, both are suspected. Mrs. Rudge leaves The Warren, and retires to an obscure lodging in London (where she lives upon an annuity allowed her by Haredale), having given birth, on the very day after the murder, to a son, Barnaby Rudge, who proves an idiot, who bears upon his wrist a red mark, and who is born possessed with a maniacal horror of blood. Some months since the assassination having elapsed, what appears to be the corpse of Rudge is discovered, and the outrage is attri buted to the gardener. Yet npt universally : for, as Geoffrey Haredale conies into possession of the estate, there are not wanting suspicions (fomented by Chester) of his own participation in the deed. This taint of suspicion, acting upon his hereditary gloom, together with the natural grief and horror of the atrocity, embitters the whole life of Haredale. He secludes himself at The Warren, and acquires a monomaniac acerbity of temper relieved only by love of his beautiful niece. Time wears away. Twenty-two years pass by. The niece has ripened into womanhood, and loves young Chester without the knowledge of her uncle or the youth s father. Hugh has grown a stalwart man the type of man the animal, as his father is of man the ultra-civilized. Rudge, the murderer, returns, urged to his un doing by Fate. He appears at the Maypole and inquires stealthily of the circumstances which have occurred at The Warren in his absence. He proceeds to London, discovers the dwelling of his wife, threatens her with the betrayal of her idiot son into vice, and extorts from her the bounty of Haredale. Revolting at such appropriation of such means, the widow, with Barnaby, again CHARLES DICKENS. 605 seeks The Warren, renounces the annuity, and refusing to assign any reason for her conduct, states her intention of quitting London for ever, and of burying herself in some obscure retreat a retreat which she begs Haredale not to attempt discovering. When he seeks her in London the next day, she is gone ; and there are no tidings, either of herself or of Barnaby, until the expiration of five years which brings the time up to that of the celebrated "No Popery" Riots of Lord George Gordon. In the meanwhile, and immediately subsequent to the reap pearance of Rudge, Haredale and the elder Chester, each heartily desirous of preventing the union of Edward and Emma, have entered into a covenant, the result of which is that, by means of treachery on the part of Chester, permitted on that of Haredale, the lovers misunderstand each other and are estranged. Joe, also, the son of the inn-keeper, Willet, having been coquetted with, to too great an extent, by Dolly Varden, (the pretty daughter of one Gabriel Varden, a locksmith of Clerkenwell, London), and having been otherwise maltreated at home, enlists in His Majesty s army and is carried beyond seas to America, not returning until towards the close of the riots. Just before their commencement, Rudge, in a midnight prowl about the scene of his atrocity, is encountered by an individual who had been familiar with him in earlier life, while living at The Warren. This individual, terrified at what he supposes, very naturally, to be the ghost of the mur derer, Rudge, relates his adventure to his companions at the May pole, and John Willet conveys the intelligence, forthwith, to Mr. Haredale. Connecting the apparition, in his own mind, with the peculiar conduct of Mrs. Rudge, this gentleman imbibes a suspicion, at once, of the true state of affairs. This suspicion (which he mentions to no one) is, moreover, very strongly confirmed by an occurrence happening to Varden, the locksmith, who, visiting the woman late one night, finds her in communion of a nature appar ently most confidential, with a ruffian whom the locksmith knows to be such, without knowing the man himself. Upon an attempt, on the part of Varden, to seize this ruffian, he is thwarted by Mrs. R, ; and upon Haredale s inquiring minutely into the personal appearance of the man, he is found to accord with Rudge. We have already shown that the ruffian was in fact Rudge himself. Acting upon the suspicion thus aroused, Haredale watches, by night, alone, in the deserted house formerly occupied by Mrs. R., 606 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. in hope of here coming upon the murderer, and makes other exertions with the view of arresting him ; but all in vain. It is, also, at the conclusion of the five years, that the hitherto uninvaded retreat of Mrs. Rudge is disturbed by a message from her husband, demanding money. He has discovered [her abode by accident. Giving him what she has at the time, she afterwards eludes him, and hastens, with Barnaby, to bury herself in the crowd of London, until she can find opportunity again to seek re treat in some more distant region of England. But the riots have now begun. The idiot is beguiled into joining the mob, and be coming separated from his mother (who growing ill through grief, is borne to a hospital) meets with his old playmate Hugh, and be comes with him a ringleader in the rebellion. The riots proceed. A conspicuous part is borne in them by one Simon Tappertit, a fantastic and conceited little apprentice of Varden s, and a sworn enemy to Joe Willet, who has rivalled him in the affection of Dolly. A hangman, Dennis, is also very busy amid the mob. Lord George Gordon, and his secretary Gashford, with John Grueby, his servant, appear, of course, upon the scene. Old Chester, who, during the five years, has become Sir John, instigates Gashford, who has received personal insult from Hare- dale, (a Catholic, and consequently obnoxious to the mob) to procure the burning of The Warren, and to abduct Emma during the ex citement ensuing. The mansion is burned, (Hugh, who also fancies himself wronged by Haredale, being chief actor in the outrage), and Miss H. carried off, in company with Dolly, who had long lived with her, and whom Tappertit abducts upon his own responsibility. Rudge, in the meantime, finding the eye of Hare- dale npon him, (since he has become aware of the watch kept nightly at his wife s), goaded by the dread of solitude, and fancying that his sole chance of safety lies in joining the rioters, hurries upon their track to the doomed Warren. He arrives too late the mob have departed. Skulking about the ruins he is discovered by Haredale, and finally captured without a struggle, within the glowing walls of the very chamber in which the deed was com mitted. He is conveyed to prison, where he meets and recognizes Barnaby, who had been captured as a rioter. The mob assail and burn the jail. The father and son escape. Betrayed by Dennis, both are again retaken, and Hugh shares their fate. In Newgate, Dennis, through accident, discovers the parentage of Hugh, and an CHARLES DICKENS. 607 effort is made in vain to interest Chester in behalf of his son. Finally, Varden procures the pardon of Barnaby; but Hugh, Rudge, and Dennis are hung. At the eleventh hour, Joe returns from abroad with one arm. In company with Edward Chester, he performs prodigies of valour (during the last riots) on behalf of the government. The two, with Haredale and Varden. rescue .Emma and Dolly. A double marriage, of course, takes place ; for Dolly has repented her fine airs, and the prejudices of Hare- dale are overcome. Having killed Chester in a duel, he quits England for ever, and ends his days in the seclusion of an Italian convent. Thus, after summary disposal of the understrappers, ends the drama of " Barnaby Rudge," We have given, as may well be supposed, but a very meagre outline of the story, and we have given it in the simple or natural sequence. That is to say, we have related the events, as nearly as might be, in the order of their occurrence. But this order would by no means have suited the purpose of the novelist, whose design has been to maintain the secret of the murder, and the consequent mystery which encircles Rudge, and the actions of his wife, until the cata strophe of his discovery by Haredale. The thesis of the novel may thus be regarded as based upon curiosity. Every point is so arranged as to perplex the reader, and whet his desire for elucida tion : for example, the first appearance of Rudge at the Maypole ; his questions ; his persecution of Mrs. R ; the ghost seen by the frequenter of the Maypole ; and Haredale s impressive conduct in consequence. What ive have told, in the very beginning of our digest, in regard to the shifting of the gardener s dress, is sedulously kept from the reader s knowledge until he learns it from Rudge s own confession in jail. We say sedulously; for, the intention once known, the traces of the design can be found upon every page. There is an amusing and exceedingly ingenious instance, at page 145, where Solomon Daisy describes his adventure with the ghost. " It was a ghost a spirit, cried Daisy. " Whose? they all three asked together. "In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no farther) his answer was lost upon all but old John Willet, who happened to be seated close beside him. " Who ! cried Parkes and Tom Cobb Who was it ? " Gentlemen, said Mr. Willet, after a long pause, you needn t ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March, "A profound silence ensued." CoS WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The impression here skilfully conveyed is, that the ghost seen is that of Reuben Haredale; and the mind of the not too-acute reader is at once averted from the true state of the case from the murderer, Rudge, living in the body. Now there can be no question that, by such means as these, many points which are comparatively insipid in the natural sequence of our digest, and which would have been comparatively insipid even if given in full detail in a natural sequence, are endued with the interest of mystery ; but neither can it be denied that a vast many more points are at the same time deprived of all effect, and become null, through the impossibility of comprehending them without the key. The author, who, cognizant of his plot, writes with this cognizance continually operating upon him, and thus writes to himself in spite of himself, does not, of course, feel that much of what is effective to his own informed perception, must necessarily be lost upon his uninformed readers ; and he himself is never in condition, as regards his own work, to bring the matter to test. But the reader may easily satisfy himself of the validity ol our objection. Let him re-peruse " Barnaby Rudge," and with a pre-comprehension of the mystery, these points of which we speak break out in all directions like stars, and throw quadruple bril liance over the narrative a brilliance which a correct taste will at once declare unprofitably sacrificed at the shrine of the keenest interest of mere mystery. The design of mystery, however, being once determined upon by an author, it becomes imperative, first, that no undue or inartistical means be employed to conceal the secret of the plot ; and, secondly, that the secret be well kept. Now, when, at page 16, we read that " the body of poor Mr. Rudge, the steward, ivas found" months after the outrage, &c., we see that Mr. Dickens has been guilty of no mis demeanour against Art in stating what was not the fact, since the falsehood is put into the mouth of Solomon Daisy, and given merely as the impression of this individual and of the public. The writer has not asserted it in his own person, but ingeniously conveyed an idea (false in itself, yet a belief in which is necessary for the effect of the tale) by the mouth of one of his characters. The case is different, however, when Mrs. Rudge is repeatedly de nominated "the widow." It is the author who, himself, fre quently so terms her. This is disingenuous and inartistical : accidentally so, of course. We speak of the matter merely by CHARLES DICKENS. 60$ way of illustrating our point, and as an oversight on the part of Mr. Dickens. That the secret be well kept is obviously necessary. A failure to preserve it until the proper moment of dhiouement, throws all into confusion, so far as regards the effect intended. If the mystery leak out, against the author s will, his purposes are immediately at odds and ends ; for he proceeds upon the supposition that certain impressions do exist, which do not exist, in the mind of his readers. We are not prepared to say, so positively as we could wish, whether, by the public at large, the whole mystery of the murder committed by Rudge, with the identity of the Maypole ruffian with Ruclge himself, was fathomed at any period previous to the period in tended, or, if so, whether at a period so early as materially to inter fere with the interest designed ; but we are forced, through sheer modesty, to suppose this the case ; sinca> by ourselves individually, the secret was distinctly understood immediately upon the perusal of the story of Solomon Daisy, which occurs at the seventh page of this volume of three hundred and twenty-three. In the number of the " Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post" for May the first, 1841, (the tale having then only begun), will be f ound a prospective notice of some length, in which we made use of the following words : "That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not appear evident to our readers but we will explain. The person murdered is Mr. Reuben Haredale. He was found assassinated in his bed-chamber. His steward (Mu. Rudge, senior), and his gardener (name not mentioned), are missing. At first both are suspected. Some months afterward here wo use the words of the story the steward s body, scarcely to be recognised but by his clothes, and the watch and ring he wore was found at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast, where he had been stabbed by a knife. He was only partly dressed ; and all people agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed, before his master. "Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who asserts that the steward s body was found ; he has put the words in the mouth of one of his characters. His design is to make it appear, in the denouement, that the steward Eudge first murdered the gardener, then went to his master s chamber, murdered kirn, was interrupted by his (Rudge s) wife, whom he seized and held by the wrist, to prevent her giving the alarm that he then, after possessing himself of the booty desired, returned to the gardener s room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was afterwards dis covered at so late a period that the features could not be identified." The differences between our pre-conceived ideas, as here stated, and the actual facts of the story, Yvill be found immaterial, Tho 39 610 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN P0. gardener was murdered, not before but after his master ; and that Rudge s wife seized him by the wrist, instead of his seizing her, has so much the air of a mistake on the part of Mr. Dickens, that we can scarcely speak of our own version as erroneous. The grasp of a murderer s bloody hand on the wrist of a woman enceinte, would have been more likely to produce the effect described (and this everyone will allow) than the grasp of the hand of the woman upon the wrist of the assassin. We may therefore say of our supposition as Talleyrand said of some cockney s bad French que s il ne, soit pas Francais, assurement done il le doit etre that if we did not rightly prophecy, yet, at least, our prophecy should have been right. We are informed in the preface to " Barnaby Rudge" that " no account of the Gordon Riots having been introduced into any work of fiction, and the subject presenting very extraordinary and re markable features," our author " was led to project this tale." But for this distinct announcement (for Mr. Dickens can scarcely have deceived himself) we should have looked upon the riots as alto gether an afterthought. It is evident that they have no necessary connexion with the story. In our digest, which carefully includes all essentials of the plot, we have dismissed the doings of the mob in a paragraph. The whole event of the drama would have pro ceeded as well without as with them. They have even the appear ance of being forcibly introduced. In our compendium above, it will be seen that we emphasized several allusions to an interval of five years. The action is brought up to a certain point. The train of events is, so far, uninterrupted nor is there any apparent need of interruption yet all the characters are now thrown forward for a period of five years. And why 1 We ask in vain. It is not to bestow upon the lovers a more decorous maturity of age for this is the only possible idea which suggests itself Edward Chester is already eight-and-twenty, and Emma Haredale would, in America at least, be upon the list of old maids. No there is no such rea son; nor does there appear to be any one more plausible than that, as it is now the year of our Lord 1775, an advance of five years will bring the dramatis personce up to a very remarkable period, afford ing an admirable opportunity for their display the period, in short, of the " No Popery" Riots. This was the idea with which we were forcibly impressed in perusal, and which nothing less than Mr. Dickens positive assurance to the contrary would have been suffi cient to eradicate. CHARLES DICK ENS. 6 1 1 It is, perhaps, but one of a thousand instances of the disadvan tages, both to the author and the public, of the present absurd fashion of periodical novel-writing, that our author had not suffi ciently considered or determined upon any particular plot when he began the story now under review. In fact, we see, or fancy that we see, numerous traces of indecision traces Which a dexterous supervision of the complete work might have enabled him to erase. We have already spoken of the intermission of a lustrum. The opening speeches of old Chester are by far too truly gentlemanly for his subsequent character. The wife of Varden, also, is too wholesale a shrew to be converted into the quiet wife the original design was to punish her. At page 16 we read thus Solomon Daisy is telling his story : " I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling myself up, started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the other at this point of the narrative the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned to hear more distinctly." Here the design is to call the reader s attention to a point in the tale ; but no subsequent explanation is made. Again a few lines below : "The houses were all shut up, and the folks in-doors, and perhaps there is only one man in the world who knows how dark it really was." Here the intention is still more evident, but there is no result. Again, at page 54, the idiot draws Mr. Chester to the window, and directs his attention to the clothes hanging upon the lines in the yard : Look down, he said softly ; do you mark how they whisper in each other s ears, then dance and leap to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again ; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they ve been plotting ? Look at em now ! See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper cautiously together, little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the ground and watched them. I say what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know? " Upon perusal of these ravings, we at once supposed them to have allusion to some real plotting ; and even now we cannot force our selves to believe them not so intended. They suggested the opinion that Haredale himself wc^uld be implicated in the murder, and that the counsellings alluded to might be those of that gen tleman with lludge. It is by no means impossible that some such 612 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. conception wavered in the mind of the author. At page 32 we have a confirmation of our idea, when Varden endeavours to arrest the murderer in the house of his wife : " Come back come back! exclaimed the woman, wrestling with and clasping him. Do not touch him on your life. He carries other lives bcdde his own." 1 The denouement fails to account for this exclamation. In the beginning of the story much emphasis is placed upon the two female servants of Haredale, and upon his journey to and from London, as well as upon his wife. We have merely sai$, in our digest, that he was a widower, italicizing the remark. All these other points are, in fact, singularly irrelevant, in the supposition that the original design has not undergone modification. Again, at page 57, when Haredale talks of " his dismantled and beggared hearth," we cannot help fancying that the author had in view some different wrong, or series of wrongs, perpetrated by Chester, than any which appear in the end. This gentleman, too, takes extreme and frequent pains to acquire dominion over the rough Hugh this matter is particularly insisted upon by the novelist we look, of course, for some important result but the filching of a letter is nearly all that is accomplished. That Barnaby s delight in the desperate scenes of the rebellion is inconsistent with his horror of blood, will strike every reader; and this inconsistency seems to be the consequence of the after-thought upon which we have already commented. In fact, the title of the work, the ela borate and pointed manner of the commencement, the impressive description of The Warren, and especially of Mrs. Rudge, go far to show that Mr. Dickens has really deceived himself that the soul of the plot, as originally conceived, was the murder of Haredale, with the subsequent discovery of the murderer in Rudge but that this idea was afterwards abandoned, or rather suffered to be merged in that of the Popish riots. The result has been most unfavourable. That which, of itself, would have proved highly effective, has been rendered nearly null by its situation. In the multitudinous outrage and horror of the Rebellion, the one atrocity is utterly whelmed and extinguished. The reasons of this deflection from the first purpose appear to us self-evident. One of them we have already mentioned. The other is that our author discovered, when too late, that he had anticipated, and thus rendered valueless, his chief effect. This will CHARLES DICKENS. 