The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

EDGAR ALLAN POE
AN APPRECIATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a child and she was a child,
    In a kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
    I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea.
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
    And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

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

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

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

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

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

W. H. R.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

By James Russell Lowell

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO HELEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE

By N. P. Willis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FORDHAM, April 20, 1849

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

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

“Truly yours ever,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

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

“FORDHAM, January 22, 1848.

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

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

“Having thus given you the facts of the case, I leave all the rest
to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity. Gratefully, most
gratefully,

“Your friend always,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)

By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of
philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a
nature so completely unexpected—so entirely novel—so utterly
at variance with preconceived opinions—as to leave no doubt on my
mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in a
ferment, all reason and astronomy together by the ears.

It appears that on the—— day of—— (I am not
positive about the date), a vast crowd of people, for purposes not
specifically mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange
in the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was warm—unusually
so for the season—there was hardly a breath of air stirring; and the
multitude were in no bad humor at being now and then besprinkled with
friendly showers of momentary duration, that fell from large white masses
of cloud which chequered in a fitful manner the blue vault of the
firmament. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation
became apparent in the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues
succeeded; and, in an instant afterward, ten thousand faces were upturned
toward the heavens, ten thousand pipes descended simultaneously from the
corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which could be compared to
nothing but the roaring of Niagara, resounded long, loudly, and furiously,
through all the environs of Rotterdam.

The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From behind
the huge bulk of one of those sharply-defined masses of cloud already
mentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open area of blue space, a
queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid substance, so oddly shaped, so
whimsically put together, as not to be in any manner comprehended, and
never to be sufficiently admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who stood
open-mouthed below. What could it be? In the name of all the vrows and
devils in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one knew, no one
could imagine; no one—not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus Von
Underduk—had the slightest clew by which to unravel the mystery; so,
as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one to a man replaced his
pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth, and cocking up his right eye
towards the phenomenon, puffed, paused, waddled about, and grunted
significantly—then waddled back, grunted, paused, and finally—puffed
again.

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward the goodly city,
came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much smoke. In a
very few minutes it arrived near enough to be accurately discerned. It
appeared to be—yes! it was undoubtedly a species of balloon; but
surely no such balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam before. For who,
let me ask, ever heard of a balloon manufactured entirely of dirty
newspapers? No man in Holland certainly; yet here, under the very noses of
the people, or rather at some distance above their noses was the identical
thing in question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of the
precise material which no one had ever before known to be used for a
similar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the good sense of the
burghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the phenomenon, it was even
still more reprehensible. Being little or nothing better than a huge
foolscap turned upside down. And this similitude was regarded as by no
means lessened when, upon nearer inspection, there was perceived a large
tassel depending from its apex, and, around the upper rim or base of the
cone, a circle of little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept
up a continual tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse.
Suspended by blue ribbons to the end of this fantastic machine, there
hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver hat, with a brim
superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a
silver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable that many citizens of
Rotterdam swore to having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed
the whole assembly seemed to regard it with eyes of familiarity; while the
vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon sight of it, uttered an exclamation of joyful
surprise, and declared it to be the identical hat of her good man himself.
Now this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Pfaall, with three
companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about five years
before, in a very sudden and unaccountable manner, and up to the date of
this narrative all attempts had failed of obtaining any intelligence
concerning them whatsoever. To be sure, some bones which were thought to
be human, mixed up with a quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately
discovered in a retired situation to the east of Rotterdam, and some
people went so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been
committed, and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans Pfaall and
his associates. But to return.

The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended to within a
hundred feet of the earth, allowing the crowd below a sufficiently
distinct view of the person of its occupant. This was in truth a very
droll little somebody. He could not have been more than two feet in
height; but this altitude, little as it was, would have been sufficient
to destroy his equilibrium, and tilt him over the edge of his tiny car,
but for the intervention of a circular rim reaching as high as the
breast, and rigged on to the cords of the balloon. The body of the little
man was more than proportionately broad, giving to his entire figure a
rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen at all,
although a horny substance of suspicious nature was occasionally
protruded through a rent in the bottom of the car, or to speak more
properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were enormously large. His
hair was extremely gray, and collected into a queue behind. His nose was
prodigiously long, crooked, and inflammatory; his eyes full, brilliant,
and acute; his chin and cheeks, although wrinkled with age, were broad,
puffy, and double; but of ears of any kind or character there was not a
semblance to be discovered upon any portion of his head. This odd little
gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout of sky-blue satin, with tight
breeches to match, fastened with silver buckles at the knees. His vest
was of some bright yellow material; a white taffety cap was set jauntily
on one side of his head; and, to complete his equipment, a blood-red silk
handkerchief enveloped his throat, and fell down, in a dainty manner,
upon his bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions.

Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet from the
surface of the earth, the little old gentleman was suddenly seized with a
fit of trepidation, and appeared disinclined to make any nearer approach
to terra firma. Throwing out, therefore, a quantity of sand from a canvas
bag, which, he lifted with great difficulty, he became stationary in an
instant. He then proceeded, in a hurried and agitated manner, to extract
from a side-pocket in his surtout a large morocco pocket-book. This he
poised suspiciously in his hand, then eyed it with an air of extreme
surprise, and was evidently astonished at its weight. He at length opened
it, and drawing there from a huge letter sealed with red sealing-wax and
tied carefully with red tape, let it fall precisely at the feet of the
burgomaster, Superbus Von Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it up.
But the aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no
farther business to detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment to make
busy preparations for departure; and it being necessary to discharge a
portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the half dozen bags which he
threw out, one after another, without taking the trouble to empty their
contents, tumbled, every one of them, most unfortunately upon the back of
the burgomaster, and rolled him over and over no less than one-and-twenty
times, in the face of every man in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed,
however, that the great Underduk suffered this impertinence on the part of
the little old man to pass off with impunity. It is said, on the contrary,
that during each and every one of his one-and twenty circumvolutions he
emitted no less than one-and-twenty distinct and furious whiffs from his
pipe, to which he held fast the whole time with all his might, and to
which he intends holding fast until the day of his death.

In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far away above
the city, at length drifted quietly behind a cloud similar to that from
which it had so oddly emerged, and was thus lost forever to the wondering
eyes of the good citizens of Rotterdam. All attention was now directed to
the letter, the descent of which, and the consequences attending
thereupon, had proved so fatally subversive of both person and personal
dignity to his Excellency, the illustrious Burgomaster Mynheer Superbus
Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, during his
circumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon the important subject
of securing the packet in question, which was seen, upon inspection, to
have fallen into the most proper hands, being actually addressed to
himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, in their official capacities of President
and Vice-President of the Rotterdam College of Astronomy. It was
accordingly opened by those dignitaries upon the spot, and found to
contain the following extraordinary, and indeed very serious,
communication:

“To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, President and
Vice-President of the States’ College of Astronomers, in the city
of Rotterdam.

“Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble artizan, by
name Hans Pfaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows, who, with three
others, disappeared from Rotterdam, about five years ago, in a manner
which must have been considered by all parties at once sudden, and
extremely unaccountable. If, however, it so please your Excellencies, I,
the writer of this communication, am the identical Hans Pfaall himself. It
is well known to most of my fellow citizens, that for the period of forty
years I continued to occupy the little square brick building, at the head
of the alley called Sauerkraut, in which I resided at the time of my
disappearance. My ancestors have also resided therein time out of mind—they,
as well as myself, steadily following the respectable and indeed lucrative
profession of mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late
years, that the heads of all the people have been set agog with politics,
no better business than my own could an honest citizen of Rotterdam either
desire or deserve. Credit was good, employment was never wanting, and on
all hands there was no lack of either money or good-will. But, as I was
saying, we soon began to feel the effects of liberty and long speeches,
and radicalism, and all that sort of thing. People who were formerly, the
very best customers in the world, had now not a moment of time to think of
us at all. They had, so they said, as much as they could do to read about
the revolutions, and keep up with the march of intellect and the spirit of
the age. If a fire wanted fanning, it could readily be fanned with a
newspaper, and as the government grew weaker, I have no doubt that leather
and iron acquired durability in proportion, for, in a very short time,
there was not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need
of a stitch or required the assistance of a hammer. This was a state of
things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat, and, having a wife
and children to provide for, my burdens at length became intolerable, and
I spent hour after hour in reflecting upon the most convenient method of
putting an end to my life. Duns, in the meantime, left me little leisure
for contemplation. My house was literally besieged from morning till
night, so that I began to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged tiger
against the bars of his enclosure. There were three fellows in particular
who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about my door,
and threatening me with the law. Upon these three I internally vowed the
bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so happy as to get them within my
clutches; and I believe nothing in the world but the pleasure of this
anticipation prevented me from putting my plan of suicide into immediate
execution, by blowing my brains out with a blunderbuss. I thought it best,
however, to dissemble my wrath, and to treat them with promises and fair
words, until, by some good turn of fate, an opportunity of vengeance
should be afforded me.

“One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling more than
usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander about the most
obscure streets without object whatever, until at length I chanced to
stumble against the corner of a bookseller’s stall. Seeing a chair close
at hand, for the use of customers, I threw myself doggedly into it, and,
hardly knowing why, opened the pages of the first volume which came within
my reach. It proved to be a small pamphlet treatise on Speculative
Astronomy, written either by Professor Encke of Berlin or by a Frenchman
of somewhat similar name. I had some little tincture of information on
matters of this nature, and soon became more and more absorbed in the
contents of the book, reading it actually through twice before I awoke to
a recollection of what was passing around me. By this time it began to
grow dark, and I directed my steps toward home. But the treatise had made
an indelible impression on my mind, and, as I sauntered along the dusky
streets, I revolved carefully over in my memory the wild and sometimes
unintelligible reasonings of the writer. There are some particular
passages which affected my imagination in a powerful and extraordinary
manner. The longer I meditated upon these the more intense grew the
interest which had been excited within me. The limited nature of my
education in general, and more especially my ignorance on subjects
connected with natural philosophy, so far from rendering me diffident of
my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or inducing me to mistrust
the many vague notions which had arisen in consequence, merely served as a
farther stimulus to imagination; and I was vain enough, or perhaps
reasonable enough, to doubt whether those crude ideas which, arising in
ill-regulated minds, have all the appearance, may not often in effect
possess all the force, the reality, and other inherent properties, of
instinct or intuition; whether, to proceed a step farther, profundity
itself might not, in matters of a purely speculative nature, be detected
as a legitimate source of falsity and error. In other words, I believed,
and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence,
superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses
where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found.
Nature herself seemed to afford me corroboration of these ideas. In the
contemplation of the heavenly bodies it struck me forcibly that I could
not distinguish a star with nearly as much precision, when I gazed on it
with earnest, direct and undeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye
only to glance in its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that time
aware that this apparent paradox was occasioned by the center of the
visual area being less susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the
exterior portions of the retina. This knowledge, and some of another kind,
came afterwards in the course of an eventful five years, during which I
have dropped the prejudices of my former humble situation in life, and
forgotten the bellows-mender in far different occupations. But at the
epoch of which I speak, the analogy which a casual observation of a star
offered to the conclusions I had already drawn, struck me with the force
of positive conformation, and I then finally made up my mind to the course
which I afterwards pursued.

“It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed. My mind,
however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the whole night buried
in meditation. Arising early in the morning, and contriving again to
escape the vigilance of my creditors, I repaired eagerly to the
bookseller’s stall, and laid out what little ready money I possessed, in
the purchase of some volumes of Mechanics and Practical Astronomy. Having
arrived at home safely with these, I devoted every spare moment to their
perusal, and soon made such proficiency in studies of this nature as I
thought sufficient for the execution of my plan. In the intervals of this
period, I made every endeavor to conciliate the three creditors who had
given me so much annoyance. In this I finally succeeded—partly by
selling enough of my household furniture to satisfy a moiety of their
claim, and partly by a promise of paying the balance upon completion of a
little project which I told them I had in view, and for assistance in
which I solicited their services. By these means—for they were
ignorant men—I found little difficulty in gaining them over to my
purpose.

“Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife and with
the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of what property I had
remaining, and to borrow, in small sums, under various pretences, and
without paying any attention to my future means of repayment, no
inconsiderable quantity of ready money. With the means thus accruing I
proceeded to procure at intervals, cambric muslin, very fine, in pieces of
twelve yards each; twine; a lot of the varnish of caoutchouc; a large and
deep basket of wicker-work, made to order; and several other articles
necessary in the construction and equipment of a balloon of extraordinary
dimensions. This I directed my wife to make up as soon as possible, and
gave her all requisite information as to the particular method of
proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the twine into a net-work of
sufficient dimensions; rigged it with a hoop and the necessary cords;
bought a quadrant, a compass, a spy-glass, a common barometer with some
important modifications, and two astronomical instruments not so generally
known. I then took opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired
situation east of Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty
gallons each, and one of a larger size; six tinned ware tubes, three
inches in diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in length; a quantity of
a particular metallic substance, or semi-metal, which I shall not name,
and a dozen demijohns of a very common acid. The gas to be formed from
these latter materials is a gas never yet generated by any other person
than myself—or at least never applied to any similar purpose. The
secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right
belongs to a citizen of Nantz, in France, by whom it was conditionally
communicated to myself. The same individual submitted to me, without being
at all aware of my intentions, a method of constructing balloons from the
membrane of a certain animal, through which substance any escape of gas
was nearly an impossibility. I found it, however, altogether too
expensive, and was not sure, upon the whole, whether cambric muslin with a
coating of gum caoutchouc, was not equally as good. I mention this
circumstance, because I think it probable that hereafter the individual in
question may attempt a balloon ascension with the novel gas and material I
have spoken of, and I do not wish to deprive him of the honor of a very
singular invention.

“On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy
respectively during the inflation of the balloon, I privately dug a hole
two feet deep; the holes forming in this manner a circle twenty-five feet
in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being the station designed for
the large cask, I also dug a hole three feet in depth. In each of the five
smaller holes, I deposited a canister containing fifty pounds, and in the
larger one a keg holding one hundred and fifty pounds, of cannon powder.
These—the keg and canisters—I connected in a proper manner
with covered trains; and having let into one of the canisters the end of
about four feet of slow match, I covered up the hole, and placed the cask
over it, leaving the other end of the match protruding about an inch, and
barely visible beyond the cask. I then filled up the remaining holes, and
placed the barrels over them in their destined situation.

“Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot, and there
secreted, one of M. Grimm’s improvements upon the apparatus for
condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this machine, however, to
require considerable alteration before it could be adapted to the purposes
to which I intended making it applicable. But, with severe labor and
unremitting perseverance, I at length met with entire success in all my
preparations. My balloon was soon completed. It would contain more than
forty thousand cubic feet of gas; would take me up easily, I calculated,
with all my implements, and, if I managed rightly, with one hundred and
seventy-five pounds of ballast into the bargain. It had received three
coats of varnish, and I found the cambric muslin to answer all the
purposes of silk itself, quite as strong and a good deal less expensive.

“Everything being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of secrecy in
relation to all my actions from the day of my first visit to the
bookseller’s stall; and promising, on my part, to return as soon as
circumstances would permit, I gave her what little money I had left, and
bade her farewell. Indeed I had no fear on her account. She was what
people call a notable woman, and could manage matters in the world without
my assistance. I believe, to tell the truth, she always looked upon me as
an idle boy, a mere make-weight, good for nothing but building castles in
the air, and was rather glad to get rid of me. It was a dark night when I
bade her good-bye, and taking with me, as aides-de-camp, the three
creditors who had given me so much trouble, we carried the balloon, with
the car and accoutrements, by a roundabout way, to the station where the
other articles were deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I
proceeded immediately to business.

“It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was dark; there
was not a star to be seen; and a drizzling rain, falling at intervals,
rendered us very uncomfortable. But my chief anxiety was concerning the
balloon, which, in spite of the varnish with which it was defended, began
to grow rather heavy with the moisture; the powder also was liable to
damage. I therefore kept my three duns working with great diligence,
pounding down ice around the central cask, and stirring the acid in the
others. They did not cease, however, importuning me with questions as to
what I intended to do with all this apparatus, and expressed much
dissatisfaction at the terrible labor I made them undergo. They could not
perceive, so they said, what good was likely to result from their getting
wet to the skin, merely to take a part in such horrible incantations. I
began to get uneasy, and worked away with all my might, for I verily
believe the idiots supposed that I had entered into a compact with the
devil, and that, in short, what I was now doing was nothing better than it
should be. I was, therefore, in great fear of their leaving me altogether.
I contrived, however, to pacify them by promises of payment of all scores
in full, as soon as I could bring the present business to a termination.
To these speeches they gave, of course, their own interpretation;
fancying, no doubt, that at all events I should come into possession of
vast quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed, and a
trifle more, in consideration of their services, I dare say they cared
very little what became of either my soul or my carcass.

“In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently inflated.
I attached the car, therefore, and put all my implements in it—not
forgetting the condensing apparatus, a copious supply of water, and a
large quantity of provisions, such as pemmican, in which much nutriment is
contained in comparatively little bulk. I also secured in the car a pair
of pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it high
time to take my departure. Dropping a lighted cigar on the ground, as if
by accident, I took the opportunity, in stooping to pick it up, of
igniting privately the piece of slow match, whose end, as I said before,
protruded a very little beyond the lower rim of one of the smaller casks.
This manoeuvre was totally unperceived on the part of the three duns; and,
jumping into the car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me to
the earth, and was pleased to find that I shot upward, carrying with all
ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of leaden ballast, and able to
have carried up as many more.

“Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when,
roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible and tumultuous
manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke, and sulphur, and
legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and blazing metal, that my
very heart sunk within me, and I fell down in the bottom of the car,
trembling with unmitigated terror. Indeed, I now perceived that I had
entirely overdone the business, and that the main consequences of the
shock were yet to be experienced. Accordingly, in less than a second, I
felt all the blood in my body rushing to my temples, and immediately
thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst abruptly
through the night and seemed to rip the very firmament asunder. When I
afterward had time for reflection, I did not fail to attribute the extreme
violence of the explosion, as regarded myself, to its proper cause—my
situation directly above it, and in the line of its greatest power. But at
the time, I thought only of preserving my life. The balloon at first
collapsed, then furiously expanded, then whirled round and round with
horrible velocity, and finally, reeling and staggering like a drunken man,
hurled me with great force over the rim of the car, and left me dangling,
at a terrific height, with my head downward, and my face outwards, by a
piece of slender cord about three feet in length, which hung accidentally
through a crevice near the bottom of the wicker-work, and in which, as I
fell, my left foot became most providentially entangled. It is impossible—utterly
impossible—to form any adequate idea of the horror of my situation.
I gasped convulsively for breath—a shudder resembling a fit of the
ague agitated every nerve and muscle of my frame—I felt my eyes
starting from their sockets—a horrible nausea overwhelmed me—and
at length I fainted away.

“How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. It must,
however, have been no inconsiderable time, for when I partially recovered
the sense of existence, I found the day breaking, the balloon at a
prodigious height over a wilderness of ocean, and not a trace of land to
be discovered far and wide within the limits of the vast horizon. My
sensations, however, upon thus recovering, were by no means so rife with
agony as might have been anticipated. Indeed, there was much of incipient
madness in the calm survey which I began to take of my situation. I drew
up to my eyes each of my hands, one after the other, and wondered what
occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of the veins, and the
horrible blackness of the fingernails. I afterward carefully examined my
head, shaking it repeatedly, and feeling it with minute attention, until I
succeeded in satisfying myself that it was not, as I had more than half
suspected, larger than my balloon. Then, in a knowing manner, I felt in
both my breeches pockets, and, missing therefrom a set of tablets and a
toothpick case, endeavored to account for their disappearance, and not
being able to do so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now occurred to me
that I suffered great uneasiness in the joint of my left ankle, and a dim
consciousness of my situation began to glimmer through my mind. But,
strange to say! I was neither astonished nor horror-stricken. If I felt
any emotion at all, it was a kind of chuckling satisfaction at the
cleverness I was about to display in extricating myself from this dilemma;
and I never, for a moment, looked upon my ultimate safety as a question
susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I remained wrapped in the
profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of frequently
compressing my lips, putting my forefinger to the side of my nose, and
making use of other gesticulations and grimaces common to men who, at ease
in their arm-chairs, meditate upon matters of intricacy or importance.
Having, as I thought, sufficiently collected my ideas, I now, with great
caution and deliberation, put my hands behind my back, and unfastened the
large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my inexpressibles.
This buckle had three teeth, which, being somewhat rusty, turned with
great difficulty on their axis. I brought them, however, after some
trouble, at right angles to the body of the buckle, and was glad to find
them remain firm in that position. Holding the instrument thus obtained
within my teeth, I now proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I had to
rest several times before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, but it was at
length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made fast the buckle,
and the other end I tied, for greater security, tightly around my wrist.
Drawing now my body upwards, with a prodigious exertion of muscular force,
I succeeded, at the very first trial, in throwing the buckle over the car,
and entangling it, as I had anticipated, in the circular rim of the
wicker-work.

“My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an angle of
about forty-five degrees; but it must not be understood that I was
therefore only forty-five degrees below the perpendicular. So far from it,
I still lay nearly level with the plane of the horizon; for the change of
situation which I had acquired, had forced the bottom of the car
considerably outwards from my position, which was accordingly one of the
most imminent and deadly peril. It should be remembered, however, that
when I fell in the first instance, from the car, if I had fallen with my
face turned toward the balloon, instead of turned outwardly from it, as it
actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by which I was
suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge, instead of through a
crevice near the bottom of the car,—I say it may be readily
conceived that, in either of these supposed cases, I should have been
unable to accomplish even as much as I had now accomplished, and the
wonderful adventures of Hans Pfaall would have been utterly lost to
posterity, I had therefore every reason to be grateful; although, in point
of fact, I was still too stupid to be anything at all, and hung for,
perhaps, a quarter of an hour in that extraordinary manner, without making
the slightest farther exertion whatsoever, and in a singularly tranquil
state of idiotic enjoyment. But this feeling did not fail to die rapidly
away, and thereunto succeeded horror, and dismay, and a chilling sense of
utter helplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood so long accumulating in
the vessels of my head and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up my
spirits with madness and delirium, had now begun to retire within their
proper channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my
perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the
self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness was,
luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came to my rescue
the spirit of despair, and, with frantic cries and struggles, I jerked my
way bodily upwards, till at length, clutching with a vise-like grip the
long-desired rim, I writhed my person over it, and fell headlong and
shuddering within the car.

“It was not until some time afterward that I recovered myself sufficiently
to attend to the ordinary cares of the balloon. I then, however, examined
it with attention, and found it, to my great relief, uninjured. My
implements were all safe, and, fortunately, I had lost neither ballast nor
provisions. Indeed, I had so well secured them in their places, that such
an accident was entirely out of the question. Looking at my watch, I found
it six o’clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and my barometer gave a
present altitude of three and three-quarter miles. Immediately beneath me
in the ocean, lay a small black object, slightly oblong in shape,
seemingly about the size, and in every way bearing a great resemblance to
one of those childish toys called a domino. Bringing my telescope to bear
upon it, I plainly discerned it to be a British ninety four-gun ship,
close-hauled, and pitching heavily in the sea with her head to the W.S.W.
Besides this ship, I saw nothing but the ocean and the sky, and the sun,
which had long arisen.

“It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies the object
of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in mind that distressed
circumstances in Rotterdam had at length driven me to the resolution of
committing suicide. It was not, however, that to life itself I had any
positive disgust, but that I was harassed beyond endurance by the
adventitious miseries attending my situation. In this state of mind,
wishing to live, yet wearied with life, the treatise at the stall of the
bookseller opened a resource to my imagination. I then finally made up my
mind. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the world, yet
continue to exist—in short, to drop enigmas, I resolved, let what
would ensue, to force a passage, if I could, to the moon. Now, lest I
should be supposed more of a madman than I actually am, I will detail, as
well as I am able, the considerations which led me to believe that an
achievement of this nature, although without doubt difficult, and
incontestably full of danger, was not absolutely, to a bold spirit, beyond
the confines of the possible.