613 be readily understood. The particulars of the assassination being- withheld, the strength, of the narrator is put forth, in the beginning of the story, to ivhet curiosity in respect to these particulars ; and, so far, he is but in proper pursuance of his main design. But from this intention he unwittingly passes into the error of exaggerating anticipation. And error though it be, it is an error wrought with consummate skill. What, for example, could more vividly enhance our impression of the unknown horror enacted, than the deep and enduring gloom of Haredale than the idiot s inborn awe of blood or, especially, than the expression of countenance so imaginatively attributed to Mrs. Rudge "the capacity for expressing terror something only dimly seen, but never absent for a moment the shadow of some look to which an instant of intense and most un utterable horror only could have given rise V But it is a condition of the human fancy that the promises of such words are irredeem able. In the notice before mentioned we thus spoke upon this topic : This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as forming the basis of the story. But this observation should not fail to be made that the anticipation must surpass the reality; that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in the denouement, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Budge, still they will not be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the artist, produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion of all. These intima tions these dark hints of some uncertain evil are often rhetorically praised as effective but are only justly so praised where there is no denouement whatever where the reader s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for itself and this is not the design of Mr. Dickens. And, in fact, our author was not long in seeing his precipitancy. He had placed himself in a dilemma from which even his high genius could not extricate him. He at once shifts the main interest and in truth we do not see what better he could have done. The reader s attention becomes absorbed in the riots, and he fails to observe that what should have been the true catastrophe of the novel, is exceedingly feeble and ineffective. A few cursory remarks : Mr. Dickens fails peculiarly in pure narration. See, for example, page 296, where the connexion of Hugh and Chester is detailed by Varden. See also in " The Curiosity-Shop," where, when the result is fully known, so many words are occupied in explaining the relationship of the brothers. The effect of the present narrative might have been materially in- 614 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. creased by confining the action within the limits of London. The " Notre Dame " of Hugo affords a fine example of the force which can be gained by concentration, or unity of place. The unity of time is also sadly neglected, to no purpose, in " Barnaby Rudge." That Rudge should so long and so deeply feel the sting of con science is inconsistent with his brutality. On page 15, the interval elapsing between the murder and Rudge s return, is variously stated at twenty-two and twenty-four years. It may be asked why the inmates of " The Warren" failed to hear the alarm-bell which was heard by Solomon Daisy. The idea of persecution by being tracked, as by blood-hounds, from one spot of quietude to another, is a favourite one with Mr. Dickens. Its effect cannot be denied. The stain upon Barnaby s wrist, caused by fright in the mother at so late a period of gestation as one day before mature parturition, is shockingly at war with all medical experience. When Rudge, escaped from prison, unshackled, with money at command, is in agony at his wife s refusal to perjure herself for his salvation is it not queer that he should demand any other salvation than lay in his heels ? Some of the conclusions of chapters see pages 40 and 100 seem to have been written for the mere purpose of illustrating tail-pieces. The leading idiosyncrasy of Mr. Dickens remarkable humour, is to be found in his translating the language of gesture, or action, or tone. For example "The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr. Parkes remarked in an under tone, shaking his head meanwhile, as who should say let no man contradict me, for I ivon t believe him, that Willet was in amazing force to-night." The riots form a series of vivid pictures never surpassed. At page 17, the road between London and the Maypole is described as a horribly rough and dangerous, and at page 97, as an uncommonly smooth and convenient one. At page 116, how comes Chester in possession of the key of Mrs. Rudge s vacated house ? Mr. Dickens English is usually pure. His most remarkable error is that of employing the adverb "directly" in the sense of " as soon as." For example " Directly he arrived, Rudge said," &c. Bulwer is uniformly guilty of the same blunder. It is observable that so original a stylist as our author should occasionally lapse into a gross imitation of what, itself, is a gross CHARLES DICKENS, 615 imitation. We mean the manner of Lamb a manner based in the Latin construction. For example "In summer time its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sigh ing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent." The wood-cut designs which accompany the edition before us are occasionally good. The copper engravings are pitiably ill-con ceived and ill-drawn ; and not only this, but are in broad contra diction of the wood-designs and text. There are many coincidences wrought into the narrative those, for example, which relate to the nineteenth of March ; the dream of Barnaby, respecting his father, at the very period when his father is actually in the house ; and the dream of Haredale previous to his final meeting with Chester. These things are meant to in sinuate a fatality which, very properly, is not expressed in plain terms but it is questionable whether the story derives more in ideality from their introduction, than it might have gained of veri similitude from their omission. The dramatis persons sustain the high fame of Mr. Dickens as a delineator of character. Miggs, the disconsolate handmaiden of Varden ; Tappertit, his chivalrous apprentice ; Mrs. Varden, her self ; and Dennis, a hangman maybe regarded as original carica tures, of the highest merit as such. Their traits are founded in acute observation of nature, but are exaggerated to the utmost admissible extent. Miss Haredale and Edward Chester are com monplaces no effort has been made in their behalf. JoeWillet is a naturally drawn country youth. Stagg is a mere make-weight. Gashford and Gordon are truthfully copied. Dolly Varden is truth itself. Haredale, Eudge, and Mrs. Rudge, are impressive only through the circumstances which surround them. Sir John Chester is, of course, not original, but is a vast improvement upon all his predecessors his heartlessness is rendered somewhat too amusing, and his end too much that of a man of honour. Hugh is a noble conception. His fierce exultation in his animal powers ; his subserviency to the smooth Chester ; his mirthful contempt and patronage of Tappertit, and his brutal yet firm courage in the hour of death form a picture to be set in diamonds. Old Willet is not surpassed by any character even among those of Dickens. 6:6 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. He is nature itself yet a step farther would have placed him in the class of caricatures. His combined conceit and obtusity are in describably droll, and his peculiar misdirected energy when aroused, is one of the most exquisite touches in all humorous painting. We shall never forget how heartily we laughed at his shaking Solomon Daisy and threatening to put him behind the fire, because the unfortunate little man was too much frightened to articulate. Varden is one of those free, jovial, honest fellows, at charity with all mankind, whom our author is so fond of depicting. And lastly, Barnaby, the hero of the tale in him we have been somewhat dis appointed. We have already said that his delight in the atrocities of the Rebellion is at variance with his horror of blood. But this horror of blood is inconsequential ; and of this we complain. Strongly insisted upon in the beginning of the narrative, it pro duces no adequate result. And here how fine an opportunity has Mr. Dickens missed ! The conviction of the assassin, after the lapse of twenty-two years, might easily have been brought about through his son s mysterious awe of blood an awe, created in the un born l>y the assassination itself and this would have been one of the finest possible embodiments of the idea which we are accustomed to attach to " poetical justice." The raven, too, intensely amusing as it is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama. Its character might have performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each might have been distinct. Each might have differed remark ably from the other. Yet between them there might have been wrought an analogical resemblance, and although each might have existed apart, they might have formed together a whole which would have been imperfect in the absence of either. From what we have here said and, perhaps, said without due deliberation (for alas ! the hurried duties of the journalist pre clude it) there will not be wanting those who will accuse us of a mad design to detract from the pure fame of the novelist. But to such we merely say in the language of heraldry, " ye should wear a plain point sanguine in your arms." If this be understood, well ; if not, well again. There lives no man feeling a deeper reverence for genius than ourself. If we have not dwelt so especially upon the high merits as upon the trivial defects of " Barnaby Budge," we CHARLES DICKENS. 6 1 7 have already given our reasons for the omission, and these reasons will be sufficiently understood by all whom we care to understand them. The work before us is not, we think, equal to the tale which immediately preceded it ; but there are few very few others to which we consider it inferior. Our chief objection has not, perhaps, been so distinctly stated as we could wish. That this fiction, or indeed that any fiction written by Mr. Dickens, should be based in the excitement and maintenance of curiosity we look upon as a mis conception, on the part of the writer, of his own very great yet very peculiar powers. He has done this thing well, to be sure he would do anything well in comparison with the herd of his con temporariesbut he has not done it so thoroughly well as his high and just reputation would demand. We think that the whole book has been an effort to him solely through the nature of its design. He has been smitten with an untimely desire for a novel path. The idiosyncrasy of his intellect would lead him, naturally, into the most fluent and simple style of narration. In tales of ordinary sequence he may and will long reign triumphant. He has a talent for all things, but no positive genius for adaptation, and still less for that metaphysical art in which the souls of all mysteries lie. " Caleb Williams" is a far less noble work than " The Old Curiosity- Shop ;" but Mr. Dickens could no more have constructed the one than Mr. Godwin could have dreamed of the other. LONGFELLOW S BALLADS,* " TL y a parier? says Chamfort, " que toute idee publique, toute -I convention recue. est une sottise, car elle a con-venue au plus grand nombre" One would be safe in wagering that any given public idea is erroneous, for it has been yielded to the clamour of the majority ; and this strictly philosophical, although somewhat French assertion, has especial bearing upon the whole race of what are termed maxims and popular proverbs ; nine- tenths of which are the quintessence of folly. One of the most de plorably false of them is the antique adage, JDe gustibus non est disputandum there should be no disputing about taste. Here * Ballads and other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Author of "Voices of the Night," "Hyperion," etc: Second Edition. John Owen : Cambridge. 6i8 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. the idea designed to be conveyed is that any one person has as just a right to consider his own taste the true, as has any one other that taste, in itself, in short, is an arbitrary something, amenable to no law, and measurable by no definite rules. It must be confessed, however, that the exceedingly vague and impotent treatises which are alone extant, have much to answer for as regards confirming the general error. Not the least important service which, hereafter, mankind will owe to Phrenology, may, perhaps, be recognised in an analysis of the real principles, and a digest of the resulting laws of taste. These principles, in fact, are as clearly traceable, and these laws as readily susceptible of system as are any whatever. In the meantime, the insane adage above mentioned is in no respect more generally, more stupidly, and more pertinaciously quoted than by the admirers of what is termed the "good old Pope," or the " good old Goldsmith school " of poetry, in reference to the bolder, more natural, and more ideal compositions of such authors as Coetlogon and Lamartine* in France ; Herder, Korner, and Uhland in Germany ; Brun and Baggesen in Denmark ; Bell man, Tegner and Nybergt in Sweden ; Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, and Tennyson in England ; Lowell and Longfellow in America. " De gustibus non" say these " good-old-school " fellows ; and we have no doubt that their mental translation of the phrase is " We pity your taste we pity everybody s taste but our own." It is our purpose to controvert the popular idea that the poets just mentioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of expression, and to other meretricious effects, their appreciation by certain readers : to demonstrate (for the matter is susceptible of demonstration) that such poetry and such alone has fulfilled the legitimate office of the muse ; has thoroughly satisfied an earnest and unquenchable desire existing in the heart of man. This volume of Ballads and Tales includes, with several brief original pieces, a Translation from the Swedish of Tegner. In attempting (what never should be attempted) a literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor Longfellow has failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He has striven to do what no man ever did well, and what, from the nature of language itself, never can be well done. Unless, for * We allude here chiefly to the "David" of Coetlogon, and only to the " Chute d un Ange " of Lamartine. t C. Julia Nyberg, author of the " Dikter von Euphrosyne." LONGFELLOW S BALLADS. 619 example, we shall come to have influx of spondees in our English tongue, it will always be impossible to construct an English hex ameter. Our spondees, or, we should say, our spondaic words, are rare. In the Swedish they are nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only " compound," " context," "footfall," and a few other similar ones. This is the difficulty ; and that it is so will become evident upon reading " The Children of the Lord s Supper," where the sole readable verses are those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to say read able as hexameters ; for many of them will read very well as mere English dactylics with certain irregularities. Much as we admire the genius of Mr. Longfellow, we are fully sensible of his many errors of affectation and imitation. His artistical skill is great, and his ideality high. But his conception of the aims of poesy is all wrong ; and this we shall prove at some future day to our own satisfaction, at least. His didactics are all out of place. He has written brilliant poems by accident ; that is to say when permitting his genius to get the better of his con^ ventional habit of thinking a habit deduced from German study. We do not mean to say that a didactic moral may not be well made the under -cur rent of a poetical thesis ; but that it can never be well put so obtrusively forth, as in the majority of his compositions. . . . We have said that Mr. Longfellow s conception of the aims of poesy is erroneous ; and that thus, labouring at a disadvantage, he does violent wrong to his own high powers ; and now the ques tion is, what are his ideas of the aims of the Muse, as we gather these ideas from the general tendency of his poems 1 It will be at once evident that, imbued with the peculiar spirit of German song (in pure conventionality) he regards the inculcation of a moral as essential. Here we find it necessary to repeat that we have reference only to the general tendency of his compositions ; for there are some magnificent exceptions, where, as if by accident, he has permitted his genius to get the better of his conventional prejudice. But didacticism is the prevalent tone of his song. His invention, his imagery, his all, is made subservient to the elucidation of some one or more points (but rarely of more than one) which he looks upon as truth. And that this mode of pro cedure will find stern defenders should never excite surprise so long as the world is full to overflowing with cant and conventicles. 620 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. There are men who will scramble on all fours through the muddiest sloughs of vice to pick up a single apple of virtue. There are things called men who, so long as the sun rolls, will greet with snuffling huzzas every figure that takes upon itself the semblance of truth, even although the figure, in itself only a " stuffed Paddy," be as much out of place as a toga on the statue of Washington, or out of season as rabbits in the days of the dog-star. . . . We say this with little fear of contradiction. Yet the spirit of our assertion must be more heeded than the letter. Mankind have seemed to define Poesy in a thousand, and in a thousand con flicting definitions. But the war is one only of words. Induction is as well applicable to this subject as to the most palpable and utilitarian ; and by its sober processes we find that, in respect to compositions which have been really received as poems, the imag inative^ or, more popularly, the creative portions alone have en sured them to be so received. Yet these works, on account of these portions, having once been so received and so named, it has happened, naturally and inevitably, that other portions totally unpoetic have not only come to be regarded by the popular voice as poetic, but have been made to serve as false standards of per fection, in the adjustment of other poetical claims. Whatever has been found in whatever has been received as a poem has been blindly regarded as ex statti poetic. And this is a species of gross error which scarcely could have made its way into any less intangi ble topic. In fact, that license which appertains to the Muse herself, it has been thought decorous, if not sagacious to indulge, in all examination of her character. . . . Poesy is a response unsatisfactory it is true but still in some measure a response, to a natural and irrepressible demand. Man being what he is, the time could never have been in which Poesy was not. Its first element is the thirst for supernal BEAUTY a beauty which is not afforded the soul by any existing collocation of earth s forms a beauty which, perhaps, no possible combination of these forms would fully produce. Its second element is the attempt to satisfy this thirst by novel combinations among those forms of beauty which already exist or by novel combinations of those combinations ivhich our predecessors, toiling in chase of the same phantom, have already set in order. We thus clearly deduce the novelty, the originality, the invention, the imagination, or lastly the creation of BEAUTY, (for the terms as here employed are LONGFELLOW*S BALLADS. 621 synonymous,) as the essence of all Poesy. Nor is this idea so much at variance with ordinary opinion as, at first sight, it may appear. A multitude of antique dogmas on this topic will be found, when divested of extrinsic speculation, to be easily resoluble into the definition now proposed. We do nothing more than present tangibly the vague clouds of the world s idea. We recognise the idea itself floating, unsettled, indefinite, in every attempt which has yet been made to circumscribe the conception of " Poesy " in words. A striking instance of this is observable in the fact that no definition exists, in which either " the beautiful," or some one of those qualities which we have above designated synonymously with " creation," has not been pointed out as the chief attribute of the Muse. "Invention," however, or "imagination," is by far more commonly insisted upon. The word iroirjaiz itself (creation) speaks volumes upon this point. Neither will it be amiss here to mention Count Bielf eld s definition of poetry as "L artd exprimer les pen-sees par la fiction" With this definition (of which the philosophy is profound to a certain extent) the German terms Dichthunst, the art of fiction, and Dichten, to feign, which are used for "$>oetry " and " to make verses," are in full and remarkable ac cordance. It is, nevertheless, in the combination of the two omni* prevalent ideas that the novelty, and, we believe, the force of our own proposition is to be found. . . . The elements of that beauty which, is felt in sound, may be the mutual or common heritage of Earth and Heaven. Contenting ourselves with the firm conviction, that music (in its modifications of rhythm and rhyme) is of so vast a moment to Poesy, as never to be neglected by him who is truly poetical is of so mighty a force in furthering the great aim intended, that he is mad who re jects its assistance content with this idea, we shall not pause to maintain its absolute essentiality, for the mere sake of rounding a definition. That our definition of poetry will necessarily exclude much of what, through a supine toleration, has been hitherto ranked as poetical, is a matter which affords us not even momentary concern. We address but the thoughtful, and heed only their ap provalwith our own. If our suggestions are truthful, then " after many days" shall they be understood as truth, even though found in contradiction of all that has been hitherto so understood. If false, shall we not be the first to bid them die ? We would reject, of course, all such matters as "Armstrong on 622 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Health," a revolting production ; Pope s " Essay on Man," which may well be content with the title of an "Essay in Rhyme;" " Hudibras" and other merely humorous pieces. We do not gain say the peculiar merits of either of these latter compositions, but deny them the position held. In a notice of Brainard s Poems, we took occasion to show that the common use of a certain instrument (rhythm), had tended, more than aught else, to confound humorous verse with poetry. The observation is now recalled to corroborate what we have just said in respect to the vast effect or force of melody in itself an effect which could elevate into even momentary confusion with the highest efforts of mind, compositions such as are the greater number of satires or burlesques We have shown our ground of objection to the general themes of Professor Longfellow. In common with all who claim the sacred title of poet, he should limit his endeavours to the creation of novel moods of beauty, in form, in colour, in sound, in sentiment ; for over all this wide range has the poetry of words dominion. To what the world terms prose may be safely and properly left all else. The artist who doubts of his thesis, may always resolve his doubt by the single question " might not this matter be as well or better handled in prose ?" If it may, then is it no subject for the Muse. In the general acceptance of the term Beauty we are content to rest ; being careful only to suggest that, in our peculiar views, it must be understood as inclusive of the sublime. Of the pieces which constitute the present volume, there are not more than one or two thoroughly fulfilling the ideas we have proposed ; although the volume, as a whole, is by no means so chargeable with didacticism as Mr. Longfellow s previous book. We would mention as poems nearly true, " The Village Black smith f " The Wreck of the Hesperus," and especially " The Skeleton in Armour." In the first-mentioned we have the beauty of simple-mindedness as a genuine thesis ; and this thesis is in imitably handled until the concluding stanza, where the spirit of legitimate poesy is aggrieved in the pointed antithetical deduction of a moral from what has gone before. In " The Wreck of the Hesperus" we have the beauty of child-like confidence and inno cence, with that of the father s stern courage and affection. But, with slight exception, those particulars of the storm here detailed are not poetic subjects. Their thrilling horror belongs to prose, in which it could be far more effectively discussed, as Professor L ONGFELL WS BALLADS. 623 Longfellow may assure himself at any moment by experiment. There are points of a tempest which afford the loftiest and truest poetical themes points in which pure beauty is found, or, better still, beauty heightened into the sublime, by terror. But when we read, among other similar things, that " The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes," we feel, if not positive disgust, at least a chilling sense of the in appropriate. In the " Skeleton in Armour," we find a pure and perfect thesis artistically treated. We find the beauty of bold courage and self-confidence, of love and maiden devotion, of reck less adventure, and finally of life-contemning grief. Combined with all this, we have numerous points of beauty apparently in sulated, but all aiding the main effect or impression. The heart is stirred, and the mind does not lament its mal-instruction. The metre is simple, sonorous, well-balanced, and fully adapted to the subject. Upon the whole, there are few truer poems than this. It has but one defect an important one. The prose remarks prefacing the narrative are really necessary. But every work of art should contain within itself all that is requisite for its own comprehension. And this remark is especially true of the ballad. In poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled to include, in one comprehensive survey, the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is pleased, if at all, with particular passages ; and the sum of his pleasure is com pounded of the sums of the pleasurable sentiments inspired by these individual passages in the progress of perusal. But, in pieces of less extent, the pleasure is unique, in the proper accep tation of this term the understanding is employed, without diffi culty, in the contemplation of the picture as a whole ; and thus its effect will depend, in great measure, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent parts, and es pecially upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel the unity or totality of interest. But the practice of prefixing explanatory passages is utterly at variance with such unity. By the prefix, we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem, or some hint, historic fact, or suggestion, is thereby afforded, not included in the body of the piece, which, without the hint, is incomprehen sible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the reader must 624 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. revert, in mind at least, to the prefix, for the necessary explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the prefix, the interest is divided between the prefix and the paraphrase. In either instance the totality of effect is destroyed. Of the other criginal poems in the volume before us, there is none in which the aim of instruction, or truth, has not been too obviously substituted for the legitimate ami, beauty. We have heretofore taken occasion to say that a didactic moral might be hap pily made the under-current of a poetical theme, and we have treated this point at length, in a review of Moore s " Alciphron ; " but the moral thus conveyed is invariably an ill effect when ob truding beyond the upper-current of the thesis itself. Perhaps the worst specimen of this obtrusion is given us by our poet in " Blind Bartimeus," and the " Goblet of Life," where, it will be observed the sole interest of the upper-current of meaning depends upon its relation or reference to the under. What we read upon the surface would be vox et preterea nihil in default of the moral beneath. The Greek finales of " Blind Bartimeus" are an affectation altogether inexcusable. What the small, second hand, Gibbon-ish pedantry of Byron introduced, is unworthy the imitation of Longfellow. Of the translations we scarcely think it necessary to speak at all. We regret that our poet will persist in busying himself about such matters. His time might be better employed in original con ception. Most of these versions are marked with the error upon which we have commented. This error is, in fact, essentially Ger manic. " The Luck of Edenhall," however, is a truly beautiful poem ; and we say this with all that deference which the opinion of the " Democratic Keview" demands. This composition appears to us one of the very finest. It has all the free, hearty, obvious movement of the true ballad-legend. The greatest force of lan guage is combined in it with the richest imagination, acting in its most legitimate province. Upon the whole, we prefer it even to the " Sword-Song" of Korner. The pointed moral with which it terminates is so exceedingly natural so perfectly fluent from the incidents that we have hardly heart to pronounce it in ill taste. We may observe of this ballad, in conclusion, that its subject is more physical than is usual in Germany. Its images are rich rather in physical than in moral beauty. And this tendency in Song, is the true one, It is chiefly, if we are not mistaken LONGFELLOW S BALLADS. 625 it is chiefly amid forms of physical loveliness (we use the word forms in its widest sense as embracing modifications of sound and colour) that the soul seeks the realization of its dreams of BEAUTY. It is to her demand in this sense especially, that the poet, who is wise, will most frequently and most earnestly respond. " The Children of the Lord s Supper" is, beyond doubt, a true and most beautiful poem in great part, while, in some particulars, it is too metaphysical to have any pretension to the name. We have already objected, briefly, to its metre the ordinary Latin or Greek Hexameter dactyls and spondees at random, with a spondee in conclusion. We maintain that the hexameter can never be introduced into our language, from the nature of that language itself. This rhythm demands, for English ears, a preponderance of natural spondees. Our tongue has few. Not only does the Latin and Greek, with the Swedish, and some others, abound in them ; but the Greek and Roman ear had become reconciled (why or how is unknown) to the reception of artificial spondees that is to say, spondaic words formed partly of one word and partly of another, or from an excised part of one word. In short, the ancients were content to read as they scanned, or nearly so. It may be safely prophesied that we shall never do this ; and thus we shall never admit English hexameters. The attempt to introduce them, after the repeated failures of Sir Philip Sidney, and others, is, perhaps, somewhat discreditable to the scholarship of Professor Longfellow. The "Democratic Review," in saying that he has triumphed over difficulties in this rhythm, has been deceived, it is evident, by the facility with which some of these verses may be read. In glancing over the poem, we do not observe a single verse which can be read, to English ears, as a Greek hexameter. There are many, however, which can be well read as mere English dactylic verses ; such, for example, as the well-known lines of Byron, commencing "Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle." These lines (although full of irregularities) are, in their perfection, formed of three dactyls and a caesura just as if we should cut short the initial verse of the Bucolics thus "Tityre | tu. patu | lae recu | bans " The " myrtle," at the close of Byron s line, is a double rhyme, and must be understood as one syllable. 40 626 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Now a great number of Professor Longfellow s hexameters are merely these dactylic lines, continued for two feet. For example (l Whispered the | race of the | flowers and | merry on | balancing | branches." In this example, also, " branches," which is a double ending, must be regarded as the ceesura, or one syllable, of which alone it has the force. As we have already alluded, in one or two regards, to a notice of these poems which appeared in the " Democratic Review," we may as well here proceed with some few further comments upon the article in question with whose general tenour we are happy to agree. The Review speaks of "Maidenhood" as a poem, "not to be understood but at the expense of more time and trouble than a song can justly claim." We are scarcely less surprised at this opinion from Mr. Langtree than we were at the condemnation of "TheLuckofEdenhall." " Maidenhood" is faulty, it appears to us, only on the score of its theme, which is somewhat didactic. Its meaning seems sim plicity itself. A maiden on the verge of womanhood, hesitating to enjoy life (for which she has a strong appetite) through a false idea of duty, is bidden to fear nothing, having purity of heart as her lion of Una. What Mr. Langtree styles " an unfortunate peculiarity" in Mr Longfellow, resulting from " adherence to a false system," has really been always regarded by us as one of his idiosyncratic merits. " In each poem," says the critic, " he has but one idea, which, in the progress of his song, is gradually unfolded, and at last reaches its full development in the concluding lines ; this singleness of thought might lead a harsh critic to suspect intellectual barrenness." It leads us, individually, only to a full sense of the artistical power and knowledge of the poet. We confess that now, for the first time, we hear unity of conception objected to as a defect. But Mr. Langtree seems to have fallen into the singular error of supposing the poet to have absolutely but one idea in each of his ballacts. Yet how " one idea" can be " gradually unfolded" without other ideas, is, to us, a mystery of mysteries. Mr. Longfellow, very properly, has but one leading idea which forms the basis of his poem ; but to the aid and development of this one there are innumerable others, of which the rare excellence is, that all are in keeping, that none L ONGFELL WS BALLADS. 627 could be well omitted, that each tends to the one general effect. It is unnecessary to say another word upon this topic. In speaking of " Excelsior," Mr. Langtree (are we wrong in attributing the notice to his very forcible pen 1) seems to labour under some similar misconception. " It carries along with it," says he, " a false moral which greatly diminishes its merit in our eyes. The great merit of a picture, whether made with the pencil or pen, is its truth ; and this merit does not belong to Mr. Longfellow s sketch. Men of genius may, and probably do, meet with greater difficulties in their struggles with the world than their fellow-men who are less highly gifted; but their power of overcoming obstacles is proportionably greater, and the result of their laborious suffering is not death but immortality." That the chief merit of a picture is its truth, is an assertion de plorably erroneous. Even in Painting, which is, more essentially than Poetry, a mimetic art, the proposition cannot be sustained. Truth is not even the aim. Indeed it is curious to observe how very slight a degree of truth is sufficient to satisfy the mind, which acquiesces in the absence of numerous essentials in the thing de picted. An outline frequently stirs the spirit more pleasantly than the most elaborate picture. We need only refer to the compositions of Flaxman and of Retzsch. Here all details are omitted nothing can be farther from truth. Without even colour the most thrilling effects are produced. In statues we are rather pleased than dis gusted with the want of the eyeball. The hair of the Venus de Me- dicis was gilded. Truth indeed ! The grapes of Zeuxis as well as the curtain of Parrhasius were received as indisputable evidence of the truthful ability of these artists but they were not even classed among their pictures. If truth is the highest aim of either Painting or Poesy, then Jan Steen was a greater artist than Angelo, and Crabbe is a more noble poet than Milton. But we have not quoted the observations of Mr. Langtree to deny its philosophy ; our design was simply to show that he has misunderstood the poet. " Excelsior " has not even a remote ten dency to the interpretation assigned it by the critic. It depicts the earnest upward impulse of the soul an impulse not to be sub dued even in Death. Despising danger, resisting pleasure, the youth, bearing the banner inscribed " Excelsior /" (higher still !) struggles through all difficulties to an Alpine summit. Warned to be content with the elevation attained, his cry is still u Excel- 402 628 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. sior !" and even in falling dead on the highest pinnacle, his cry is still "Excelsior!" There is yet an immortal height to be sur^ mounted an ascent in Eternity. The poet holds in view the idea of never-ending progress. That he is misunderstood is rather the misfortune of Mr. Langtree than the fault of Mr. Longfellow. There is an old adage about the difficulty of one s furnishing an auditor both with matter to be comprehended and brains for its comprehension. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,* [HE reputation of the author of "Twice-Told Tales" has been confined, until very lately, to literary society ; and I have not been wrong, perhaps, in citing him as the ex ample, par excellence, in this country, of the privately-admired and publicly-unappreciated man of genius. Within the last year or two, it is true, an occasional critic has been urged, by honest in dignation, into very warm approval. Mr. Webber, for instance (than whom no one has a keener relish for that kind of writing which Mr. Hawthorne has best illustrated), gave us, in a late num ber of "The American Review," a cordial and certainly a full tribute to his talents ; and since the issue of the " Mosses from an Old Manse," criticisms of similar tone have been by no means infre quent in our more authoritative journals. I can call to mind few reviews of Hawthorne published- before the Mosses." One I remember in "Arcturus" (edited by Matthews and Duyckinck) for May, 1841 ; another in the " American Monthly" (edited by Hoffman and Herbert) for March, 1838; a third in the ninety-sixth number of the " North American Review." These criticisms, how ever, seemed to have little effect on the popular taste at least, if we are to form any idea of the popular taste by reference to its expression in the newspapers, or by the sale of the author s book. It was never the fashion (until lately) to speak of him in any sum mary of our best authors. The daily critics would say, on such occasions, " Is there not * Twioe-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. James Munroe & Co., Boston. 1842. Mosses from an Old Manse. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Wiley & Putnam, New York. 1846. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 623 Irving and Cooper, and Bryant, and Paulding, and Smith V* or, " Have we not Halleck and Dana, and Longfellow, and Thomp son ]" or, " Can we not point triumphantly to our own Sprague, Willis, Channing, Bancroft, Prescott, and Jenkins V but these un answerable queries were never wound up by the name of Hawthorne. Beyond doubt, this inappreciation of him on the part of the pub lic arose chiefly from the two causes to which I have referred from the facts that he is neither a man of wealth nor a quack ; but these are insufficient to account for the whole effect. No small portion of it is attributable to the very marked idiosyncrasy of Mr. Haw thorne himself. In one sense, and in great measure, to be peculiar is to be original, and than the true originality there is no higher literary virtue. This true OP commendable originality, however, implies not the uniform, but the continuous peculiarity a peculi arity springing from ever-active vigour of fancy better still if from ever-present force of imagination, giving its own hue, its own character to everything it touches, and, especially, self-impelled to touch everything. It is often said, inconsiderately, that very original writers always fail in popularity that such and such persons are too original to be comprehended by the mass. "Too peculiar" should be the phrase, " too idiosyncratic." It is, in fact, the excitable, undisci plined and child-like popular mind which most keenly feels the original. The criticism of the Conservatives, of the hackneys, of the cul tivated old clergymen of the " North American Review," is precisely the criticism which condemns, and alone condemns it. " It be- cometh not a divine," saith Lord Coke, " to be of a fiery and sala- mandrine spirit." Their conscience allowing them to move nothing themselves, these dignitaries have a holy horror of being moved. " Give us quietude" they say. Opening their mouth with proper caution, they sigh forth the word " Itepose." And this is, indeed, the one thing they should be permitted to enjoy, if only upon the Christian principle of give and take. The fact is, that if Mr. Hawthorne were really original, he could not fail of making himself felt by the public. But the fact is, he is not original in any sense. Those who speak of him as original, mean nothing more than that he differs in his manner or tone, and in h?s choice of subjects, from any author of their acquaintance their acquaintance not extending to the German Tieck, whose 630 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. manner, in some of his works, is absolutely identical with that habitual to Hawthorne. But it is clear that the element of the literary originality is novelty. The element of its appreciation by the reader is the reader s sense of the new. Whatever gives him a new and insomuch a pleasurable emotion, he considers original, and whoever frequently gives him such emotion, he considers an origi nal writer. In a word, it is by the sum total of these emotions that he decides upon the writer s claim to originality. I may observe here, however, that there is clearly a point at which even novelty itself would cease to produce the legitimate originality, if we judge this originality, as we should, by the effect designed : this point is that at which novelty becomes nothing novel; and here the artist, to preserve his originality, will subside into the commonplace. No one, I think, has noticed that, merely through inattention to this mat ter, Moore has comparatively failed in his " Lalla Rookh." Few readers, and indeed few critics, have commended this poem for originality and, in fact, the effect, originality, is not produced by it yet no work of equal size so abounds in the happiest originali ties, individually considered. They are so excessive as, in the end, to deaden in the reader all capacity for their appreciation. These points properly understood, it will be seen that the critic (unacquainted with Tieck) who reads a single tale or essay by Haw thorne, may be justified in thinking him original ; but the tone, or manner, or choice of subject, which induces in this critic the sense of the new will, if not in a second tale, at least in a third and all subsequent ones not only fail of inducing it, but bring about an exactly antagonistic impression. In concluding a volume, and more especially in concluding all the volumes of the author, the critic will abandon his first design of calling him " original," and content himself with styling him " peculiar." With the vague opinion that to be original is to be unpopular, I could, indeed, agree, were I to adopt an understanding of origi nality which, to my surprise, I have known adopted by many who have a right to be called critical. They have limited, in a love for mere words, the literary to the metaphysical originality. They re gard as original in letters only such combinations of thought, of incident, and so forth, as are, in fact, absolutely novel. It is clear, however, not only that it is the novelty of effect alone which is worth consideration, but that this effect is best wrought, for the end of all ictitious, composition, pleasure, by shunning rather than by seeking NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 631 tlie absolute novelty of combination. Originality, thus understood, tasks and startles the intellect, and so brings into undue action the faculties to which, in the lighter literature, we least appeal. And thus understood, it cannot fail to prove unpopular with the masses, who, seeking in this literature amusement, are positively offended by instruction. But the true originality true in respect of its purposes is that which, in bringing out the half-formed, the re luctant, or the unexpressed fancies of mankind, or in exciting the more delicate pulses of the heart s passion, or in giving birth to some universal sentiment or instinct in embryo, thus combines with the pleasurable effect of apparent novelty, a real egotistic delight. The reader, in the case first supposed (that of the absolute novelty), is excited, but embarrassed, disturbed, in some degree even pained at his own want of perception, at his own folly in not having him self hit upon the idea. In the second case, his pleasure is doubled. He is filled with an intrinsic and extrinsic delight. He feels and intensely enjoys the seeming novelty of the thought, enjoys it as really novel, as absolutely original with the writer and himself. They two, he fancies, have, alone, of all men, thought thus. They two have, together, created this thing. Henceforward there is a bond of sympathy between them a sympathy which irradiate every subsequent page of the book. There is a species of writing which, with some difficulty, may be admitted as a lower degree of what I have called the true original. In its perusal, we say to ourselves, not " how original this is !" nor " here is an idea which I and the author have alone entertained," but " here is a charmingly obvious fancy," or sometimes even, " here is a thought which I am not sure has ever occurred to my self, but which, of course, has occurred to all the rest of the world." This kind of composition (which still appertains to a high order) is usually designated as " the natural." It has little external resem blance, but strong internal affinity to the true original, if, indeed, as I have suggested, it is not of this latter an inferior degree. It is best exemplified, among English writers, in Adclison, Irving, and Hawthorne. The " ease" which is so often spoken of as its distin guishing feature, it has been the fashion to regard as ease in appear ance alone, as a point of really difficult attainment. This idea, however, must be received with some reservation. The natural style is difficult only to those who should never intermeddle with it to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the under- 6^2 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. standing, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should be that which, at any given point or upon any given topic, would be the tone of the great mass of humanity. The author who, after the manner of the North Americans, is merely at all times quiet, is, of course, upon most occasions, merely silly or stupid, and has no more right to be thought " easy" or " natural" than has a cockney exquisite, or the sleeping beauty in the wax-works. The "peculiarity," or sameness, or monotone of Hawthorne, would, in its mere character of " peculiarity," and without refer ence to what is the peculiarity, suffice to deprive him of all chance of popular appreciation. But at his failure to be appreciated, we can, of course, no longer wonder, when we find him monotonous at decidedly the worst of all possible points at that point which, having the least concern with Nature, is the farthest removed from the popular intellect, from the popular sentiment, and from the popular taste. I allude to the strain of allegory which completely overwhelms the greater number of his subjects, and which in some measure interferes with the direct conduct of absolutely all. In defence of allegory (however, or for whatever object em ployed), there is scarcely one respectable word to be said. Its best appeals are made to the fancy that is to say, to our sense of adaptation, not of matters proper, but of matters improper for the purpose, of the real with the unreal ; having never more of intelligible connection than has something with nothing, never half so much of effective affinity as has the substance for the shadow. The deepest emotion aroused within us by the happiest allegory, as allegory, is a very, very imperfectly satisfied sense of the writer s ingenuity in overcoming a difficulty we should have preferred his not having attempted to overcome. The fallacy of the idea that allegory, in any of its moods, can be made to enforce a truth that metaphor, for example, may illustrate as well as embellish an argument could be promptly demonstrated ; the converse of the supposed fact might be shown, indeed, with very little trouble but these are topics foreign to my present purpose. One thing is clear, that if allegory ever establishes a fact, it is by dint of overturning a fiction. Where the suggested meaning runs through the obvious one in a very profound under-current, so as never to interfere with the upper one without our own volition, so as never to show itself unless called to the surface, there only, for the propey \ises of fictitious narrative, is it available at all. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 633 Under the best circumstances, it must always interfere with that unity of effect which, to the artist, is worth all the allegory in the world. Its vital injury, however, is rendered to the most vitally im portant point in fiction that of earnestness or verisimilitude. That " The Pilgrim s Progress" is a ludicrously over-rated book, owing its seeming popularity to one or two of those accidents in critical literature which by the critical are sufficiently well understood, is a matter upon which no two thinking people disagree ; but the pleasure derivable from it, in any sense, will be found in the direct ratio of the reader s capacity to smother its true purpose, in the direct ratio of his ability to keep the allegory out of sight, or of his inability to comprehend it. Of allegory properly handled, judiciously subdued, seen only as a shadow or by suggestive glimpses, and making its nearest approach to truth ;in a not ob trusive and therefore not unpleasant appositencst, the " Undine" of De La Motte Fouque is the best, and undoubtedly a very re markable specimen. The obvious causes, however, which have prevented Mr. Haw thorne s popularity, do not suffice to condemn him in the eyes of the few who belong properly to books, and to whom books, per haps, do not quite so properly belong. These few estimate an author, not as do the public, altogether by what he does, but in great measure indeed, even in the greatest measure by what he evinces a capability of doing. In this view, Hawthorne stands among literary people in America much in the same light as did Coleridge in England. The few, also, through a certain warping of the taste, which long pondering upon books as books merely never fails to induce, are not in condition to view the errors of a scholar as errors altogether. At any time these gentlemen are prone to think the public not right rather than an educated author wrong. But the simple truth is, that the writer who aims at impressing the people, is always wrong when he fails in forcing that people to receive the impression. How far Mr. Hawthorne has addressed the people at all, is, of course, not a question for me to decide. His books afford strong internal evidence of having been written to himself and his particular friends alone. There has long existed in literature a fatal and unfounded pre judice, which it will be the office of this age to overthrow the idea that the mere bulk of a work must enter largely into our estimate of its merit. I do not suppose even the weakest of the 634 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POR. Quarterly reviewers weak enough to maintain that in a book s size or mass, abstractly considered, there is anything which es pecially calls for our admiration. A mountain, simply through the sensation of physical magnitude which it conveys, does, indeed, affect us with a sense of the sublime, but we cannot admit any such influence in the contemplation even of " The Columbiad." The Quarterlies themselves will not admit it. And yet, what else are we to understand by their continual prating about " sustained effort V Granted that this sustained effort has accomplished an epic let us then admire the effort (if this be a thing admirable), but certainly not the epic on the effort s account. Common sense, in the time to come, may possibly insist upon meaturing a work of art rather by the object it fulfils, by the impression it makes, than by the time it took to fulfil the object, or by the extent of " sustained effort" which became necessary to produce the im pression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another ; nor can all the transcendentalists in Heathendom confound them. THE pieces in the volumes entitled " Twice-Told Tales," are now in their third republication, and, of course, are thrice-told. More over they are by no means all tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the term. Many of them are pure essays ; for example, " Sights from a Steeple," " Sunday at Home." " Little Annie s Ramble," " A Rill from the Town-Pump," "The Toll-Gatherer s Day," "The Haunted Mind," "The Sister Years," "Snow-Flakes," "Night Sketches/ and "Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore." I mention these matters chiefly on account of their discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of the work is distinguished. Of the Essays just named, I must be content to speak in brief. They are each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and adapation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note their leading or predominant feature, and style it repose. There is no attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought, and Mr. Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel combinations ; yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the quiet. We are soothed as we read ; and withal is a calm astonishment that ideas NA THANIEL HA WTHORNE. 635 so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of reflection which lead to no satisfactory re sult. The Essays of Hawthorne have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less of finish, while compared with the "Spectator," they have a vast superiority at all points. The " Spectator," Mr. Irving, and Hawthorne have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which I have chosen to denominate repose ; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unosten tatious expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious, unadulterated Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of all. In the essays before me the absence of effort is too obvious to be mistaken, and a strong under-cur rent of suggestion runs continuously beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness of taste, by constitu tional melancholy, and by indolence. But it is of his tales that I desire principally to speak. The tale proper, in my opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were I bidden to say how the highest genius could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own powers, I should answer, without hesita tion in the composition of a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. I need only here say, upon this topic, that in almost all classes of composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to any good pvrpose, in the perusal of a poem! This latter, if 636 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. A poem too brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring im pression. Without a certain continuity of effort without a cer tain duration or repetition of purpose the soul is never deeply moved. There must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Beranger has wrought brilliant things pungent and spirit- stiring but, like all immassive bodies, they lack momentum, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply to impress. Ex treme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism ; but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. In medio tutissi- mus ibis. Were I called upon, however, to designate that class of composi tion which, next to such a poem as I have suggested, should best fulfil the demands of high genius should offer it the most advan tageous field of exertion I should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has here exemplified it. I allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from totality. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader is at the writer s control. There are no external or extrinsic influences resulting from weariness or interruption. A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents ; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived NA THANIEL HA WTHORNE. 637 effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole com position there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed ; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem ; but undue length is yet more to be avoided. We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the poem. In fact, while the rhythm of this latter is an essential aid in the development of the poem s highest idea the idea of the Beautiful the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to the development of all points of thought or expression which have their basis in Truth. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain oi: Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely more numerous, and more appre ciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and expression (the ratio cinative, for example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts ; we allude, of course, to rhythm. It may be added here, par parenthese, that the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is labouring at a great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those tales of effect, many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of " Black- wood." The impressions produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were relished by every man of genius ; although there were found many men of genius who con demned them without just ground. The true critic will but 638 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means most advantageously applicable. We have very few American tales of real merit we may say, indeed, none, with the exception of "The Tales of a Traveller" of Washington Irving, and these " Twice-Told Tales " of Mr. Haw thorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigour and originality; but in general, his compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sen timent of Art. Articles at random are, now and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously compared with the best effusions of the British magazines ; but, upon the whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of literature. Of Mr. Hawthorne s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent cliques which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at the earliest oppor tunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly commend than these " Twice-Told Tales." As Americans, we feel proud of the book. Mr. Hawthorne s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagina tion, originality a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is posi tively worth all the rest. But the nature of the originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in no velty of tone as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original in all points. It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these tales ; we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful. " Wakefield" is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea a well-known incident is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and residing in cognito, for twenty years in her immediate neighbourhood. Some thing of this kind actually happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthorne s tale lies in the analysis of the motives which musfr. or might have impelled the husband to such folly, in the first in stance, with the possible causes of his perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been constructed. "The NA THANIEL HA WTHORNE, 63 ) Wedding Knell" is full of the boldest imagination an imagination fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production. " The Minister s Black Veil " is a masterly composition of which the sole defect is that to the rabble its ex quisite skill will be caviare. The obvious meaning of this article will be found to smother its insinuated one. The moral put into the mouth of the dying minister will be supposed to convey the true import of the narrative; and that a crime of dark dye (having reference to the " young lady ") has been committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author will perceive. " Mr. Higginbotham s Catastrophe" is vividly original and managed most dexterously. " Dr. Heidegger s Experiment " is exceedingly well imagined, and executed with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it. " The White Old Maid" is objection able, even more than the " Minister s Black Veil," on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import. "The Hollow of the Three Hills" we would quote in full, had we space ; not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but as affording an excellent example of the author s pecu liar ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonder fully heightened his effect by making the ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient intelli gence. Throughout this article also, the artist is conspicuous not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every w r ord tells, and there is not a word which does not tell. In " Howe s Masquerade " we observe something which resem bles a plagiarism but which may be a very flattering coincidence of thought. We quote the passage in question. " With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor. * Villain, unmuffie yourself/ cried he; 640 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. you pass no farther ! The figure, without blenching a hair s breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and lowered the cape of the cloak from his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, and let fall his sword upon the floor." See vol. ii., p. 20. The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe ; but in an article called "Wil liam Wilson," one of the " Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," we have not only the same idea, but the same idea similarly pre sented in several respects. We quote a paragraph, which, our readers may compare with what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the immediate particulars of resemblance. " The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. -A large mirror, it appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible before : and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me. Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not even iden tically mine own. His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them, upon the floor. " Vol. ii., p. 57. Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general con ceptions identical, but there are various points of similarity. In each case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In each there is a quarrel that is to say, angry words pass between the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall upon the floor. The " villain, un- muffle yourself," of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56, of " William Wilson." I must hasten to conclude this paper with a summary of Mr. Hawthorne s merits and demerits. He is peculiar and not original unless in those detailed fancies and detached thoughts which his want of general originality will deprive of the appreciation due to them, in preventing them for ever reaching the public eye. He is infinitely too fond of allegory, and can never hope for popularity so long as he persists in it. This he will not do, for allegory is at war with the whole tone of his nature, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 641 which disports itself never so well as when escaping from the mysticism of his Goodman Browns and White Old Maids into the hearty, genial, but still Indian-summer sunshine of his Wakefields and Little Annie s Rambles. Indeed, his spirit of " metaphor-run- mad " is clearly imbibed from the phalanx and phalanstery atmo sphere in which he has been so long struggling for breath. He has not half the material for the exclusiveness of authorship that he possesses for its universality. He has the purest style, the finest taste, the most available scholarship, the most delicate humour, the most touching pathos, the most radiant imagination, the most con summate ingenuity ; and with these varied good qualities he has done well as a mystic. But is there any one of these qualities which should prevent his doing doubly as well in a career of honest, upright, sensible, prehensible and comprehensible things ] Let him mend his pen, get a bottle of visible ink, come out from the Old Manse, cut Mr. Alcott, hang (ii possible) the editor of " The Dial," and throw out of the window to the pigs all his odd numbers of " The North American Review." THE POETIC PRINCIPLE, X speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be pfll either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By " minor poems " I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether right fully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, a long poem," is simply a flat contra diction in terms. I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inas much as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this eleyating excitement. But all excitements 642 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. are, through, a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of ex citement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags fails a revulsion ensues and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such. There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in recon ciling the critical dictum that the " Paradise Lost " is to be de voutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity its totality of effect or impression we read it (as would be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitement and depres sion. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical pre- judgment can force us to admire ; but if, upon completing the work, we read it again ; omitting the first book that is to say, commencing with the second we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we before condemned that damnable which we had previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity : and this is precisely the fact. In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics ; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is of the supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in reality which I doubt it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again. That the extent of a poetical work is, cceteris paribus, the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propo sition sufficiently absurd yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admira- THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 643 tion from these saturnine pamphlets ! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeur of even " The Colum- biad." Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so im pressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollok by the poundbut what else are we to infer from their continual prating about " sustained effort V If, by " sustained effort," any little gentleman has accom plished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort if this indeed be a thing commendable but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort s account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art, rather by the impression it makes by the effect it produces than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of " sustained effort " which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom con found them. By-and-by, this proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths. On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while, ROW and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring ; but, in general, they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention ; and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind. A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depress ing a poem in keeping it out of the popular view is afforded by the following exquisite little serenade : " I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me who knows how ? To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 412 644 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. "The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream j The nightingale s complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, 0, beloved as thou art ! " 0, lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast ; Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last !" Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines yet no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination, will be appreciated by all but by none so thoroughly as by him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved, to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night. One of the finest poems by Willis the very best, in my opinion, which he has ever written has, no doubt, through this same de fect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the critical than in the popular view. "The shadows lay along Broadway, Twas near the twilight-tide And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk d she ; but, viewlessly, Walk d spirits at her side. " Peace charm d the street beneath her feet, And Honour charm d the air ; And all asti looked kind on her, And call d her good as fair For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. ** She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo But honour d well are charms to sell, If priests the selling do. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 645 " Now walking there was one more fair A slight girl, lily-pale ; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail Twixt Want and Scorn she walk d forlorn, And nothing could avail. " No mercy now can clear her brow For this world s peace to pray ; For, as love s wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman s heart gave way ! But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway !" In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has written so many mere " verses of society." The lines are not only richly ideal, but full of energy ; while they breathe an earnestness an evident sincerity of sentiment for winch we look in vain throughout all the other works of this author. While the epic mania while the idea that, to merit in poetry, prolixity is indispensable has, for some years past, been gradually dying out of the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity we find it succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolera ted, but one which, in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in the corruption of our poetical literature than all its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral ; and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea jand we Bostonians, very especially, have developed it in full, f "\fe have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem s sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and force : but the simple fact is, that, would we but permit our selves to look into our own souls, we should immediately there dis cover that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified more supremely noble than this very poem this poem^er se this poem which is a poem and nothing more this poem written solely for the poem s sake. With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I would, nevertheless, limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would limit to enforce them I would not enfeeble 646 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. them by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is so indispensable in Song, is precisely all that with which she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox, to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal differences between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious distinctions, we have the pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which, in the mind, it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme ; but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues themselves. Nevertheless,we find the offices of the trio marked with a sufficient distinction, fjust as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Eeason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms : waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity her disproportion her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious in a word, to Beauty. An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odours, and sen timents amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colours, and odours, and sentiments, a duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of de scription, of the sights, and sounds, and odours, and colours, and sentiments, which greet him in common with all mankind he, I THE POETIC PRINCIPLE, 647 say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a some thing in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial exist ence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that Love liness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone, hiid thus when by Poetry or when by Music, the most entrancing oFthe Poetic moods we find ourselves melted into tears we weep then not as the Abbate Gravina supposes through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our^, inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, j those divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpsesj The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness this strug gle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted has given to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic. The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance very especially in Music and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be . wisely rejected is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles the creation of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels. jAnd thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetry wtfcli Music in its popuLir sense 648 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development^ The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems. To recapitulate, then : I would define, in brief, the Poetry of jfords as The Rhythmical Creati^n Gf^ Eeaidy, Its sole arbiter is ^ Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern what ever either with Duty or with Truth. A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which we recognise as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distin guished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore using the word as inclusive of the sublime I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible from their causes : no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage ; for they may subserve, incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem. I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Mr. Longfellow s "Waif:"- "The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. "I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o er me, That my soul cannot resist; THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 649 "A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. "Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. "For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life s endless toil and endeavour; And to-night I long for rest. "Head from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; " Who through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music . Of wonderful melodies. " Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. "Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. "And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away." With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than -the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the corridors of Time." The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful 656 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. insouciance of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general manner. This " ease," or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone as a point of really difficult attainment. But not so: a natural manner is difficult only to him who should never meddle with it to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The author who, after the fashion of "The North American Review," should be, upon all occasions, merely " quiet," must necessarily upon many occasions, be simply silly or stupid; and has no more right to be considered "easy," or " natural," than a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the wax- works. Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one which he entitles " June." I quote only a portion of it : "There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by, The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell ; The idle butterfly Sho.uld rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird. "And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. "I know, I know I should not see The season s glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow ; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 65* " These to their soften d hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene ; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The cii-cuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green ; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice." The rhythmical flow, here, is even voluptuous nothing could be more melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remark able manner. The intense melancholy which seems to well up, per force, to the surface of all the poet s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the soul while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless, " A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain." The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as the " Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney : "I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given, A form so fair, that, like the air, Tis less of earth than heaven. "Her every tone is music s own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows, As one may see the burden d bee Forth issue from the rose. $& WORKS OP EDGAR ALLAN POE. " Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So till her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, The idol of past years ! "Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A. sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life s, but hers. " I fill d this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon Her health ! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name." It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists, by that mag nanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing called " The North American Review." The poem just cited is especially beautiful ; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered. It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his "Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book ; whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwimiowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his reward. Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics, but I am by no means sure that the god wab in the right. I am by no means THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 653 certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly mis understood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to be come self-evident. It is not excellence if it require to be demon strated as such : and thus, to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether. Among the " Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distin guished character as a poem proper, seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning " Come, rest in this bosom." The intense energy of their expression is not sur passed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words : "Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. ." Oh ! what was love made for, if tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt s in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. " Thou hast call d me thy angel in moments of bliss, And thy angel I ll be, mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too !" It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy a distinction originating with Cole ridgethan whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines com mencing" I would I were by that dim lake" which are the com position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them, 654 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. One of the noblest and, speaking of Fancy, one of the most sin gularly fanciful of modem poets, was Thomas Hood. His " Fair Ines" had always, for me, an inexpressible charm ; " saw ye not fair Ines ? She s gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest : She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her check, And pearls upon her breast. "0 turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall d bright ; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their lighr, And breathes the love against thy check I dare not even write ! "Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper d thee so near? Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? "I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners wav d before ; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore ; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more ! " Alas, alas ! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng ; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music s wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you ve loved so long. " Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, , Nor danced so light before, . THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 655 Alns for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore ! The smile that blest one lover s heart Has broken many more !" " The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written one of the truest one of the most unexcep tionableone of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal imagina tive. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the pur poses of this Lecture. In place of it, permit me to offer the universally appreciated " Bridge of Sighs." "Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? " One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, ."Rashly importunate Gone to her death ! " Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashioii d so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! " Look .at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing j Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully ; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly ; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now, is pure womanly. " Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful ; Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. " Still for all slips of hers, One of Eve s family Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? " Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. " Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed : Love by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence, Even God s providence Seeming estranged. " Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement From garret to basement, She stood with amazement, Houseless by night. " The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch. Or the black flowing river : Mad from life s history, Glad to death s mystery, Swift to be hurl d Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! 