“The moon’s actual distance from the earth was the first thing to be
attended to. Now, the mean or average interval between the centres of the
two planets is 59.9643 of the earth’s equatorial radii, or only about
237,000 miles. I say the mean or average interval, but it must be borne in
mind that the form of the moon’s orbit being an ellipse of eccentricity
amounting to no less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis of the ellipse
itself, and the earth’s centre being situated in its focus, if I could, in
any manner, contrive to meet the moon, as it were, in its perigee, the
above mentioned distance would be materially diminished. But, to say
nothing at present of this possibility, it was very certain that, at all
events, from the 237,000 miles I would have to deduct the radius of the
earth, say 4,000, and the radius of the moon, say 1,080, in all 5,080,
leaving an actual interval to be traversed, under average circumstances,
of 231,920 miles. Now this, I reflected, was no very extraordinary
distance. Travelling on land has been repeatedly accomplished at the rate
of thirty miles per hour, and indeed a much greater speed may be
anticipated. But even at this velocity, it would take me no more than 322
days to reach the surface of the moon. There were, however, many
particulars inducing me to believe that my average rate of travelling
might possibly very much exceed that of thirty miles per hour, and, as
these considerations did not fail to make a deep impression upon my mind,
I will mention them more fully hereafter.

“The next point to be regarded was a matter of far greater importance.
From indications afforded by the barometer, we find that, in ascensions
from the surface of the earth we have, at the height of 1,000 feet, left
below us about one-thirtieth of the entire mass of atmospheric air, that
at 10,600 we have ascended through nearly one-third; and that at 18,000,
which is not far from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmounted
one-half the material, or, at all events, one-half the ponderable, body of
air incumbent upon our globe. It is also calculated that at an altitude
not exceeding the hundredth part of the earth’s diameter—that is,
not exceeding eighty miles—the rarefaction would be so excessive
that animal life could in no manner be sustained, and, moreover, that the
most delicate means we possess of ascertaining the presence of the
atmosphere would be inadequate to assure us of its existence. But I did
not fail to perceive that these latter calculations are founded altogether
on our experimental knowledge of the properties of air, and the mechanical
laws regulating its dilation and compression, in what may be called,
comparatively speaking, the immediate vicinity of the earth itself; and,
at the same time, it is taken for granted that animal life is and must be
essentially incapable of modification at any given unattainable distance
from the surface. Now, all such reasoning and from such data must, of
course, be simply analogical. The greatest height ever reached by man was
that of 25,000 feet, attained in the aeronautic expedition of Messieurs
Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a moderate altitude, even when compared with
the eighty miles in question; and I could not help thinking that the
subject admitted room for doubt and great latitude for speculation.

“But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any given altitude, the
ponderable quantity of air surmounted in any farther ascension is by no
means in proportion to the additional height ascended (as may be plainly
seen from what has been stated before), but in a ratio constantly
decreasing. It is therefore evident that, ascend as high as we may, we
cannot, literally speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which no atmosphere
is to be found. It must exist, I argued; although it may exist in a state
of infinite rarefaction.

“On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been
wanting to prove the existence of a real and definite limit to the
atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely no air whatsoever. But a
circumstance which has been left out of view by those who contend for
such a limit seemed to me, although no positive refutation of their
creed, still a point worthy very serious investigation. On comparing the
intervals between the successive arrivals of Encke’s comet at its
perihelion, after giving credit, in the most exact manner, for all the
disturbances due to the attractions of the planets, it appears that the
periods are gradually diminishing; that is to say, the major axis of the
comet’s ellipse is growing shorter, in a slow but perfectly regular
decrease. Now, this is precisely what ought to be the case, if we suppose
a resistance experienced from the comet from an extremely rare ethereal
medium pervading the regions of its orbit. For it is evident that such a
medium must, in retarding the comet’s velocity, increase its
centripetal, by weakening its centrifugal force. In other words, the
sun’s attraction would be constantly attaining greater power, and
the comet would be drawn nearer at every revolution. Indeed, there is no
other way of accounting for the variation in question. But
again:—The real diameter of the same comet’s nebulosity is
observed to contract rapidly as it approaches the sun, and dilate with
equal rapidity in its departure towards its aphelion. Was I not
justifiable in supposing with M. Valz, that this apparent condensation of
volume has its origin in the compression of the same ethereal medium I
have spoken of before, and which is only denser in proportion to its
solar vicinity? The lenticular-shaped phenomenon, also called the
zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of attention. This radiance, so
apparent in the tropics, and which cannot be mistaken for any meteoric
lustre, extends from the horizon obliquely upward, and follows generally
the direction of the sun’s equator. It appeared to me evidently in
the nature of a rare atmosphere extending from the sun outward, beyond
the orbit of Venus at least, and I believed indefinitely farther.(*2)
Indeed, this medium I could not suppose confined to the path of the
comet’s ellipse, or to the immediate neighborhood of the sun. It
was easy, on the contrary, to imagine it pervading the entire regions of
our planetary system, condensed into what we call atmosphere at the
planets themselves, and perhaps at some of them modified by
considerations, so to speak, purely geological.

“Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little further hesitation.
Granting that on my passage I should meet with atmosphere essentially the
same as at the surface of the earth, I conceived that, by means of the
very ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm, I should readily be enabled to
condense it in sufficient quantity for the purposes of respiration. This
would remove the chief obstacle in a journey to the moon. I had indeed
spent some money and great labor in adapting the apparatus to the object
intended, and confidently looked forward to its successful application, if
I could manage to complete the voyage within any reasonable period. This
brings me back to the rate at which it might be possible to travel.

“It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions from the
earth, are known to rise with a velocity comparatively moderate. Now, the
power of elevation lies altogether in the superior lightness of the gas in
the balloon compared with the atmospheric air; and, at first sight, it
does not appear probable that, as the balloon acquires altitude, and
consequently arrives successively in atmospheric strata of densities
rapidly diminishing—I say, it does not appear at all reasonable
that, in this its progress upwards, the original velocity should be
accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any recorded
ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute rate of ascent;
although such should have been the case, if on account of nothing else, on
account of the escape of gas through balloons ill-constructed, and
varnished with no better material than the ordinary varnish. It seemed,
therefore, that the effect of such escape was only sufficient to
counterbalance the effect of some accelerating power. I now considered
that, provided in my passage I found the medium I had imagined, and
provided that it should prove to be actually and essentially what we
denominate atmospheric air, it could make comparatively little difference
at what extreme state of rarefaction I should discover it—that is to
say, in regard to my power of ascending—for the gas in the balloon
would not only be itself subject to rarefaction partially similar (in
proportion to the occurrence of which, I could suffer an escape of so much
as would be requisite to prevent explosion), but, being what it was,
would, at all events, continue specifically lighter than any compound
whatever of mere nitrogen and oxygen. In the meantime, the force of
gravitation would be constantly diminishing, in proportion to the squares
of the distances, and thus, with a velocity prodigiously accelerating, I
should at length arrive in those distant regions where the force of the
earth’s attraction would be superseded by that of the moon. In accordance
with these ideas, I did not think it worth while to encumber myself with
more provisions than would be sufficient for a period of forty days.

“There was still, however, another difficulty, which occasioned me some
little disquietude. It has been observed, that, in balloon ascensions to
any considerable height, besides the pain attending respiration, great
uneasiness is experienced about the head and body, often accompanied with
bleeding at the nose, and other symptoms of an alarming kind, and growing
more and more inconvenient in proportion to the altitude attained.(*3)
This was a reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable
that these symptoms would increase indefinitely, or at least until
terminated by death itself? I finally thought not. Their origin was to be
looked for in the progressive removal of the customary atmospheric
pressure upon the surface of the body, and consequent distention of the
superficial blood-vessels—not in any positive disorganization of the
animal system, as in the case of difficulty in breathing, where the
atmospheric density is chemically insufficient for the due renovation of
blood in a ventricle of the heart. Unless for default of this renovation,
I could see no reason, therefore, why life could not be sustained even in
a vacuum; for the expansion and compression of chest, commonly called
breathing, is action purely muscular, and the cause, not the effect, of
respiration. In a word, I conceived that, as the body should become
habituated to the want of atmospheric pressure, the sensations of pain
would gradually diminish—and to endure them while they continued, I
relied with confidence upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.

“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, I have detailed some, though by no
means all, the considerations which led me to form the project of a lunar
voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before you the result of an attempt so
apparently audacious in conception, and, at all events, so utterly
unparalleled in the annals of mankind.

“Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say three miles
and three-quarters, I threw out from the car a quantity of feathers, and
found that I still ascended with sufficient rapidity; there was,
therefore, no necessity for discharging any ballast. I was glad of this,
for I wished to retain with me as much weight as I could carry, for
reasons which will be explained in the sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily
inconvenience, breathing with great freedom, and feeling no pain whatever
in the head. The cat was lying very demurely upon my coat, which I had
taken off, and eyeing the pigeons with an air of nonchalance. These latter
being tied by the leg, to prevent their escape, were busily employed in
picking up some grains of rice scattered for them in the bottom of the
car.

“At twenty minutes past six o’clock, the barometer showed an elevation of
26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. The prospect seemed unbounded.
Indeed, it is very easily calculated by means of spherical geometry, what
a great extent of the earth’s area I beheld. The convex surface of any
segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the sphere itself, as the
versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. Now, in my case,
the versed sine—that is to say, the thickness of the segment beneath
me—was about equal to my elevation, or the elevation of the point of
sight above the surface. ‘As five miles, then, to eight thousand,’ would
express the proportion of the earth’s area seen by me. In other words, I
beheld as much as a sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the
globe. The sea appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the
spy-glass, I could perceive it to be in a state of violent agitation. The
ship was no longer visible, having drifted away, apparently to the
eastward. I now began to experience, at intervals, severe pain in the
head, especially about the ears—still, however, breathing with
tolerable freedom. The cat and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience
whatsoever.

“At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered a long series of
dense cloud, which put me to great trouble, by damaging my condensing
apparatus and wetting me to the skin. This was, to be sure, a singular
recontre, for I had not believed it possible that a cloud of this nature
could be sustained at so great an elevation. I thought it best, however,
to throw out two five-pound pieces of ballast, reserving still a weight of
one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above the
difficulty, and perceived immediately, that I had obtained a great
increase in my rate of ascent. In a few seconds after my leaving the
cloud, a flash of vivid lightning shot from one end of it to the other,
and caused it to kindle up, throughout its vast extent, like a mass of
ignited and glowing charcoal. This, it must be remembered, was in the
broad light of day. No fancy may picture the sublimity which might have
been exhibited by a similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of
the night. Hell itself might have been found a fitting image. Even as it
was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the yawning
abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and stalk about in the
strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly chasms of the
hideous and unfathomable fire. I had indeed made a narrow escape. Had the
balloon remained a very short while longer within the cloud—that is
to say—had not the inconvenience of getting wet, determined me to
discharge the ballast, inevitable ruin would have been the consequence.
Such perils, although little considered, are perhaps the greatest which
must be encountered in balloons. I had by this time, however, attained too
great an elevation to be any longer uneasy on this head.

“I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o’clock the barometer indicated an
altitude of no less than nine miles and a half. I began to find great
difficulty in drawing my breath. My head, too, was excessively painful;
and, having felt for some time a moisture about my cheeks, I at length
discovered it to be blood, which was oozing quite fast from the drums of
my ears. My eyes, also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon passing the hand
over them they seemed to have protruded from their sockets in no
inconsiderable degree; and all objects in the car, and even the balloon
itself, appeared distorted to my vision. These symptoms were more than I
had expected, and occasioned me some alarm. At this juncture, very
imprudently, and without consideration, I threw out from the car three
five-pound pieces of ballast. The accelerated rate of ascent thus
obtained, carried me too rapidly, and without sufficient gradation, into a
highly rarefied stratum of the atmosphere, and the result had nearly
proved fatal to my expedition and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a
spasm which lasted for more than five minutes, and even when this, in a
measure, ceased, I could catch my breath only at long intervals, and in a
gasping manner—bleeding all the while copiously at the nose and
ears, and even slightly at the eyes. The pigeons appeared distressed in
the extreme, and struggled to escape; while the cat mewed piteously, and,
with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the car
as if under the influence of poison. I now too late discovered the great
rashness of which I had been guilty in discharging the ballast, and my
agitation was excessive. I anticipated nothing less than death, and death
in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent contributed also to
render me nearly incapable of making any exertion for the preservation of
my life. I had, indeed, little power of reflection left, and the violence
of the pain in my head seemed to be greatly on the increase. Thus I found
that my senses would shortly give way altogether, and I had already
clutched one of the valve ropes with the view of attempting a descent,
when the recollection of the trick I had played the three creditors, and
the possible consequences to myself, should I return, operated to deter me
for the moment. I lay down in the bottom of the car, and endeavored to
collect my faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the
experiment of losing blood. Having no lancet, however, I was constrained
to perform the operation in the best manner I was able, and finally
succeeded in opening a vein in my right arm, with the blade of my
penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I experienced a
sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a moderate basin
full, most of the worst symptoms had abandoned me entirely. I nevertheless
did not think it expedient to attempt getting on my feet immediately; but,
having tied up my arm as well as I could, I lay still for about a quarter
of an hour. At the end of this time I arose, and found myself freer from
absolute pain of any kind than I had been during the last hour and a
quarter of my ascension. The difficulty of breathing, however, was
diminished in a very slight degree, and I found that it would soon be
positively necessary to make use of my condenser. In the meantime, looking
toward the cat, who was again snugly stowed away upon my coat, I
discovered to my infinite surprise, that she had taken the opportunity of
my indisposition to bring into light a litter of three little kittens.
This was an addition to the number of passengers on my part altogether
unexpected; but I was pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a
chance of bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more
than anything else, had influenced me in attempting this ascension. I had
imagined that the habitual endurance of the atmospheric pressure at the
surface of the earth was the cause, or nearly so, of the pain attending
animal existence at a distance above the surface. Should the kittens be
found to suffer uneasiness in an equal degree with their mother, I must
consider my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I should look upon as
a strong confirmation of my idea.

“By eight o’clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen miles
above the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident that my rate
of ascent was not only on the increase, but that the progression would
have been apparent in a slight degree even had I not discharged the
ballast which I did. The pains in my head and ears returned, at intervals,
with violence, and I still continued to bleed occasionally at the nose;
but, upon the whole, I suffered much less than might have been expected. I
breathed, however, at every moment, with more and more difficulty, and
each inhalation was attended with a troublesome spasmodic action of the
chest. I now unpacked the condensing apparatus, and got it ready for
immediate use.

“The view of the earth, at this period of my ascension, was beautiful
indeed. To the westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I
could see, lay a boundless sheet of apparently unruffled ocean, which
every moment gained a deeper and a deeper tint of blue and began already
to assume a slight appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to the
eastward, although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of Great
Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a small
portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of individual
edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the proudest cities of
mankind had utterly faded away from the face of the earth. From the rock
of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim speck, the dark Mediterranean sea,
dotted with shining islands as the heaven is dotted with stars, spread
itself out to the eastward as far as my vision extended, until its entire
mass of waters seemed at length to tumble headlong over the abyss of the
horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes of the
mighty cataract. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and the stars
were brilliantly visible.

“The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I
determined upon giving them their liberty. I first untied one of them, a
beautiful gray-mottled pigeon, and placed him upon the rim of the
wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking anxiously around him,
fluttering his wings, and making a loud cooing noise, but could not be
persuaded to trust himself from off the car. I took him up at last, and
threw him to about half a dozen yards from the balloon. He made, however,
no attempt to descend as I had expected, but struggled with great
vehemence to get back, uttering at the same time very shrill and piercing
cries. He at length succeeded in regaining his former station on the rim,
but had hardly done so when his head dropped upon his breast, and he fell
dead within the car. The other one did not prove so unfortunate. To
prevent his following the example of his companion, and accomplishing a
return, I threw him downward with all my force, and was pleased to find
him continue his descent, with great velocity, making use of his wings
with ease, and in a perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was
out of sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who
seemed in a great measure recovered from her illness, now made a hearty
meal of the dead bird and then went to sleep with much apparent
satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far evinced not the
slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever.

“At a quarter-past eight, being no longer able to draw breath without the
most intolerable pain, I proceeded forthwith to adjust around the car the
apparatus belonging to the condenser. This apparatus will require some
little explanation, and your Excellencies will please to bear in mind that
my object, in the first place, was to surround myself and cat entirely
with a barricade against the highly rarefied atmosphere in which I was
existing, with the intention of introducing within this barricade, by
means of my condenser, a quantity of this same atmosphere sufficiently
condensed for the purposes of respiration. With this object in view I had
prepared a very strong perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag.
In this bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a
manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the whole
bottom of the car, up its sides, and so on, along the outside of the
ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work is attached. Having
pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a complete enclosure on all
sides, and at bottom, it was now necessary to fasten up its top or mouth,
by passing its material over the hoop of the net-work—in other
words, between the net-work and the hoop. But if the net-work were
separated from the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the car
in the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to the
hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I therefore
undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving the car suspended by
the remainder. Having thus inserted a portion of the cloth forming the
upper part of the bag, I refastened the loops—not to the hoop, for
that would have been impossible, since the cloth now intervened—but
to a series of large buttons, affixed to the cloth itself, about three
feet below the mouth of the bag, the intervals between the buttons having
been made to correspond to the intervals between the loops. This done, a
few more of the loops were unfastened from the rim, a farther portion of
the cloth introduced, and the disengaged loops then connected with their
proper buttons. In this way it was possible to insert the whole upper part
of the bag between the net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the hoop
would now drop down within the car, while the whole weight of the car
itself, with all its contents, would be held up merely by the strength of
the buttons. This, at first sight, would seem an inadequate dependence;
but it was by no means so, for the buttons were not only very strong in
themselves, but so close together that a very slight portion of the whole
weight was supported by any one of them. Indeed, had the car and contents
been three times heavier than they were, I should not have been at all
uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again within the covering of gum-elastic,
and propped it at nearly its former height by means of three light poles
prepared for the occasion. This was done, of course, to keep the bag
distended at the top, and to preserve the lower part of the net-work in
its proper situation. All that now remained was to fasten up the mouth of
the enclosure; and this was readily accomplished by gathering the folds of
the material together, and twisting them up very tightly on the inside by
means of a kind of stationary tourniquet.

“In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had been
inserted three circular panes of thick but clear glass, through which I
could see without difficulty around me in every horizontal direction. In
that portion of the cloth forming the bottom, was likewise, a fourth
window, of the same kind, and corresponding with a small aperture in the
floor of the car itself. This enabled me to see perpendicularly down, but
having found it impossible to place any similar contrivance overhead, on
account of the peculiar manner of closing up the opening there, and the
consequent wrinkles in the cloth, I could expect to see no objects
situated directly in my zenith. This, of course, was a matter of little
consequence; for had I even been able to place a window at top, the
balloon itself would have prevented my making any use of it.

“About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening, eight
inches in diameter, and fitted with a brass rim adapted in its inner edge
to the windings of a screw. In this rim was screwed the large tube of the
condenser, the body of the machine being, of course, within the chamber of
gum-elastic. Through this tube a quantity of the rare atmosphere
circumjacent being drawn by means of a vacuum created in the body of the
machine, was thence discharged, in a state of condensation, to mingle with
the thin air already in the chamber. This operation being repeated several
times, at length filled the chamber with atmosphere proper for all the
purposes of respiration. But in so confined a space it would, in a short
time, necessarily become foul, and unfit for use from frequent contact
with the lungs. It was then ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the
car—the dense air readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below.
To avoid the inconvenience of making a total vacuum at any moment within
the chamber, this purification was never accomplished all at once, but in
a gradual manner—the valve being opened only for a few seconds, then
closed again, until one or two strokes from the pump of the condenser had
supplied the place of the atmosphere ejected. For the sake of experiment I
had put the cat and kittens in a small basket, and suspended it outside
the car to a button at the bottom, close by the valve, through which I
could feed them at any moment when necessary. I did this at some little
risk, and before closing the mouth of the chamber, by reaching under the
car with one of the poles before mentioned to which a hook had been
attached.

“By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled the
chamber as explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o’clock. During
the whole period of my being thus employed, I endured the most terrible
distress from difficulty of respiration, and bitterly did I repent the
negligence or rather fool-hardiness, of which I had been guilty, of
putting off to the last moment a matter of so much importance. But having
at length accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my
invention. Once again I breathed with perfect freedom and ease—and
indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably surprised to find myself, in
a great measure, relieved from the violent pains which had hitherto
tormented me. A slight headache, accompanied with a sensation of fulness
or distention about the wrists, the ankles, and the throat, was nearly all
of which I had now to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part
of the uneasiness attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had
actually worn off, as I had expected, and that much of the pain endured
for the last two hours should have been attributed altogether to the
effects of a deficient respiration.

“At twenty minutes before nine o’clock—that is to say, a short time
prior to my closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury attained its
limit, or ran down, in the barometer, which, as I mentioned before, was
one of an extended construction. It then indicated an altitude on my part
of 132,000 feet, or five-and-twenty miles, and I consequently surveyed at
that time an extent of the earth’s area amounting to no less than the
three hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire superficies. At nine
o’clock I had again lost sight of land to the eastward, but not before I
became aware that the balloon was drifting rapidly to the N. N. W. The
convexity of the ocean beneath me was very evident indeed, although my
view was often interrupted by the masses of cloud which floated to and
fro. I observed now that even the lightest vapors never rose to more than
ten miles above the level of the sea.

“At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of
feathers through the valve. They did not float as I had expected; but
dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, en masse, and with the
greatest velocity—being out of sight in a very few seconds. I did
not at first know what to make of this extraordinary phenomenon; not being
able to believe that my rate of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so
prodigious an acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere
was now far too rare to sustain even the feathers; that they actually
fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had been
surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my own elevation.

“By ten o’clock I found that I had very little to occupy my immediate
attention. Affairs went swimmingly, and I believed the balloon to be going
upward with a speed increasing momently although I had no longer any means
of ascertaining the progression of the increase. I suffered no pain or
uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed better spirits than I had at any
period since my departure from Rotterdam, busying myself now in examining
the state of my various apparatus, and now in regenerating the atmosphere
within the chamber. This latter point I determined to attend to at regular
intervals of forty minutes, more on account of the preservation of my
health, than from so frequent a renovation being absolutely necessary. In
the meanwhile I could not help making anticipations. Fancy revelled in the
wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling herself for once
unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a shadowy
and unstable land. Now there were hoary and time-honored forests, and
craggy precipices, and waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses
without a bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where
no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast meadows of poppies, and
slender, lily-looking flowers spread themselves out a weary distance, all
silent and motionless forever. Then again I journeyed far down away into
another country where it was all one dim and vague lake, with a boundary
line of clouds. And out of this melancholy water arose a forest of tall
eastern trees, like a wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that the
shadows of the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface
where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, and commingled with
the waves, while from the trunks of the trees other shadows were
continually coming out, and taking the place of their brothers thus
entombed. “This then,” I said thoughtfully, “is the very reason why the
waters of this lake grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as the
hours run on.” But fancies such as these were not the sole possessors of
my brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would too
frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the innermost depths
of my soul with the bare supposition of their possibility. Yet I would not
suffer my thoughts for any length of time to dwell upon these latter
speculations, rightly judging the real and palpable dangers of the voyage
sufficient for my undivided attention.