656 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. " In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, Over the brink of it, Picture it, think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! " Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion d so slenderly, Young and so fair ! " Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly ! " Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. " Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest, Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving with meekness Her sins to her Saviour J" The vigour of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos, The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem. Among the minor poems of Lord Byron, is one which has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves : " Though the day of my destiny s over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find ; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee. " Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine ; And when winds ai^e at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, . It is that they bear me from thee. " Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain it shall not be its slave. THE, POE TI c PRINCIPLE. 65 7 There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn They may torture, but shall not subdue me Tis of thee that I think not of them. * { Though human, thou didst not deceive me* Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never coiildst shake, Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, t was not to defame rne, Nor mute, that the world might belie. " Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one If my soul was not fitted to prize it, Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me, And more than I once could foresee, I have found that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. " From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all : In the desert a fcmntain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee." Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difficult, the versi fication could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever en gaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he still retains the unwavering love of woman. From Alfred Tennyson although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived I have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets not because the impressions he produces are, at x all times, the most profound not because the poetical excitement / which he induces is, at all times, the most intense but because it ^ is, at all times, the most ethereal in other words, the most elevat ing and the most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, eartliy. What I am about to read is from his last long poem, "The Princess"; 42 65$ WORKS OF >GAR ALLAN POE. " Tears, idle tears, I know not what they meaiij Tears from the depth of some divine despair Else in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under world, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. " Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken d birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. " Dear as remember d kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy f eign d On lips that are for others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; Death in Life, the days that are no more." Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavoured to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the Soul quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart or of that Truth which is the satis faction of the Reason. For, in regard to Passion, alas ! its tendency is to degrade, rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on the con trary Love the true, the divine Eros the Uranian, as dis tinguished from the Dionaean Venus is unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we experience, at once, the true poetical effect but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest. We shall reach, however, more immediately, a distinct conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognises the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that sLina in Heaven in. the volutes of the flower in the THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 6~$ clustering of low shrubberies in the waving of the grain-fields in the slanting of tall Eastern trees in the blue distance of moun tainsin the grouping of clouds in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks in the gleaming of silver rivers in the repose of seques tered lakes in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds in the harp of ^Eolus in the sighing of the night- wind in the repining voice of the forest in the surf that complains to the shore in the fresh breath of the woods in the scent of the violet in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth in the suggestive odour that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts in all un worldly motives in all holy impulses in all chivalrous, generous, and self -sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman in the grace of her step in the lustre of her eye in the melody of her voice in her soft laughter in her sigh in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning en dearments in her burning enthusiasms in her gentle charities in her meek and devotional endurances but above all ah, far above all he kneels to it he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty of her love. Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem- one very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and is called " The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to ap preciate the real excellence of the poem. To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy, with the soul of the old cavalier. " Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, And don your helmes amaine : Death s couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish tears shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt s in our hand, Heart-whole we ll part, and no whit sigho For the fayrest of the land ; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye, Our business is like men to tight, And hero -like to die 1 422 060 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION, IHAELES DICKENS, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once made of the mechanism of " Barnaby Kudge," says" By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his Caleb Williams backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had been done." I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of Godwin and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens idea but the author of " Caleb Williams " was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its denouement before any thing be attempted with the pen. It is only with the denouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention. There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of construct ing a story. Either history affords a thesis .or one is suggested by an incident of the day or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative designing, generally, to fill in with descrip tion, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent. I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest I say to myself, in the first place, " Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone afterward looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 66 1 I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would that is to say, who could detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compo sitions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers poets in especial prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy an ecstatic intuition and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought at the true purposes seized only at the last moment at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable at the cautious selections and rejections at the painful erasures and interpolations in a word, at the wheels and pinions the tackle for scene-shifting the step-ladders, and demon-traps the cock s feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio. I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to. nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions ; and, since the interest of an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select " The Raven " as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with, the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem. Let us dismiss, as irrelevanTTto the poem, per se, the circum stance or say the necessity which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. 662 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. We commence, then, with this intention. The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, cceteris paribus^ no poet can afford to dispense with any~ tiling that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones that ij to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by ele vating, the soul ; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the " Paradise Lost" is essentially prose a succession of poetical excitements in terspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect. It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art the limit of a single sitting and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as " Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be ad vantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit in other words, to the excitement or elevation again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing ; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the in tended effect : this, with one proviso that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all. Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight. My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed ; and here I may as well observe that, throughout tyhe construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 663 the work universally appreciable, j I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul not of intellect, or of lieaTt^ upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating " the beautiful." Now E designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is most readily attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Pas sion a homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast but the true artist will always con trive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predomi nant aim ; and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question re ferred to the tone of its highest manifestation and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, 664 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note* in the construction of the poem some pivot upon which the whole struc ture might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects or more properly points, in the theatrical sense I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employ ment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its im pression upon the force of monotone both in sound and .thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity of repe tition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought : that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of appli* cation in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary : the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt : and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with / as the most producible consonant. The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became neces sary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Never more." In fact, it was the very first which presented itself. THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 665 The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word " nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being I did not fail to per ceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a now-reasoning creature capable of speech ; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone. I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven the bird of ill omen monotonously repeating the one word, " Nevermore," at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object supremeneM, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself " Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal under standing of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death was the obvious reply. " And when," I said, " is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is obvious "When it most closely allies itself to Beauty : the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover." I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a- Raven continuously repeating the word " Nevermore." I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the application of the word repeated ; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore" that I could make this first query a commonplace one the second less so the third still less, and so on until at length the lover, startled from his 666 W02WS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word itself by its frequent repetition and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character queries whose solution he has passionately at heart propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture propounds them not alto gether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his question as to receive from the expected " Never more" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query that query to which " Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer that query in reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair. Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning at the end, where all works of art should begin for it was here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza : " Prophet ! said I,, thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore? .Quoth the Raven, Nevermore. " I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seri ousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover and, secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, 1 should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect. And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION . 667 this has been neglected, in versification, is one of the most unac countable things in the world. Admitting that there is little pos sibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation. Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the " Raven." The former is trochaic the latter is octa- meter acatalectic, alternating with, heptameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrame ter catalectic. Less pedantically the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short : the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds) the third of eight the fourth of seven and a half the fifth the same the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what originality the "Raven" has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration. The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing to gether the lover and the Raven and the first branch of this con sideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident : it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concen trated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place. I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had fre quented it. The room is represented as richly furnished this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the sub^ ject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. 668 WORK S OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird and the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader s curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-f ancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked. I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven s seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber. I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage it being under stood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholar ship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself. About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible is given to the Raven s entrance. He comes in " with many a flirt and flutter." " Not the least obeisance made he not a moment stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of Lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. " In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out : " Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 1 Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night s Plutonian shore ? Quoth the Raven, Nevermore. " Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore j For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet ivas blessed ivith seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as Nevermore. " THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 669 The effect of the denouement being thus provided for, I imme diately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound serious ness : this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with the line, "But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only," etc. From this epoch the lover no longer jests no longer sees any thing even of the fantastic in the Raven s demeanour. He speaks of him as a " grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the " fiery eyes " burning into his " bosom s core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover s part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader to bring the mind into a proper frame for the denouement which is now brought about as rapidly and as directly as possible. With the denouement proper with the Raven s reply, " Never more," to the lover s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another world the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits of the accountable of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word " Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams the chamber- window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird s wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor s de meanour, demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, " Nevermore " a word which finds immediate echo in the melan choly heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl s repetition of "Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to pro pound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer " Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self- torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious 670 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real. But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an array of incident^ there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invari ably required first, some amount of complexity, *r more properly^ adaptation ; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow from a colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the excess of the suggested meaning it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current of the theme which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendent- alists. Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines " Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my ctodr! Quoth the Raven, Nevermore ! It will be observed that the words, " from out my heart/ involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer " Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emble matical of Mournful and ^ever-ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen : " And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon s that is dreaming, And the lamplight o er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted nevermore I" PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 671 PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE, |N the internal decoration, if not in the external archi tecture of their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France, meliora probant, deteriora sequuntur the people are too much a race of gad-abouts to maintain those house hold properties of which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeter minate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are all curtains a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are preposterous. How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aris tocracy of blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the display of wealth has here to take the place and per form the office of the heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a transition readily understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought to merge in simple shoiv our notions of taste itself. To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves or of taste as. regards the proprietor : this for the reason, first, that wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting a nobility ; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood, confining itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than affects that mere costliness in which a parvenu rivalry may at any time be successfully attempted. The people will imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general, to be the sole means of aristocratic distinction ; and the populace, looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. lii short, the cost of an article of furniture has at length come to 672 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. be, with us, nearly the sole test of its merit in a decorative point of view and this test, once established, has led the way to many analogous errors readily traceable to the one primitive folly. There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist than the interior of what is termed in the United States that is to say, in Appallachia a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would of the keeping of a picture for both the picture and the room are amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of art ; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber. A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation to use. Very often the eye is offended by their inartistical arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent too uninterruptedly continued or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines occur, they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision, the appearance of many a line apartment is utterly spoiled. Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place ; and an extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstances, irreconcilable with good taste the proper quantum, as well as the proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect. Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary man ; a good judge of a carpet must be a genius. Yet we have heard discoursing of carpets, with the air "d un mouton qui reve" fellows who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of their own moustaches. Every one knows that a large floor may have a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of small yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preter-pluperfect tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching pat tern a carpet should not be bedizened out like a Biccaree Indian PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. 673 all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock s feathers. In brief dis tinct grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, of no meaning, are here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or representa tions of well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, curtains, or tapestry, or ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be rigidly Arabesque. As for those antique floor cloths still occasionally seen in the dwellings of the rabble cloths of huge, sprawling, and radiating devices, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among which no ground is intelligible these are but the wicked invention of a race of time-servers and money-loverschildren of Baal and worshippers of Mammon Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established joint-stock com panies to whirl it by steam. Glare is a leading error in the philosophy of American house hold decoration an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion of taste just specified. We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass. The former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady light offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or what artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp proper the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted it, partly on account of iisflashiness, but principally on account of its greater cost, is a good commentary on the pro position with which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of these gaudy abominations is unequal, broken, and painful. It alone is sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its influence. Female loveli ness, in especial, is more than one-half disenchanted beneath its evil eye. In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false prin ciples. Its leading feature is glitter and in that one word how much of all that is detestable do we express ! Flickering, unquiet 43 d;4 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. lights are sometimes pleasing to children and idiots always so but in the embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth, even strong steady lights are inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle in our most fashionable drawing- rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly. The rage for glitter because its idea has become, as we before observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract has led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine thing. Now the slightest thought will be suf ficient to convince anyone who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface, a thing always and obviously un pleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity : and the evil is here aggravated not in merely direct proportion with the augmentationbf its sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show, a room of no shape at all. If we add to this evil, the at tendant glitter upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizened, would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be startled into an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture. As we grow rich our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among our aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia) for the spirituality of a British boudoir. But we have seen apartments in the tenure of Americans of moderate means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the or- molu d cabinets of our friends across the water. Even now, there is present to our mind s eye a small and not ostentatious chamber with whose decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies PHIL SO PHY OF FURNITURE, 6 7 5 asleep on a sofa the weather is cool the time is midnight : we will make a sketch of the room during his slumber. It is oblong some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth a shape affording the best (ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of furniture. It has but one door by no means a wide one which is at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor have deep recesses and open on an Italian verandah. Their panes are of a crimson-tinted glass, set in rose wood framings, more massive than usual. They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a deep network of gold, and lined with the silver tissue, which is the material of the exterior blind. There are no cornices ; but the folds of the whole fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy appearance) issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown open also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping it, and resolving itself readily into a knot ; no pins or other such devices are ap parent. The colours of the curtains and their fringe the tints of crimson and gold appear everywhere in profusion, and determine the character of the room. The carpet of Saxony material is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the ground, and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a succession of short irregular curves one occasionally overlaying the other. The walls are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many paintings relieve the expanse of the paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an imaginative cast such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or four female heads, of an ethereal beauty portraits in the manner of Sully. The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no " brilliant effects." Repose speaks in all. Not one is of small size. Diminutive paintings give that spotty look to a room, which is the blemish of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad but not deep, and richly 43-2 676 WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. carved, without being dulled or filigreed. They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls, and do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to better advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of the chamber is injured. But one mirror and this not a very large one is visible. In shape it is nearly circular and it is hung so that a reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary sitting-places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two light conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed altogether of the richest gold- threaded marble, is placed near one of the sofas. This is also without cover the drapery of the curtains has been thought suf ficient. Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred magnificently bound books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground-glass shade, which depends from the lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a tran quil but magical radiance over all THE END. SILLING, PK1NTKB AND gTBBEOTYPEB, OTJLDFORD, SUBKEY, Maroh, 1873. CHATTO & WINDUS S LIST OF BOOKS. IMPORTANT VOLUME OF ETCHINGS. Folio, cloth extra, l us. 6d. Examples of Contemporary Art. ETCHINGS from Representative Works by living English and Foreign Artists. Edited, with Critical Notes, by J. COMYNS CARR. " It would not le easy to meet with a more sumptuous, and at the same time a more tasteful and instructive drawing-room book" NONCONFORMIST. Folio, half- bound boards, India proofs, 2is. William Blake : ETCHINGS from his Works. By WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. With descriptive Text. " The lest side of Blake s work is given here, and ntnA-es a really attractive volume, which all can enjoy . . . The etching is of the best kind, more refined and delicate than tJie original work." SATURDAY REVIEW. NEW VOLUME OF HUNTING SKETCHES. Oblong 4to, half-bound boards, 2is. Canters in Crampshire. By G. BOWERS. I. Gallops from Gorseborough. II. Scrambles with Scratch Packs. III. Studies with Stag Hounds. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY Square Svo, cloth, extra gilt, gilt edges, with Coloured Frontispiece and numerous Illustrations, los. 6d. The Art of Beauty. By Mrs. H. R. HAWEIS, Author of " Chaucer for Children." With nearly One Hundred Illustrations by the Author. "A most interesting book, f Till of valuable hints and suggestions. . . , . IJ young ladies -would b^lt lend their ears for a little to Mrs. Haweis, we are quite sure that it ivouldresult in their being at once more tasteful, more happy, and more healthy than they new often are, with theirfalse hair, high lieels, tight corsets, and ever so much else, of the same sort." NONCONFORMIST. Crown 4to, containing 24 Plates beautifully printed in Colours, with descriptive Text, cloth extra, gilt, 6s. ; illustrated boards, $s. 6d. AIsop s Fables Translated into Human Nature. By C. H. BENNETT. " For fun and frolic the new version of j&sop s Fables must bear away the palm. There are plenty of grown-up children -who like to be amused ; aiut if this new "version of old stories does not amuse them they must be very dull indeed, and their situation one -much to be commiserated. " MORNING POST. Crown Svo, cloth extra, with 639 Illustrations, 7.5-. 6</., a New Edition (uniform with "The Englishman s House") of A Handbook of Architectural Styles. Translated from the German of A. ROSENGARTEN by W. COLLETT-SANDARS. With 639 Illustrations. Crown Svo, Coloured Frontispiece and Illustrations, cloth gilt, is. 6d. A History of Advertising, From the Earliest Times. Illustrated by Anecdotes, Curious Specimens, and Biographical Notes of Successful Advertisers. By HENRY SAMPSON. Crown Svo, with Portrait and Facsimile, cloth extra, is. 6d. Art emits Ward s Works : The Works of CHARLES FARRER BROWNE, better known as ARTEMUS WARD. With Portrait, facsimile of Handwriting, &c. * The author combines the powers of Thackeray with those of A Ibert Smith. The salt is rubbed in with a native hand one which has the gift of tickling." SATURDAY REVIEW. Small 4to, green and gold, 6s. 6d. ; gilt edges, is. 6d. As Pretty as Seven, and other Popular German Stories. Collected by LUDWIG BECHSTEIN. With Additional Tales by the Brothers GRIMM, and 100 Illustrations by RICHTER. CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, "js. 6d. A Handbook of London Bankers ; With some Account of their Predecessors, the Early Goldsmiths ; together with Lists of Bankers, from 1677 to 1876. By F. G. HILTON PRICE. " An interesting and unpretending little work, which may prove a useful con tribution towards the history of a difficult subject. . . . Mr, Price s anecdotes are entertaining. .... There is something fascinating, almost romantic, in the details given us of Child s Bank. . . . There is a great deal of amusing reading and some valuable information in this book." SATURDAY REVIEW. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9-r. Bards ley s Our English Surnames : Their Sources and Significations. By CHARLES WAREING BARDSLEY, M.A. Second Edition, revised throughout, con siderably enlarged, and partially rewritten. " Mr. Bardsley has faithfully consulted the original medieval documents and works from which the origin and development of surnames can alone be satis factorily traced. He has furnished a valuable contribution to the literature of surnames, and we ho/>e to hear more of him. in this field." TIMES. Demy 8vo, illustrated, is. each. Henry Blackburn s Art Handbooks : Academy Notes for 1877. With 143 Illustrations of the Principal Pictures at Bur lington House : more than One Hundred being Facsimiles of Sketches drawn by the Artists. \* ACADEMY NOTES for 1875 and 1876 may also be had, price One Shilling each. " We at once take an opportunity of offering our thanks, as well as those of all visitors to the Exhibition, to Mr. Blackburn for his very carefully executed review of the Academy pictures, illustrated by some 100 -woodcut memoranda of the principal pictures, almost half of them from the pencils of the painters themselves. A cheaper, prettier, or more convenient souvenir ,of the Exhibition it -would be difficult to coticeive and unreasonable to ^.r A*:/. "TIMES. Pictorial Notes in the National Gallery. THE BRITISH SCHOOL. With upwards of 100 Illustrations of the principal Pictures at Trafalgar Square ; forming a complete Catalogue of the British Section. The Old Masters at Trafalgar Square. With numerous Illustrations. [In the press. Pictures at South Kensington. With 80 Illustrations of the Raphael Cartoons, the Sheep shanks Collection, &c. Grosvenor Notes, 1878. With numerous Illustrations, contributed by the Artists themselves. [/ the press. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY Demy 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, iSs. Baker s Clouds in the East: Travels and Adventures on the Perso-Turkoman Frontier. By VALENTINE BAKER. With Maps and Illustrations, coloured and plain, from Original Sketches. Second Edition, revised and corrected. " A man who not only thinks for himself, but who has risked his life in order to gain information. . . . A most graphic and lively narrative of travels and adven tures which have nothing of the commonplace about them." LEEDS MERCURY. Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt, with Illustrations, js. 6d. Boccaccio s Decameron ; or, Ten Days Entertainment. Translated into English, with an Introduction by THOMAS WRIGHT, Esq., M.A., F.S.A. With Portrait, and STOTHARD S beautiful Copperplates. Price One Shilling Monthly, with Four Illustrations. Belgrama Magazine. That the purpose with which " BELGRA VIA " was originated has been fulfilled, is shown by the popularity that has attended it since its first appear ance. Aiming, as may be inferred from its name, at supplying the most refined and cultivated section of London society with intellectual pabulum suited to its requirements, it sprang at once into public favour, and has since remained one of the most extensively read and widely circtilated of periodicals. In passing into new hands it has experienced no structural change or modification. In creased energy and increased capital have been employed in elevating it to the highest standard of excellence, but all the features that had won public apprecia tion have been retained, and the Magazine still seeks its principal support in the homes of Belgraviet. As the means through which the writer most readily reaches the heart of the general public, and in consequence as the most important of aids in the establishment of morals and the formation of character, fiction still remains a principal feature in the Magazine. Two Serial Stories accordingly run through its pages ; supplemented by short Stories, Novelettes, and narrative or dramatic Sketches : whilst Essays, Social, Biographical, and Humorous ; Scientific Dis coveries brought to the level of popular comprehension, and treated with a light touch; Poetry, of the highest character; and records of Adventure and Travel, form the remaining" portion of the contents. Especial care is now bestowed upon the illustrations, of which no fewer than four appear in each number. Beyond the design of illustrating the article they accompany, these aim at main taining a position as works of art, both as regards drawing and engraving- In short, whatever claims the Magazine before possessed to favour have now been enhanced, and the Publishers can but leave the result to a public that has seldom failed to appreciate all earnest, persistent, and well-directed efforts for its amuse ment and benefit. V The THIRTY-FOURTH Volume of BELGRA VI A (which in cludes the BELGRAVIA ANNUAL), elegantly bound in crimson cloth, full gilt side and back, gilt edges, price Js. 6d., is now ready. Handsome Cases for binding the volume can be had at 2s. each. THIRD EDITION, crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt, 6s. Boudoir Ballads : Vers de Societe. By J. ASHBY-STERRY. CHATTO dr> WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 5 Imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt and gilt edges, price 2is. per volume. Beautiful Fibres by British Artists ; A Gathering of Favourites from our Picture Galleries. In 2 Series. The FIRST SERIES including Examples by WILKIE, CON STABLE, TURNER, MULREADY, LANDSEER, MACLISE, E. M. WARD, FRITH, Sir JOHN GILBERT, LESLIE, ANSDELL, MARCUS STONE, Sir NOEL PATON, FAED, EYRE CROWE, GAVIN O NEIL, and MADOX BROWN. The SECOND SERIES containing Pictures by ARMYTAGE, FAED, GOODALL, HEMSLEY, HORSLEY, MARKS, NICHOLLS, Sir NOEL PATON, PICKERSGILL, G. SMITH, MARCUS STONE, SOLOMON, STRAIGHT, E. M. WARD, and WARREN. All engraved on Steel in the highest style of Art. Edited, with Notices of the Artists, by SYDNEY ARMYTAGE, M.A. This book is well got up, and good engravings by Jeens, Lumb Stocks, and others, bring back to us pictures of Royal Academy Exhibitions of past years, TIMES. Crown 8vo, with Photographic Portrait, cloth extra, gs. Blanchard s (Laman) Poems. Now first Collected. Edited, with a Life of the Author (includ ing numerous hitherto unpublished Letters from Lord LYTTON, LAMB, DICKENS, ROBERT BROWNING, and others), by BLAN- CHARD JERROLD. " His humorous verse is much of it admirable sparkling -with genuine * esprit , and as polished and pointed as Praed s" SCOTSMAN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7^. 6d. Bret Harte s Select IVorks, in Prose and Poetry. With Introductory Essay by J. M. BEL- LEW, Portrait of the Author, and 50 Illustrations. " Not many months before my friend s death, he had sent me tivo sketches of a young- American -writer (Bret Harte), far away in California ( The Out" casts of Poker Flat, and another), in which he had found such subtle strokes of character as he had not anywhere else in late years discovered ; the manner resembling himself, but the matter fresh to a degree that had surprised him ; the painting in all respects masterly, and the wild rude thing painted a quite wonderful reality. I have rarely known him more honestly moved" FORSTHR S LIFE OF DICKENS Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 7-y. 6d. Brand s Observations on Popular Anti- qtiities, chiefly Illustrating the Origin of our Vulgar Customs, Ceremonies, and Superstitions. With the Additions of Sir HENRY ELLIS. An entirely New and Revised Edition, with fine full-page Illustrations. BOOKS PUBLISHED Y Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with full-page Portraits, 43. 6d. Brews fer s (Sir David) Martyrs of Science. Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with Astronomical Plates, qs. 6d. Brewster s (Sir David) More Worlds than One, the Creed of the Philosopher and the Hope of the Christian. Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Brillat-Sauarin s Gastronomy as a Fine Art; or, The Science of Good Living. A Translation of the " Physiologic du Gout " of BRILLAT-SAVARIN, with an Intro duction and Explanatory Notes by R. E. ANDERSON, M.A. " We have read it with rare enjoyment, just as we have delightedly read and re-read q-uaint old Izaak. Mr. Anderson has done his work of translation daintily, with true appreciation of the points in his original; and altogether, though lafe, we cannot but believe that this book will be welcomed and much read by many." NONCONFORMIST. Demy 8vo, profusely Illustrated in Colours, price 3OJ 1 . The British Flora Medica : A History of the Medicinal Plants of Great Britain. Illustrated by a Figure of each Plant, COLOURED BY HAND. By BENJAMIN H. BARTON, F.L.S., and THOMAS CASTLE, M.D., F.R.S. A New Edition, revised, condensed, and partly re-written, by JOHN R. JACKSON, A. L. S., Curator of the Museums of Economic Botany, Royal Gardens, Kew. THE STOTHARD BUNYAN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, js. 6d. Bunyan s Pilgrim s Progress. Edited by Rev. T. SCOTT. With 17 beautiful Steel Plates by STOTHARD, engraved by GOODALL ; and numerous Woodcuts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with Illustrations, 7J-. 