“At five o’clock, p.m., being engaged in regenerating the atmosphere
within the chamber, I took that opportunity of observing the cat and
kittens through the valve. The cat herself appeared to suffer again very
much, and I had no hesitation in attributing her uneasiness chiefly to a
difficulty in breathing; but my experiment with the kittens had resulted
very strangely. I had expected, of course, to see them betray a sense of
pain, although in a less degree than their mother, and this would have
been sufficient to confirm my opinion concerning the habitual endurance of
atmospheric pressure. But I was not prepared to find them, upon close
examination, evidently enjoying a high degree of health, breathing with
the greatest ease and perfect regularity, and evincing not the slightest
sign of any uneasiness whatever. I could only account for all this by
extending my theory, and supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere
around might perhaps not be, as I had taken for granted, chemically
insufficient for the purposes of life, and that a person born in such a
medium might, possibly, be unaware of any inconvenience attending its
inhalation, while, upon removal to the denser strata near the earth, he
might endure tortures of a similar nature to those I had so lately
experienced. It has since been to me a matter of deep regret that an
awkward accident, at this time, occasioned me the loss of my little family
of cats, and deprived me of the insight into this matter which a continued
experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through the valve, with
a cup of water for the old puss, the sleeves of my shirt became entangled
in the loop which sustained the basket, and thus, in a moment, loosened it
from the bottom. Had the whole actually vanished into air, it could not
have shot from my sight in a more abrupt and instantaneous manner.
Positively, there could not have intervened the tenth part of a second
between the disengagement of the basket and its absolute and total
disappearance with all that it contained. My good wishes followed it to
the earth, but of course, I had no hope that either cat or kittens would
ever live to tell the tale of their misfortune.

“At six o’clock, I perceived a great portion of the earth’s visible area
to the eastward involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance with
great rapidity, until, at five minutes before seven, the whole surface in
view was enveloped in the darkness of night. It was not, however, until
long after this time that the rays of the setting sun ceased to illumine
the balloon; and this circumstance, although of course fully anticipated,
did not fail to give me an infinite deal of pleasure. It was evident that,
in the morning, I should behold the rising luminary many hours at least
before the citizens of Rotterdam, in spite of their situation so much
farther to the eastward, and thus, day after day, in proportion to the
height ascended, would I enjoy the light of the sun for a longer and a
longer period. I now determined to keep a journal of my passage, reckoning
the days from one to twenty-four hours continuously, without taking into
consideration the intervals of darkness.

“At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest of
the night; but here a difficulty presented itself, which, obvious as it
may appear, had escaped my attention up to the very moment of which I am
now speaking. If I went to sleep as I proposed, how could the atmosphere
in the chamber be regenerated in the interim? To breathe it for more than
an hour, at the farthest, would be a matter of impossibility, or, if even
this term could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous
consequences might ensue. The consideration of this dilemma gave me no
little disquietude; and it will hardly be believed, that, after the
dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this business in so serious a
light, as to give up all hope of accomplishing my ultimate design, and
finally make up my mind to the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation
was only momentary. I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom,
and that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed
essentially important, which are only so at all by his having rendered
them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do without sleep; but
I might easily bring myself to feel no inconvenience from being awakened
at intervals of an hour during the whole period of my repose. It would
require but five minutes at most to regenerate the atmosphere in the
fullest manner, and the only real difficulty was to contrive a method of
arousing myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
which, I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble in its
solution. To be sure, I had heard of the student who, to prevent his
falling asleep over his books, held in one hand a ball of copper, the din
of whose descent into a basin of the same metal on the floor beside his
chair, served effectually to startle him up, if, at any moment, he should
be overcome with drowsiness. My own case, however, was very different
indeed, and left me no room for any similar idea; for I did not wish to
keep awake, but to be aroused from slumber at regular intervals of time. I
at length hit upon the following expedient, which, simple as it may seem,
was hailed by me, at the moment of discovery, as an invention fully equal
to that of the telescope, the steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.

“It is necessary to premise, that the balloon, at the elevation now
attained, continued its course upward with an even and undeviating ascent,
and the car consequently followed with a steadiness so perfect that it
would have been impossible to detect in it the slightest vacillation
whatever. This circumstance favored me greatly in the project I now
determined to adopt. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs
containing five gallons each, and ranged very securely around the interior
of the car. I unfastened one of these, and taking two ropes tied them
tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from one side to the other;
placing them about a foot apart and parallel so as to form a kind of
shelf, upon which I placed the keg, and steadied it in a horizontal
position. About eight inches immediately below these ropes, and four feet
from the bottom of the car I fastened another shelf—but made of thin
plank, being the only similar piece of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf,
and exactly beneath one of the rims of the keg, a small earthern pitcher
was deposited. I now bored a hole in the end of the keg over the pitcher,
and fitted in a plug of soft wood, cut in a tapering or conical shape.
This plug I pushed in or pulled out, as might happen, until, after a few
experiments, it arrived at that exact degree of tightness, at which the
water, oozing from the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, would
fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of
course, was a matter briefly and easily ascertained, by noticing the
proportion of the pitcher filled in any given time. Having arranged all
this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so contrived upon the
floor of the car, as to bring my head, in lying down, immediately below
the mouth of the pitcher. It was evident, that, at the expiration of an
hour, the pitcher, getting full, would be forced to run over, and to run
over at the mouth, which was somewhat lower than the rim. It was also
evident, that the water thus falling from a height of more than four feet,
could not do otherwise than fall upon my face, and that the sure
consequences would be, to waken me up instantaneously, even from the
soundest slumber in the world.

“It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements, and I
immediately betook myself to bed, with full confidence in the efficiency
of my invention. Nor in this matter was I disappointed. Punctually every
sixty minutes was I aroused by my trusty chronometer, when, having emptied
the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg, and performed the duties of the
condenser, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions to my
slumber caused me even less discomfort than I had anticipated; and when I
finally arose for the day, it was seven o’clock, and the sun had attained
many degrees above the line of my horizon.

“April 3d. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the
earth’s apparent convexity increased in a material degree. Below me in the
ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which undoubtedly were islands. Far
away to the northward I perceived a thin, white, and exceedingly brilliant
line, or streak, on the edge of the horizon, and I had no hesitation in
supposing it to be the southern disk of the ices of the Polar Sea. My
curiosity was greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on much farther
to the north, and might possibly, at some period, find myself placed
directly above the Pole itself. I now lamented that my great elevation
would, in this case, prevent my taking as accurate a survey as I could
wish. Much, however, might be ascertained. Nothing else of an
extraordinary nature occurred during the day. My apparatus all continued
in good order, and the balloon still ascended without any perceptible
vacillation. The cold was intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an
overcoat. When darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to bed,
although it was for many hours afterward broad daylight all around my
immediate situation. The water-clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept
until next morning soundly, with the exception of the periodical
interruption.

“April 4th. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at the
singular change which had taken place in the appearance of the sea. It had
lost, in a great measure, the deep tint of blue it had hitherto worn,
being now of a grayish-white, and of a lustre dazzling to the eye. The
islands were no longer visible; whether they had passed down the horizon
to the southeast, or whether my increasing elevation had left them out of
sight, it is impossible to say. I was inclined, however, to the latter
opinion. The rim of ice to the northward was growing more and more
apparent. Cold by no means so intense. Nothing of importance occurred, and
I passed the day in reading, having taken care to supply myself with
books.

“April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while nearly
the whole visible surface of the earth continued to be involved in
darkness. In time, however, the light spread itself over all, and I again
saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now very distinct, and
appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was
evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again
distinguish a strip of land to the eastward, and one also to the westward,
but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of any consequence
happened during the day. Went early to bed.

“April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very moderate
distance, and an immense field of the same material stretching away off to
the horizon in the north. It was evident that if the balloon held its
present course, it would soon arrive above the Frozen Ocean, and I had now
little doubt of ultimately seeing the Pole. During the whole of the day I
continued to near the ice. Toward night the limits of my horizon very
suddenly and materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth’s form
being that of an oblate spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened
regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle. When darkness at length
overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over the
object of so much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing
it.

“April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what there
could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It was
there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my feet; but, alas! I had
now ascended to so vast a distance, that nothing could with accuracy be
discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the numbers indicating
my various altitudes, respectively, at different periods, between six A.M.
on the second of April, and twenty minutes before nine A.M. of the same
day (at which time the barometer ran down), it might be fairly inferred
that the balloon had now, at four o’clock in the morning of April the
seventh, reached a height of not less, certainly, than 7,254 miles above
the surface of the sea. This elevation may appear immense, but the
estimate upon which it is calculated gave a result in all probability far
inferior to the truth. At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the
earth’s major diameter; the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like
a chart orthographically projected: and the great circle of the equator
itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your Excellencies may,
however, readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored
within the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath
me, and therefore seen without any appearance of being foreshortened, were
still, in themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a
distance from the point of sight, to admit of any very accurate
examination. Nevertheless, what could be seen was of a nature singular and
exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and which, with
slight qualification, may be called the limit of human discovery in these
regions, one unbroken, or nearly unbroken, sheet of ice continues to
extend. In the first few degrees of this its progress, its surface is very
sensibly flattened, farther on depressed into a plane, and finally,
becoming not a little concave, it terminates, at the Pole itself, in a
circular centre, sharply defined, whose apparent diameter subtended at the
balloon an angle of about sixty-five seconds, and whose dusky hue, varying
in intensity, was, at all times, darker than any other spot upon the
visible hemisphere, and occasionally deepened into the most absolute and
impenetrable blackness. Farther than this, little could be ascertained. By
twelve o’clock the circular centre had materially decreased in
circumference, and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely; the balloon
passing over the western limb of the ice, and floating away rapidly in the
direction of the equator.

“April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth’s apparent diameter,
besides a material alteration in its general color and appearance. The
whole visible area partook in different degrees of a tint of pale yellow,
and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy even painful to the eye. My
view downward was also considerably impeded by the dense atmosphere in the
vicinity of the surface being loaded with clouds, between whose masses I
could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This
difficulty of direct vision had troubled me more or less for the last
forty-eight hours; but my present enormous elevation brought closer
together, as it were, the floating bodies of vapor, and the inconvenience
became, of course, more and more palpable in proportion to my ascent.
Nevertheless, I could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above
the range of great lakes in the continent of North America, and was
holding a course, due south, which would bring me to the tropics. This
circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartful satisfaction, and I
hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed, the direction I had
hitherto taken, had filled me with uneasiness; for it was evident that,
had I continued it much longer, there would have been no possibility of my
arriving at the moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at
only the small angle of 5° 8′ 48″.

“April 9th. To-day the earth’s diameter was greatly diminished, and the
color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The balloon
kept steadily on her course to the southward, and arrived, at nine P.M.,
over the northern edge of the Mexican Gulf.

“April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o’clock this
morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I could in no
manner account. It was of very brief duration, but, while it lasted
resembled nothing in the world of which I had any previous experience. It
is needless to say that I became excessively alarmed, having, in the first
instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined
all my apparatus, however, with great attention, and could discover
nothing out of order. Spent a great part of the day in meditating upon an
occurrence so extraordinary, but could find no means whatever of
accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied, and in a state of great
anxiety and agitation.

“April 11th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of the
earth, and a considerable increase, now observable for the first time, in
that of the moon itself, which wanted only a few days of being full. It
now required long and excessive labor to condense within the chamber
sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.

“April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the
direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated, afforded me the
most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its former course, about the
twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off suddenly, at an
acute angle, to the eastward, and thus proceeded throughout the day,
keeping nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar
ellipse. What was worthy of remark, a very perceptible vacillation in the
car was a consequence of this change of route—a vacillation which
prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours.

“April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the
loud, crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon
the subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory conclusion. Great
decrease in the earth’s apparent diameter, which now subtended from
the balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The
moon could not be seen at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still
continued in the plane of the ellipse, but made little progress to the
eastward.

“April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth. To-day
I became strongly impressed with the idea, that the balloon was now
actually running up the line of apsides to the point of perigee—in
other words, holding the direct course which would bring it immediately to
the moon in that part of its orbit the nearest to the earth. The moon
itself was directly overhead, and consequently hidden from my view. Great
and long-continued labor necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.

“April 15th. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could now be
traced upon the earth with anything approaching distinctness. About twelve
o’clock I became aware, for the third time, of that appalling sound which
had so astonished me before. It now, however, continued for some moments,
and gathered intensity as it continued. At length, while, stupefied and
terror-stricken, I stood in expectation of I knew not what hideous
destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence, and a gigantic and
flaming mass of some material which I could not distinguish, came with a
voice of a thousand thunders, roaring and booming by the balloon. When my
fears and astonishment had in some degree subsided, I had little
difficulty in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic fragment ejected
from that world to which I was so rapidly approaching, and, in all
probability, one of that singular class of substances occasionally picked
up on the earth, and termed meteoric stones for want of a better
appellation.

“April 16th. To-day, looking upward as well as I could, through each of
the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very small
portion of the moon’s disk protruding, as it were, on all sides beyond the
huge circumference of the balloon. My agitation was extreme; for I had now
little doubt of soon reaching the end of my perilous voyage. Indeed, the
labor now required by the condenser had increased to a most oppressive
degree, and allowed me scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep was a
matter nearly out of the question. I became quite ill, and my frame
trembled with exhaustion. It was impossible that human nature could endure
this state of intense suffering much longer. During the now brief interval
of darkness a meteoric stone again passed in my vicinity, and the
frequency of these phenomena began to occasion me much apprehension.

“April 17th. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be
remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an angular
breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth this had greatly
diminished; on the fifteenth a still more remarkable decrease was
observable; and, on retiring on the night of the sixteenth, I had noticed
an angle of no more than about seven degrees and fifteen minutes. What,
therefore, must have been my amazement, on awakening from a brief and
disturbed slumber, on the morning of this day, the seventeenth, at
finding the surface beneath me so suddenly and wonderfully augmented in
volume, as to subtend no less than thirty-nine degrees in apparent
angular diameter! I was thunderstruck! No words can give any adequate
idea of the extreme, the absolute horror and astonishment, with which I
was seized possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My knees tottered
beneath me—my teeth chattered—my hair started up on end.
‘The balloon, then, had actually burst!’ These were the first
tumultuous ideas that hurried through my mind: ‘The balloon had
positively burst!—I was falling—falling with the most
impetuous, the most unparalleled velocity! To judge by the immense
distance already so quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten
minutes, at the farthest, before I should meet the surface of the earth,
and be hurled into annihilation!’ But at length reflection came to
my relief. I paused; I considered; and I began to doubt. The matter was
impossible. I could not in any reason have so rapidly come down. Besides,
although I was evidently approaching the surface below me, it was with a
speed by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first so
horribly conceived. This consideration served to calm the perturbation of
my mind, and I finally succeeded in regarding the phenomenon in its
proper point of view. In fact, amazement must have fairly deprived me of
my senses, when I could not see the vast difference, in appearance,
between the surface below me, and the surface of my mother earth. The
latter was indeed over my head, and completely hidden by the balloon,
while the moon—the moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath
me, and at my feet.

“The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this extraordinary change
in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after all, that part of the
adventure least susceptible of explanation. For the bouleversement in
itself was not only natural and inevitable, but had been long actually
anticipated as a circumstance to be expected whenever I should arrive at
that exact point of my voyage where the attraction of the planet should be
superseded by the attraction of the satellite—or, more precisely,
where the gravitation of the balloon toward the earth should be less
powerful than its gravitation toward the moon. To be sure I arose from a
sound slumber, with all my senses in confusion, to the contemplation of a
very startling phenomenon, and one which, although expected, was not
expected at the moment. The revolution itself must, of course, have taken
place in an easy and gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had
I even been awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been made
aware of it by any internal evidence of an inversion—that is to say,
by any inconvenience or disarrangement, either about my person or about my
apparatus.

“It is almost needless to say that, upon coming to a due sense of my
situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed every faculty
of my soul, my attention was, in the first place, wholly directed to the
contemplation of the general physical appearance of the moon. It lay
beneath me like a chart—and although I judged it to be still at no
inconsiderable distance, the indentures of its surface were defined to my
vision with a most striking and altogether unaccountable distinctness. The
entire absence of ocean or sea, and indeed of any lake or river, or body
of water whatsoever, struck me, at first glance, as the most extraordinary
feature in its geological condition. Yet, strange to say, I beheld vast
level regions of a character decidedly alluvial, although by far the
greater portion of the hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable
volcanic mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of
artificial than of natural protuberance. The highest among them does not
exceed three and three-quarter miles in perpendicular elevation; but a map
of the volcanic districts of the Campi Phlegraei would afford to your
Excellencies a better idea of their general surface than any unworthy
description I might think proper to attempt. The greater part of them were
in a state of evident eruption, and gave me fearfully to understand their
fury and their power, by the repeated thunders of the miscalled meteoric
stones, which now rushed upward by the balloon with a frequency more and
more appalling.

“April 18th. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon’s apparent
bulk—and the evidently accelerated velocity of my descent began to
fill me with alarm. It will be remembered, that, in the earliest stage of
my speculations upon the possibility of a passage to the moon, the
existence, in its vicinity, of an atmosphere, dense in proportion to the
bulk of the planet, had entered largely into my calculations; this too in
spite of many theories to the contrary, and, it may be added, in spite of
a general disbelief in the existence of any lunar atmosphere at all. But,
in addition to what I have already urged in regard to Encke’s comet and
the zodiacal light, I had been strengthened in my opinion by certain
observations of Mr. Schroeter, of Lilienthal. He observed the moon when
two days and a half old, in the evening soon after sunset, before the dark
part was visible, and continued to watch it until it became visible. The
two cusps appeared tapering in a very sharp faint prolongation, each
exhibiting its farthest extremity faintly illuminated by the solar rays,
before any part of the dark hemisphere was visible. Soon afterward, the
whole dark limb became illuminated. This prolongation of the cusps beyond
the semicircle, I thought, must have arisen from the refraction of the
sun’s rays by the moon’s atmosphere. I computed, also, the height of the
atmosphere (which could refract light enough into its dark hemisphere to
produce a twilight more luminous than the light reflected from the earth
when the moon is about 32° from the new) to be 1,356 Paris feet; in
this view, I supposed the greatest height capable of refracting the solar
ray, to be 5,376 feet. My ideas on this topic had also received
confirmation by a passage in the eighty-second volume of the Philosophical
Transactions, in which it is stated that at an occultation of Jupiter’s
satellites, the third disappeared after having been about 1″ or 2″ of time
indistinct, and the fourth became indiscernible near the limb.(*4)

“Upon the resistance or, more properly, upon the support of an atmosphere,
existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of course, entirely
depended for the safety of my ultimate descent. Should I then, after all,
prove to have been mistaken, I had in consequence nothing better to
expect, as a finale to my adventure, than being dashed into atoms against
the rugged surface of the satellite. And, indeed, I had now every reason
to be terrified. My distance from the moon was comparatively trifling,
while the labor required by the condenser was diminished not at all, and I
could discover no indication whatever of a decreasing rarity in the air.

“April 19th. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o’clock, the
surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my apprehensions excited
to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at length gave evident tokens of
an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten, I had reason to believe its
density considerably increased. By eleven, very little labor was necessary
at the apparatus; and at twelve o’clock, with some hesitation, I ventured
to unscrew the tourniquet, when, finding no inconvenience from having done
so, I finally threw open the gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it from
around the car. As might have been expected, spasms and violent headache
were the immediate consequences of an experiment so precipitate and full
of danger. But these and other difficulties attending respiration, as they
were by no means so great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined
to endure as I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me
momently in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This approach,
however, was still impetuous in the extreme; and it soon became alarmingly
certain that, although I had probably not been deceived in the expectation
of an atmosphere dense in proportion to the mass of the satellite, still I
had been wrong in supposing this density, even at the surface, at all
adequate to the support of the great weight contained in the car of my
balloon. Yet this should have been the case, and in an equal degree as at
the surface of the earth, the actual gravity of bodies at either planet
supposed in the ratio of the atmospheric condensation. That it was not the
case, however, my precipitous downfall gave testimony enough; why it was
not so, can only be explained by a reference to those possible geological
disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all events I was now
close upon the planet, and coming down with the most terrible impetuosity.
I lost not a moment, accordingly, in throwing overboard first my ballast,
then my water-kegs, then my condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber,
and finally every article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I
still fell with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a mile
from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got rid of my
coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the car itself, which
was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, clinging with both hands to the
net-work, I had barely time to observe that the whole country, as far as
the eye could reach, was thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations,
ere I tumbled headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking city,
and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people, who none of
them uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves the least trouble to
render me assistance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, grinning in a
ludicrous manner, and eyeing me and my balloon askant, with their arms set
a-kimbo. I turned from them in contempt, and, gazing upward at the earth
so lately left, and left perhaps for ever, beheld it like a huge, dull,
copper shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed immovably in the
heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges with a crescent border of
the most brilliant gold. No traces of land or water could be discovered,
and the whole was clouded with variable spots, and belted with tropical
and equatorial zones.

“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great anxieties,
unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had, at length, on the
nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam, arrived in safety at the
conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the most extraordinary, and the most
momentous, ever accomplished, undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of
earth. But my adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed your
Excellencies may well imagine that, after a residence of five years upon a
planet not only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character, but
rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of satellite,
with the world inhabited by man, I may have intelligence for the private
ear of the States’ College of Astronomers of far more importance than the
details, however wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily concluded.
This is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would
give me the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of the
climate of the planet; of its wonderful alternations of heat and cold, of
unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight, and more than polar
frigidity for the next; of a constant transfer of moisture, by
distillation like that in vacuo, from the point beneath the sun to the
point the farthest from it; of a variable zone of running water; of the
people themselves; of their manners, customs, and political institutions;
of their peculiar physical construction; of their ugliness; of their want
of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly modified;
of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties of speech; of
their substitute for speech in a singular method of inter-communication;
of the incomprehensible connection between each particular individual in
the moon with some particular individual on the earth—a connection
analogous with, and depending upon, that of the orbs of the planet and the
satellites, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it so please your Excellencies—above
all, of those dark and hideous mysteries which lie in the outer regions of
the moon—regions which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of
the satellite’s rotation on its own axis with its sidereal revolution
about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God’s mercy, never
shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man. All this, and
more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But, to be
brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to my family and to
my home; and as the price of any farther communication on my part—in
consideration of the light which I have it in my power to throw upon many
very important branches of physical and metaphysical science—I must
solicit, through the influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the
crime of which I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my
departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the present paper.
Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have prevailed upon, and
properly instructed, to be my messenger to the earth, will await your
Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to me with the pardon in question, if
it can, in any manner, be obtained.

“I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble servant,

“HANS PFAALL.”

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document, Professor
Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground in the extremity
of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk having taken off his
spectacles, wiped them, and deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot
both himself and his dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel
in the quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt
about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least swore,
with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally thought the
illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his brother in science,
and without saying a word, began to make the best of his way home to
deliberate upon the measures to be adopted. Having reached the door,
however, of the burgomaster’s dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest
that as the messenger had thought proper to disappear—no doubt
frightened to death by the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the
pardon would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would
undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the truth of this observation
the burgomaster assented, and the matter was therefore at an end. Not so,
however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published, gave
rise to a variety of gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made
themselves ridiculous by decrying the whole business; as nothing better
than a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a general
term for all matters above their comprehension. For my part, I cannot
conceive upon what data they have founded such an accusation. Let us see
what they say:

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

Don’t understand at all.

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose
ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has been
missing for several days from the neighboring city of Bruges.

Well—what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little balloon
were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been made in the
moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and Gluck, the
printer, would take his Bible oath to their having been printed in
Rotterdam.

He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.

Fourthly, That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three
very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer than
two or three days ago, in a tippling house in the suburbs, having just
returned, with money in their pockets, from a trip beyond the sea.

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

Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought to
be generally received, that the College of Astronomers in the city of
Rotterdam, as well as other colleges in all other parts of the world,—not
to mention colleges and astronomers in general,—are, to say the
least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser than they
ought to be.

~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the general philosophy of the
volume.