6d. Byron s Letters and Journals. With Notices of his Life. By THOMAS MOORE. A Reprint of the Original Edition, newly revised, Complete in One thick Volume, with Twelve full-page Plates. " We have read this book with the greatest pleasiire. Considered merely as a composition, it deserves to be classed among the best specimens of English prose which our age has produced. . . . The style is agreeable, clear, and manly, and when it rises into eloquence, rises "without effort or ostentation. It would be difficult to name a book which exhibits more kindness, fairness, and modesty" MACAULAY, in the EDINBURGH REVIEW. CHATTO & W INDUS, PICCADILLY. Demy 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 31.?. 6d. Canova s Works in Sculpt lire and Model ling. 150 Plates, exquisitely engraved in Outline by MOSES, and printed on an India tint. With Descriptions by the Countess ALBRIZZI, a Biographical Memoir by CICOGNARA, and Por trait by WORTHINGTON. The fertility of this master s resources is amazing, and the manual labour expended on his -works would have worn out many an ordinary workman. The outline engravings are finely executed. The descriptive notes are discriminating, and in the main exact." SPECTATOR. Two Vols. imperial 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, the Plates beautifully printed in Colours, ,3 35-. Catlin s Illustrations of the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians: the re sult of Eight Years of Travel and Adventure among the Wildest and most Remarkable Tribes now existing. Containing 360 Coloured Engravings from the Author s original Paintings. Small 4to, cloth gilt, with Coloured Illustrations, IQJ. 6d. Chaucer for Children : A Golden Key. By Mrs. H. R. HAWEIS. With Eight Coloured Pictures and numerous Woodcuts by the Author. " It must not only take a high place among the Christmas and New Year looks of this season, but is also of permanent value as an introduction to the study of Chaucer, whose works, in selections of some kind or other, are now text-books in every school that aspires to give sound instruction in English." ACADEMY. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, with Coloured Illustrations and Maps, 24^. Cope s History of the Rifle Brigade (The Prince Consort s Own), formerly the 95th. By Sir WILLIAM H. COPE, formerly Lieutenant, Rifle Brigade. " This latest contribution to the history of the British army is a tvork of the most varied information regarding the distinguished regiment whose life it nar rates, and also of facts interesting to the student in military affairs. . . . Great credit is due to Sir W. Cope for the patience and labour, extending over many years, which he has given to the work. . . . In many cases well-exe cuted plans of actions are given. 1 MORNING POST. " Even a bare record of a corps which has so often been under fire, and has borne a part in important engagements all over the world, could not prove otherwise than full of matter acceptable to the military reader" ATHEN^UM. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, Two very thick Volumes, Is. 6d. each. Cruikshank s Comic Almanack. Complete in Two SERIES : The FIRST from 1835 to 1843 ; the SECOND from 1844 to 1853. A Gathering of the BEST HUMOUR of THACKERAY, HOOD, MAYHEW, ALBERT SMITH, A BECK- ETT, ROBERT BROUGH, &c. With 2000 Woodcuts and Steel Engravings by CRUIKSHANK, HINE, LANDELLS, &c. 8 BOOKS PUBLISHED BV Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 7^. 6d. Colman s Humorous Works: " Broad Grins," "My Nightgown and Slippers," and other Humorous Works, Prose and Poetical, of GEORGE COLMAN. With Life by G. B. BUCKSTONE, and Frontispiece by HOGARTH. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with Portraits, 7-r. 6d. Creasy s Memoirs of Eminent Etonians; with Notices of the Early History of Eton College. By Sir EDWARD CREASY, Author of "The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World." A New Edition, brought down to the Present Time, with 13 Illustrations. "A nnv edition of Creasy s Etonians will be -welcome. The book was a favourite a quarter of a century ago, and it has maintained its refutation. The lvalue of this new edition is enhanced by the fact that Sir Edward Creasy has added to it several memoirs of Etonians who have died since the first edition, appeared. The work is eminently interesting." SCOTSMAN. To be Completed in Twenty-four Parts, quarto, at 5.?. each, profusely illustrated by Coloured and Plain Plates and Wood Engravings, Cyclopaedia of Costume ; or, A Dictionary of Dress Regal, Ecclesiastical, Civil, and Mili tary from the Earliest Period in England to the reign of George the Third. Including Notices of Contemporaneous Fashions on the Continent, and preceded by a General History of the Costumes of the Principal Countries of Europe. By J. R. PLANCHE, Somerset Herald. A Prospectus will be sent upon application. Part XIX. now ready. "A most readable and interesting ivorkar.d it can scarcely be consulted in vain, whether the reader is in search for information as to military, court, ecclesiastical, legal, or professional costume. . . . All the chromo-lithographs, and most of the woodcut illustrations the latter amounting to several thousands are very elaborately executed; and the work forms a livre de luxe which renders it equally suited to the library and the ladies drawing-room." TIMES. %* Part XIV. contains the Completion of the DICTIONAR Y, which, as Vol. I. of the Book, forms a Complete Work in itself. This volume may now be had, handsomely bound in half red morocco, gilt top, price 3 13-r. 6d. Cases for binding the volume may also be had, price $s. each. The remaining Parts will be occupied by the GENERAL HISTOR Y OF THE COSTUMES OF EUROPE, arranged Chronologically. Demy 8vo, half-bound morocco, 2is. Dibdin s Bibliomania ; or, Book-Madness : A Bibliographical Romance. With numerous Illustrations. A New Edition, with a Supplement, including a Key to the Assumed Characters in the Drama. CHATTO & WIND US, PICCADILLY. Parts I. to XII. now ready, 2U. each. Cussans History of Hertfordshire. By JOHN E. CUSSANS. Illustrated with full-page Plates on Copper and Stone, and a profusion of small Woodcuts. " Mr. Cussans has, from sources not accessible to Clutterbuck, made most valuable additions to the manorial history of the county from the earliest period downwards, cleared up many doubtful points, and given original details con cerning -various subjects untouched or imperfectly treated by tltat writer. The pedigrees seem to have been construct edivith great care, and are a valuable addition to the genealogical history of the county. Mr. Cussans appears to have done his work conscientiously, and to have spared neither time, labour, nor expense to render his volumes worthy of ranking in the highest class of County Histories* 1 ACADEMY. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 12s. 6d. Doran s Memories of mtr Great Towns. With Anecdotic Gleanings concerning their Worthies and their Oddities. By Dr. JOHN DORAN, F.S.A. SECOND EDITION, demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with Illustrations, iSs. Dunrcweris The Great Divide: A Narrative of Travels in the Upper Yellowstone in the Summer of 1874. By the EARL of DUN RAVEN. With Maps and numerous striking full-page Illustrations by VALENTINE W. BROMLEY. " There has not for a long time appeared a better book of travel than Lord Dunraverfs The Great Divide. . . . The book is full of clever observation t and both narrative and illustrations are thoroughly good." ATHENAEUM. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 2<$s. Dodge s (Colonel) The Htmting Grounds of the Great West : A Description of the Plains, Game, and Indians of the Great North American Desert. By RICHARD IRVING DODGE, Lieutenant-Colonel of the United States Army. With an Introduction by WILLIAM BLACKMORE; Map, and numerous Illustrations drawn by ERNEST GRISET. " This magnificent volume is one of the most able and most interesting works which has ever proceeded from an American pen, while its freshness is equal to that of any similar book. Colonel Dodge has chosen a subject of which he is master, and treated it with a fulness that leaves nothing more to be desired, and in a style which is charming equally for its picturesqueness and its purity." NONCONFORMIST. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with Illustrations, 6s. Emanuel On Diamonds and Precious Stones : their History, Value, and Properties ; with Simple Tests for ascertaining their Reality. By HARRY EMANUEL, F.R.G. S. With numerous Illustrations, Tinted and Plain. 10 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 7^. 6d. The Englishman s Ho^t,se : A Practical Guide to all interested in Selecting or Building a House, with full Estimates of Cost, Quantities, &c. By C. J. RICHARDSON. Third Edition. With nearly 600 Illustrations. %* This look is intended to supply a long-felt want, z/zz., a plain, non-technical account of every style of house, -with the cost and manner of building ; it gives every variety, from a workman s cottage to a nobleman s palace. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 6s. per Volume ; a few Large Paper copies (only 50 printed), at I2s. per Vol. Early English Poets. Edited, with Introductions and Annotations, by Rev. A. B. GROSART. "Mr. Grosart has spent the most laborious and the most enthusiastic care on tlie perfect restoration and preservation of the text; and it is very unlikely that any other edition of the poet can ever be called for. . . From Mr. Grosart -we alivays expect and always receive the final results of most patient and competent scholarship" EXAMINER. 1 . Fletcher s ( Giles, B.D. ) Complete Poems: Christ s Victorie in Heaven, Christ s Victorie on Earth, Christ s Triumph over Death, and Minor Poems. With Memorial-Introduction and Notes. One Vol. 2. Dames (Sir John) Complete Poetical Works, in cluding Psalms I. to L. in Verse, and other hitherto Unpublished MSS., for tr.e first time Col lected and Edited. With Me morial-Introduction and Notes. Two Vols. 3 . Herrick s (Robert) Hes- perides, Neble Numbers, and Complete Collected Poems. With Memorial-Introduction and Notes, Steel Portrait, Index of First Lines, and Glossarial Index, &c. Three Vols. 4. Sidney s (Sir Philip) Complete Poetical Works, in cluding all those in "Arcadia." With Portrait, Memorial-Intro duction, Essay on the Poetry of Sidney, and Notes. Three Vols. 5. Donne s (Dr. John) Complete Poetical Works, in cluding the Satires and various from MSS. With Memorial-In troduction and Notes. [/ the press. ",* Other volumes are in active preparation. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 6s. Fairholt s Tobacco: Its History and Associations ; with an Account of the Plant and its Manufacture, and its Modes of Use in all Ages and Countries. By F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. A New Edition, with Coloured Frontispiece and upwards of 100 Illustrations by the Author. " A very pleasant and instructive history <?f tobacco and its associations, -which ive cordially recommend alike to the -votaries and to the enemies of the tnuch- maligned but certainly not neglected weed. . . . Full of interest and in- formation."D&\v{ NEWS. CII AT 10 & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 11 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 4^. 6d. Faraday s Chemical History of a Candle. Lectures delivered to a Juvenile Audience. A New Edition. Edited by W. CROOKES, F.C.S. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, ^s. 6d. Faraday s Various Forces of Nature. A New Edition. Edited by W. CROOKES. F.C.S. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, js. 6d. Finger-Ring Lore: Historical, Legendary, and Anecdotal. Earliest Notices; Supersti tions ; Ring Investiture, Secular and Ecclesiastical ; Betrothal and Wedding Rings ; Ring-tokens ; Memorial and Mortuary Rings ; Posy- Rings; Customs and Incidents in Connection with Rings; Remarkable Rings, &c. By WILLIAM JONES, F.S. A. With Hun dreds of Illustrations of Curious Rings of all Ages and Countries. " Enters fiilly into the "whole subject, and gives an amount of information and general reading in reference thereto which is of very high interest. The book is not only a sort of history of finger-rings, but is a collection of anecdotes in connection -with them. . . . The volume is admirably illustrated , and altogether affords an amount of amusement and information which is not other* wise easily accessible." SCOTSMAN. " One of those gossiping books -which are as full of amusement as of instruc tion" ATHENAEUM. THE RUSKIN GRIMM. Square crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 6J.; gilt edges, js. 6d. German Popular Stories. Collected by the Brothers GRIMM, and Translated by EDGAR TAYLOR. Edited, with an Introduction, by JOHN RUSKIN. With 22 Illustrations after the inimitable designs of GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. Both Series Complete. " The illustrations of this volume . . . . are of quite sterling and admirable art, of a class precisely parallel in elevation to the character of the tales which they illustrate ; and the original etchings, as I have before said in the Appendix to my Elements of Drawing, were unrivalled in masterfulness of touch since Rem brandt (in some qualities of delineation, unrivalled even by him). . . . To make somewhat enlarged copies of them, looking at them through a magnifying glass, and never putting two lines where Cruikshank has put only one, would be an exer cise in decision and severe drawing -which would leave afterwards little to be learnt in schools." Extract from Introduction by JOHN RUSKIN. One Vol. crown 8vo, cloth extra, gs. Gilbert s (IV. S.) Original Plays : "A Wicked World," "Charity," "The Palace of Truth," " Pygmalion," "Trial by Jury," &c. " His workmanship is in its way perfect ; it is very sound, very even, very well sustained, and excellently balanced throughout" OBSERVER. 12 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY One Shilling Monthly, Illustrated by ARTHUR HOPKINS. The Gentleman s Magazine. Edited by SYLVANUS URBAN, Gentleman. In seeking to restore the "GENTLEMAN S MAGAZINE" to the position it formerly held, the Publishers do not lose sight of the changed conditions under which it now appears. 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" In her narrowness and her depth, in her boundless loyalty, her self-forgetting passion, that exclusiveness of love which is akin to cruelty, and the fierce humility which is vicarious pride, Learn Dundas is a striking figure. In one quality the authoress has in some measure surpassed herself ." PALL MALL GAZ. The Water dale Neighbours. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. My Enemy s Daughter. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. L inley^ Rochford. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. A Fair Saxon. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. Dear Lady Disdain. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. The Evil Eye, and other Stories. By KATHARINE s. M ACQUOID. Illustrated by THOMAS R. MACQUOID and PERCY MACQUOID. * Cameos delicately, if not very minutely or vividly, wrought, and quite finished enough to give a pleasurable sense of artistic ease and faculty. A word of com mendation is merited by the ilhistrations." ACADEMY. Number Seventeen. By HENRY KINGSLEY. Oakshott Castle. By HENRY KINGSLEY. With a Frontispiece by SHIRLEY HODSON. "A brisk and clear north wind of sentiment sentiment that braces instead of enervating blows through all his works, and makes all their readers at once healthier and more glad" SPECTATOR. Open ! Sesame ! By FLORENCE MARRYAT. Illustrated by F. A. FRASER. " A story which arouses and sustains the reader s interest to a higher degree than, perhaps, any of its author s former works." GRAPHIC. Whiteladies. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. With Illustrations by A. HOPKINS and H. WOODS. " A pleasant and readable book, written with practical ease and grace." TIMES. The Best of Husbands. By JAMES PAYN. Illustrated by J. MOYR SMITH. Fallen Fortunes. By JAMES PAYN. CHAT TO & W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 25 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS continued. Halves. By JAMES PAYN. With a Frontispiece by J. MAHONEY. Walter s Word. By JAMES PAYN. Illustrated by J. MOYR SMITH. What he Cost her. By JAMES PAYN. 41 His novels are always commendable in the sense of art. They also possess another distinct claim to our liking : the girls in them are remarkably charm ing and true to nature, as most people, we believe^ have the good fortune to observe nature represented by girls." SPECTATOR. Her Mother s Darling. By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL The Way we Live Now. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. With Illustrations. The American Senator. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. "Mr. Trollops has a trite artist s idea of toue, of colour, of harmony: his pictures are one, and seldom out of drawing ; he never strains after effect M fidelity itself in expressing English life, is never guilty oj caricature." FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. A. TROLLOPE. " Full of life, of interest, of close observation, and sympathy. . . . When Mr. Trollope paints a scene it is sure to be a scene worth painting." SATUR DAY REVIEW. Bonnd to the Wheel. By JOHN SAUNDERS. Guy Waterman. By JOHN SAUNDERS. One Against the World. By JOHN SAUNDERS. The Lion in the Path. By JOHN SAUNDERS. 4 A carefully written and beautiful story a story of goodness and truth, which is yet as interesting as though it dealt with the opposite qualities. . . . The author of this really clever story has been at great pains to -work out all its details with elaborate conscientiousness, and the result is a very vivid picture of the ways of life and habits of thought of a hundred and fifty years ago. . . Certainly a very interesting book" TIMES. Ready-Money Mortiboy. By w. BESANT and JAMES RICE. My Little Girl. By W. BESANT and JAMES RICE. The Case of Mr. Llicraft. By W. BESANT and JAMES RICE. This Son of Vulcan. By W. BESANT and JAMES RICE. With Harp and Crown. By W. BESANT and JAMES RICE. The Golden Butterfly. By W. BESANT and JAMES RICE. With a Frontispiece by F. S. WALKER. 41 The Golden Butterfly will certainly add to the happiness of mankind, for dffy anybody to read it with a gloomy countenance," TIMES. 26 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY NEW NOVEL BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY. Two vols. 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated, 2U., the SECOND EDITION of Miss Misanthrope. By JUSTIN MCCARTHY, Author of "Dear Lady Disdain," &c. With 12 Illustrations by ARTHUR HOPKINS. "/ Miss Misanthrope Mr. McCarthy has added a new and delightful portrait to his gallery of Englishwomen. . . . It is a novel "which may be sipped like choice ivine ; it is one to linger over and ponder ; to be enjoyed like fine, sweet air, or good company, for it is pervaded by a perfume of honesty and humour, of high feeling, of kindly penetrating humour, of good sense, and wide knowledge of the world, of a mind richly cultivated and amply stored. There is scarcely a page in these vohimes in which we do not find some fine remark or felicitous reflection of piercing, yet gentle and indulgent irony." DAILY NEWS. MRS. LIN TOWS NEW NOVEL. Two Vols. 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated, 2ij-., the SECOND EDITION of The World Well Lost. By E. LYNN LINTON, Author of " Patricia Kemball," &c. With 12 Illustrations by HENRY FRENCH and J. LAWSON. " We are inclined to think that in this novel Mrs. Lynn Linton has reached a higher artistic mark than in any former one." NONCONFORMIST. " If Mrs. Linton had not already won a place among our foremost living novelists, she "would have been entitled to it by her latest work of fiction a book of singularly high and varied merit. The story rivets the attention of the reader at the outset, and holds him absorbed until the close." SCOTSMAN. NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "JULIET S GUARDIAN." Three Vols., crown 8vo, 3U. 6d. Deceivers Ever. By Mrs. H. LOVETT CAMERON. Crown 8vo, red cloth, extra, $s. each. Ouida s Novels. Uniform Edition. Folle Farine. By OUIDA. Idalia. By OUIDA. Chandos. By OUIDA. Under Two Flags: B y OUIDA. Tricotrin. By OUIDA. Cecil Castlemainjs Gage. By OUIDA. Held in Bondage. By OUIDA. Pascarel. By OUIDA. Puck. By OUIDA. Dog of Flanders. By OUIDA. Strathmore. B y OUIDA. Two Wooden S/ioesRyQuivk. Slgna. ^ By OUIDA. In a Winter City. By OUIDA. Ariadne. By OUIDA. NEW NOVEL BY MR. JAMES GRANT. Shortly, Three Vols., crown 8vo, 31.?. 6d. The Lord Hermitage. By JAMES GRANT, Author of " The Romance of War," &c. CHATTO <& WIND US, PICCADILLY. 27 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. Cheap Editions of Popular Novels. [WILKIE COLLINS NOVELS may also be had in cloth limp at 2s. 6d. See, too, the PICCADILLY NOVELS,./^ Library Editiotis.~] Under the Greenwood Tree. By THOMAS HARDY. Ready-Money Mortiboy. By WALTER BESANT and JAMES RICE- Ike Golden Butterfly. By Authors of " Ready-Money Mortiboy." This Son Of Vulcan. By the Authors of " Ready-Money Mortiboy." My Little Girl. By the Authors of " Ready-Money Mortiboy." The Case of Mr. Liter aft. Authors of "Ready-Money Mortiboy. With Harp and Crown. Authors of " Ready-Money Mortiboy." The Woman in White. By WILKIE COLLINS. Antonina. By WILKIE COLLINS. Basil. By WILKIE COLLINS. Hide and Seek. By WILKIE COLLINS. The Dead Secret. By WILKIE COLLINS. 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