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

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

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

There have been other “voyages to the moon,” but none of higher merit than
the one just mentioned. That of Bergerac is utterly meaningless. In the
third volume of the “American Quarterly Review” will be found quite an
elaborate criticism upon a certain “journey” of the kind in question—a
criticism in which it is difficult to say whether the critic most exposes
the stupidity of the book, or his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. I
forget the title of the work; but the means of the voyage are more
deplorably ill conceived than are even the ganzas of our friend the
Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth, happens to discover
a peculiar metal for which the moon has a strong attraction, and
straightway constructs of it a box, which, when cast loose from its
terrestrial fastenings, flies with him, forthwith, to the satellite. The
“Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is a jeu d’ esprit not altogether
contemptible, and has been translated into German. Thomas, the hero, was,
in fact, the gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose eccentricities gave rise
to the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s back, from Hungry Hill, a
lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay.

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

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

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

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

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

THE GOLD-BUG

What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.

—All in the Wrong.

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He
was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series
of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification
consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his
forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan’s Island, near
Charleston, South Carolina.

This Island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the
sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds
a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the main land by a scarcely
perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and
slime, a favorite resort of the marsh hen. The vegetation, as might be
supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are
to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and
where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the
fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the
bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this
western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the seacoast, is
covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by
the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height
of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice,
burthening the air with its fragrance.

In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or more
remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut, which he
occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This soon
ripened into friendship—for there was much in the recluse to excite
interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with unusual powers of
mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of
alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but
rarely employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or
sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells or
entomological specimens—his collection of the latter might have
been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he was usually
accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted
before the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by
threats nor by promises, to abandon what he considered his right of
attendance upon the footsteps of his young “Massa Will.” It is not
improbable that the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat
unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy into
Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.

The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very
severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a fire
is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18—, there
occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset I
scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I
had not visited for several weeks—my residence being, at that time,
in Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while the
facilities of passage and re-passage were very far behind those of the
present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and
getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted,
unlocked the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth.
It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and awaited patiently
the arrival of my hosts.

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else
shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve,
forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured,
with Jupiter’s assistance, a scarabæus which he believed to
be totally new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on
the morrow.

“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the
blaze, and wishing the whole tribe of scarabæi at the devil.

“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand,
“but it’s so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee
that you would pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was
coming home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very
foolishly, I lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at
sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”

“What?—sunrise?”

“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about
the size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The
antennæ are—”

“Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,” here
interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery bit of him,
inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my
life.”

“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it
seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any reason for your letting
the birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is really
almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant
metallic lustre than the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge
till tomorrow. In the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.”
Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and
ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.

“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from his
waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, and
made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained
my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design was complete,
he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud growl was
heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a
large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my
shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention
during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked at the paper,
and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled at what my
friend had depicted.

“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes,
“this is a strange scarabæus, I must confess: new to
me: never saw anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything
else that has come under my observation.”

“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has
something of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black
spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and
then the shape of the whole is oval.”

“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait
until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its personal
appearance.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw tolerably—should
do it at least—have had good masters, and flatter myself that I am
not quite a blockhead.”

“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very
passable skull—indeed, I may say that it is a very excellent skull,
according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of physiology—and
your scarabæus must be the queerest scarabæus in the world
if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit of
superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug scarabæus
caput hominis, or something of that kind—there are many similar
titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the antennæ you
spoke of?”

“The antennæ!” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably
warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the antennæ. I made
them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is
sufficient.”

“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;” and
I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle
his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his
ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there
were positively no antennæ visible, and the whole did bear a very
close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.

He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it,
apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design
seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew
violently red—in another as excessively pale. For some minutes he
continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length he
arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon a
sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an
anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions. He said
nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it
prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any
comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the paper
carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he locked. He
now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm
had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As
the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in reverie, from
which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to
pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my
host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me
to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his
usual cordiality.

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen
nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man,
Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and I
feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend.

“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your master?”

“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.”

“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?”

“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick
for all dat.”

“Very sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he confined
to bed?”

“No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe
pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.”

“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about.
You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him?”

“Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad about de matter—Massa
Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but den what make him
go about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as
white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de time—”

“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”

“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I
ebber did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep
mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me slip ’fore de sun up
and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for
to gib him deuced good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a fool
dat I hadn’t de heart arter all—he look so berry poorly.”

“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better
not be too severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he
can’t very well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has
occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything
unpleasant happened since I saw you?”

“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin 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 sick a deuced bug—he
kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss,
but had for to let him go ’gin mighty quick, I tell you—den was de
time he must ha’ got de bite. I did n’t like de look oh de bug mouff,
myself, no how, so I would n’t take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch
him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff
piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.”

“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle,
and that the bite made him sick?”

“I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream ’bout
de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd ’bout
dem goole-bugs fore dis.”

“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”

“How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I
nose.”

“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance am I
to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-day?”

“What de matter, massa?”

“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”

“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me a note
which ran thus:

“MY DEAR ——Why have I not
seen you for so long a time? I hope you have not been so foolish as to
take offence at any little brusquerie of mine; but no, that is
improbable. Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have
something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I
should tell it at all.

“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup annoys me,
almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. Would you believe
it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, with which to
chastise me for giving him the slip, and spending the day, solus,
among the hills on the main land. I verily believe that my ill looks alone
saved me a flogging.

“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. Do
come. I wish to see you to-night, upon business of importance. I
assure you that it is of the highest importance.

“Ever yours,
“WILLIAM LEGRAND”.

There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great
uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of Legrand. What
could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet possessed his excitable brain?
What “business of the highest importance” could he possibly have to
transact? Jupiter’s account of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the
continued pressure of misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled the
reason of my friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared
to accompany the negro.

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

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

“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”

“Very true; but what are they doing here?”

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

“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ‘Massa Will’
going to do with scythes and spades?”

“Dat’s more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don’t b’lieve ’tis more dan
he know, too. But it’s all cum ob do bug.”

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

“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the next
morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that scarabæus. Do
you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?”

“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

“In supposing it to be a bug of real gold.” He said this with an air of
profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant smile,
“to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I
prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon me, I have only
to use it properly and I shall arrive at the gold of which it is the
index. Jupiter; bring me that scarabæus!”

“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you mus’
git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and
stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which it was
enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and, at that time, unknown
to naturalists—of course a great prize in a scientific point of
view. There were two round, black spots near one extremity of the back,
and a long one near the other. The scales were exceedingly hard and
glossy, with all the appearance of burnished gold. The weight of the
insect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into consideration, I
could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make
of Legrand’s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the life of
me, tell.

“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had completed
my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you, that I might have your
counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of the bug—”

“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly unwell,
and had better use some little precautions. You shall go to bed, and I
will remain with you a few days, until you get over this. You are feverish
and—”

“Feel my pulse,” said he.

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest indication of
fever.

“But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to prescribe
for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next—”

“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect to be
under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me well, you will
relieve this excitement.”

“And how is this to be done?”

“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into the
hills, upon the main land, and, in this expedition we shall need the aid
of some person in whom we can confide. You are the only one we can trust.
Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement which you now perceive in me
will be equally allayed.”

“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you mean to
say that this infernal beetle has any connection with your expedition into
the hills?”

“It has.”

“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd proceeding.”

“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by
ourselves.”

“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay!—how
long do you propose to be absent?”

“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at all
events, by sunrise.”

“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak of yours
is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to your satisfaction,
you will then return home and follow my advice implicitly, as that of your
physician?”

“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to lose.”

With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four o’clock—Legrand,
Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with him the scythe and spades—the
whole of which he insisted upon carrying—more through fear, it
seemed to me, of trusting either of the implements within reach of his
master, than from any excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was
dogged in the extreme, and “dat deuced bug” were the sole words which
escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a
couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself with the scarabæus,
which he carried attached to the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to
and fro, with the air of a conjuror, as he went. When I observed this
last, plain evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely
refrain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his fancy, at
least for the present, or until I could adopt some more energetic measures
with a chance of success. In the mean time I endeavored, but all in vain,
to sound him in regard to the object of the expedition. Having succeeded
in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation
upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no
other reply than “we shall see!”

We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a skiff, and,
ascending the high grounds on the shore of the main land, proceeded in a
northwesterly direction, through a tract of country excessively wild and
desolate, where no trace of a human footstep was to be seen. Legrand led
the way with decision; pausing only for an instant, here and there, to
consult what appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance upon
a former occasion.

In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was just
setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than any yet seen.
It was a species of table land, near the summit of an almost inaccessible
hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle, and interspersed with huge
crags that appeared to lie loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were
prevented from precipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by
the support of the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in
various directions, gave an air of still sterner solemnity to the scene.

The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly overgrown with
brambles, through which we soon discovered that it would have been
impossible to force our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by direction
of his master, proceeded to clear for us a path to the foot of an
enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with some eight or ten oaks, upon
the level, and far surpassed them all, and all other trees which I had
then ever seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread
of its branches, and in the general majesty of its appearance. When we
reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and asked him if he thought
he could climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered by the question,
and for some moments made no reply. At length he approached the huge
trunk, walked slowly around it, and examined it with minute attention.
When he had completed his scrutiny, he merely said,

“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.”

“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too dark to see
what we are about.”

“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.

“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way to go—and
here—stop! take this beetle with you.”

“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back in
dismay—“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d—n if I do!”

“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold of a
harmless little dead beetle, why you can carry it up by this string—but,
if you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be under the
necessity of breaking your head with this shovel.”

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

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

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

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

“How much fudder is got for go?”

“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.

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

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

“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon
dis side.”

“Then go one limb higher.”

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

“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to work
your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see anything
strange, let me know.” By this time what little doubt I might have
entertained of my poor friend’s insanity, was put finally at rest. I had
no alternative but to conclude him stricken with lunacy, and I became
seriously anxious about getting him home. While I was pondering upon what
was best to be done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.

“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis dead limb putty
much all de way.”

“Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a quavering
voice.

“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartain—done
departed dis here life.”

“What in the name heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in the
greatest distress.

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

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

“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”

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

“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few moments, “but
not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de limb
by myself, dat’s true.”

“By yourself!—what do you mean?”

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

“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much relieved, “what
do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as you drop that
beetle I’ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter, do you hear me?”

“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”

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

“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very promptly—“mos
out to the eend now.”

“Out to the end!” here fairly screamed Legrand, “do you say you are out to
the end of that limb?”

“Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lor-gol-a-marcy! what is dis
here pon de tree?”

“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what is it?”

“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef him head up de tree,
and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off.”

“A skull, you say!—very well—how is it fastened to the limb?—what
holds it on?”

“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why dis berry curous sarcumstance, pon my
word—dare’s a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob it on to
de tree.”

“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you hear?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Pay attention, then—find the left eye of the skull.”

“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why dare aint no eye lef at all.”

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

“Yes, I knows dat—knows all about dat—’tis my lef hand what I
chops de wood wid.”

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

Here was a long pause. At length the 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 de lef eye! what mus do wid it?”

“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach—but
be careful and not let go your hold of the string.”

“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de hole—look
out for him dare below!”

During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person could be seen; but the
beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the end of
the string, and glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in the last
rays of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined the
eminence upon which we stood. The scarabæus hung quite clear of any
branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Legrand
immediately took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space, three
or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and, having
accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come down from
the tree.

Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise spot
where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his pocket a tape
measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of the trunk, of the tree
which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached the peg, and
thence farther unrolled it, in the direction already established by the
two points of the tree and the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter
clearing away the brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a
second peg was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about
four feet in diameter, described. Taking now a spade himself, and giving
one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set about digging as
quickly as possible.

To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at any
time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly have declined
it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the
exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, and was fearful of
disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity by a refusal. Could I have
depended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid, I would have had no hesitation in
attempting to get the lunatic home by force; but I was too well assured of
the old negro’s disposition, to hope that he would assist me, under any
circumstances, in a personal contest with his master. I made no doubt that
the latter had been infected with some of the innumerable Southern
superstitions about money buried, and that his phantasy had received
confirmation by the finding of the scarabæus, or, perhaps, by
Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind
disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such suggestions—especially
if chiming in with favorite preconceived ideas—and then I called to
mind the poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “the index of his
fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and puzzled, but, at length, I
concluded to make a virtue of necessity—to dig with a good will, and
thus the sooner to convince the visionary, by ocular demonstration, of the
fallacy of the opinions he entertained.

The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal worthy a
more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our persons and
implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque a group we composed,
and how strange and suspicious our labors must have appeared to any
interloper who, by chance, might have stumbled upon our whereabouts.

We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our chief
embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took exceeding interest
in our proceedings. He, at length, became so obstreperous that we grew
fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers in the vicinity—or,
rather, this was the apprehension of Legrand;—for myself, I should
have rejoiced at any interruption which might have enabled me to get the
wanderer home. The noise was, at length, very effectually silenced by
Jupiter, who, getting out of the hole with a dogged air of deliberation,
tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his suspenders, and then returned,
with a grave chuckle, to his task.

When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of five feet,
and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued,
and I began to hope that the farce was at an end. Legrand, however,
although evidently much disconcerted, wiped his brow thoughtfully and
recommenced. We had excavated the entire circle of four feet diameter, and
now we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to the farther depth of two
feet. Still nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at
length clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted
upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his
coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning of his labor. In the mean
time I made no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to
gather up his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we
turned in profound silence towards home.

We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when, with a loud
oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. The
astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent, let fall
the spades, and fell upon his knees.

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

“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?” roared
the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right organ of vision,
and holding it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate
dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge.

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

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

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

“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes good, widout
any trouble.”

“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the
beetle?”—here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s eyes.

“’Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell me,” and here
it was his right eye that the negro indicated.

“That will do—we must try it again.”

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

Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the former
instance, was now described, and we again set to work with the spades. I
was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding what had occasioned the
change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great aversion from the labor
imposed. I had become most unaccountably interested—nay, even
excited. Perhaps there was something, amid all the extravagant demeanor of
Legrand—some air of forethought, or of deliberation, which impressed
me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with
something that very much resembled expectation, for the fancied treasure,
the vision of which had demented my unfortunate companion. At a period
when such vagaries of thought most fully possessed me, and when we had
been at work perhaps an hour and a half, we were again interrupted by the
violent howlings of the dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance, had
been, evidently, but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now
assumed a bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to
muzzle him, he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore
up the mould frantically with his claws. In a few seconds he had uncovered
a mass of human bones, forming two complete skeletons, intermingled with
several buttons of metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed
woollen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large
Spanish knife, and, as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold
and silver coin came to light.

At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be restrained, but the
countenance of his master wore an air of extreme disappointment. He urged
us, however, to continue our exertions, and the words were hardly uttered
when I stumbled and fell forward, having caught the toe of my boot in a
large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth.

We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of more intense
excitement. During this interval we had fairly unearthed an oblong chest
of wood, which, from its perfect preservation and wonderful hardness, had
plainly been subjected to some mineralizing process—perhaps that of
the bi-chloride of mercury. This box was three feet and a half long, three
feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by bands
of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open trelliswork over the
whole. On each side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron—six
in all—by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by six
persons. Our utmost united endeavors served only to disturb the coffer
very slightly in its bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so
great a weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two
sliding bolts. These we drew back—trembling and panting with
anxiety. In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming
before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within the pit, there flashed
upwards a glow and a glare, from a confused heap of gold and of jewels,
that absolutely dazzled our eyes.

I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. Amazement
was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement,
and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance wore, for some minutes, as
deadly a pallor as it is possible, in nature of things, for any negro’s
visage to assume. He seemed stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently he
fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the
elbows in gold, let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a
bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:

“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor little
goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed ob
yourself, nigger?—answer me dat!”

It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and valet
to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was growing late, and it
behooved us to make exertion, that we might get every thing housed before
daylight. It was difficult to say what should be done, and much time was
spent in deliberation—so confused were the ideas of all. We,
finally, lightened the box by removing two thirds of its contents, when we
were enabled, with some trouble, to raise it from the hole. The articles
taken out were deposited among the brambles, and the dog left to guard
them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon any pretence, to stir
from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our return. We then hurriedly
made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but after
excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning. Worn out as we were, it was
not in human nature to do more immediately. We rested until two, and had
supper; starting for the hills immediately afterwards, armed with three
stout sacks, which, by good luck, were upon the premises. A little before
four we arrived at the pit, divided the remainder of the booty, as equally
as might be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set out for
the hut, at which, for the second time, we deposited our golden burthens,
just as the first faint streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the
tree-tops in the East.

We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of the time
denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three or four hours’
duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to make examination of our
treasure.

The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day, and the
greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its contents. There had
been nothing like order or arrangement. Every thing had been heaped in
promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we found ourselves possessed
of even vaster wealth than we had at first supposed. In coin there was
rather more than four hundred and fifty thousand dollars—estimating
the value of the pieces, as accurately as we could, by the tables of the
period. There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of antique date
and of great variety—French, Spanish, and German money, with a few
English guineas, and some counters, of which we had never seen specimens
before. There were several very large and heavy coins, so worn that we
could make nothing of their inscriptions. There was no American money. The
value of the jewels we found more difficulty in estimating. There were
diamonds—some of them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and
ten in all, and not one of them small; eighteen rubies of remarkable
brilliancy;—three hundred and ten emeralds, all very beautiful; and
twenty-one sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken from
their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings themselves,
which we picked out from among the other gold, appeared to have been
beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent identification. Besides all this,
there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments; nearly two
hundred massive finger and earrings; rich chains—thirty of
these, if I remember; eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; five
gold censers of great value; a prodigious golden punch bowl,
ornamented with richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with
two sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller articles
which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables exceeded three
hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this estimate I have not
included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold watches; three of the
number being worth each five hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were
very old, and as timekeepers valueless; the works having suffered, more
or less, from corrosion—but all were richly jewelled and in cases of
great worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night, at
a million and a half of dollars; and upon the subsequent disposal of the
trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our own use), it was found
that we had greatly undervalued the treasure.

When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the intense
excitement of the time had, in some measure, subsided, Legrand, who saw
that I was dying with impatience for a solution of this most
extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all the circumstances
connected with it.

“You remember;” said he, “the night when I handed you the rough sketch I
had made of the scarabæus. You recollect also, that I became quite
vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled a death’s-head. When
you first made this assertion I thought you were jesting; but afterwards I
called to mind the peculiar spots on the back of the insect, and admitted
to myself that your remark had some little foundation in fact. Still, the
sneer at my graphic powers irritated me—for I am considered a good
artist—and, therefore, when you handed me the scrap of parchment, I
was about to crumple it up and throw it angrily into the fire.”

“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.

“No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I supposed it to
be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I discovered it, at once, to be
a piece of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you remember. Well, as
I was in the very act of crumpling it up, my glance fell upon the sketch
at which you had been looking, and you may imagine my astonishment when I
perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head just where, it seemed to
me, I had made the drawing of the beetle. For a moment I was too much
amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my design was very different in
detail from this—although there was a certain similarity in general
outline. Presently I took a candle, and seating myself at the other end of
the room, proceeded to scrutinize the parchment more closely. Upon turning
it over, I saw my own sketch upon the reverse, just as I had made it. My
first idea, now, was mere surprise at the really remarkable similarity of
outline—at the singular coincidence involved in the fact, that
unknown to me, there should have been a skull upon the other side of the
parchment, immediately beneath my figure of the scarabæus, and that
this skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so closely resemble
my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied
me for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind
struggles to establish a connexion—a sequence of cause and effect—and,
being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, when
I recovered from this stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction
which startled me even far more than the coincidence. I began distinctly,
positively, to remember that there had been no drawing upon the parchment
when I made my sketch of the scarabæus. I became perfectly certain
of this; for I recollected turning up first one side and then the other,
in search of the cleanest spot. Had the skull been then there, of course I
could not have failed to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt
it impossible to explain; but, even at that early moment, there seemed to
glimmer, faintly, within the most remote and secret chambers of my
intellect, a glow-worm-like conception of that truth which last night’s
adventure brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and
putting the parchment securely away, dismissed all farther reflection
until I should be alone.

“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook myself to a
more methodical investigation of the affair. In the first place I
considered the manner in which the parchment had come into my possession.
The spot where we discovered the scarabæus was on the coast of the main
land, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a short distance above
high water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which
caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution, before
seizing the insect, which had flown towards him, looked about him for a
leaf, or something of that nature, by which to take hold of it. It was at
this moment that his eyes, and mine also, fell upon the scrap of
parchment, which I then supposed to be paper. It was lying half buried in
the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the spot where we found it, I
observed the remnants of the hull of what appeared to have been a ship’s
long boat. The wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; for
the resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced.

“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and gave
it to me. Soon afterwards we turned to go home, and on the way met
Lieutenant G——. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to let him take
it to the fort. Upon my consenting, he thrust it forthwith into his
waistcoat pocket, without the parchment in which it had been wrapped, and
which I had continued to hold in my hand during his inspection. Perhaps he
dreaded my changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure of the prize
at once—you know how enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected
with Natural History. At the same time, without being conscious of it, I
must have deposited the parchment in my own pocket.

“You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of making a
sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was usually kept. I looked
in the drawer, and found none there. I searched my pockets, hoping to find
an old letter, when my hand fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the
precise mode in which it came into my possession; for the circumstances
impressed me with peculiar force.

“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had already established a
kind of connexion. I had put together two links of a great chain. There
was a boat lying upon a sea-coast, and not far from the boat was a
parchment—not a paper—with a skull depicted upon it. You will,
of course, ask ‘where is the connexion?’ I reply that the skull, or
death’s-head, is the well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the
death’s head is hoisted in all engagements.

“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper. Parchment is
durable—almost imperishable. Matters of little moment are rarely
consigned to parchment; since, for the mere ordinary purposes of drawing
or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. This reflection
suggested some meaning—some relevancy—in the death’s-head. I
did not fail to observe, also, the form of the parchment. Although one of
its corners had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be seen that
the original form was oblong. It was just such a slip, indeed, as might
have been chosen for a memorandum—for a record of something to be
long remembered and carefully preserved.”

“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was not upon the parchment
when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you trace any
connexion between the boat and the skull—since this latter,
according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only knows
how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the scarabæus?”

“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at this point,
I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My steps were sure, and
could afford but a single result. I reasoned, for example, thus: When I
drew the scarabæus, there was no skull apparent upon the parchment.
When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you
narrowly until you returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull,
and no one else was present to do it. Then it was not done by human
agency. And nevertheless it was done.

“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and did
remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which occurred about
the period in question. The weather was chilly (oh rare and happy
accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the hearth. I was heated with
exercise and sat near the table. You, however, had drawn a chair close to
the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you were
in the act of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped
upon your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and kept him
off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted to fall
listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the fire. At one
moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was about to caution you,
but, before I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged in its
examination. When I considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a
moment that heat had been the agent in bringing to light, upon the
parchment, the skull which I saw designed upon it. You are well aware that
chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind, by means
of which it is possible to write upon either paper or vellum, so that the
characters shall become visible only when subjected to the action of fire.
Zaffre, digested in aqua regia, and diluted with four times its weight of
water, is sometimes employed; a green tint results. The regulus of cobalt,
dissolved in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at
longer or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but
again become apparent upon the re-application of heat.

“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its outer edges—the
edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the vellum—were far more
distinct than the others. It was clear that the action of the caloric had
been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire, and subjected
every portion of the parchment to a glowing heat. At first, the only
effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; but, upon
persevering in the experiment, there became visible, at the corner of the
slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the death’s-head was
delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to be a goat. A closer
scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was intended for a kid.”

“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to laugh at you—a
million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth—but
you are not about to establish a third link in your chain—you will
not find any especial connexion between your pirates and a goat—pirates,
you know, have nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming
interest.”

“But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat.”

“Well, a kid then—pretty much the same thing.”

“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. “You may have heard of
one Captain Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of the animal as a kind
of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature; because its
position upon the vellum suggested this idea. The death’s-head at the
corner diagonally opposite, had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp,
or seal. But I was sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the
body to my imagined instrument—of the text for my context.”

“I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the
signature.”

“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly impressed with a
presentiment of some vast good fortune impending. I can scarcely say why.
Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an actual belief;—but
do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the bug being of solid gold,
had a remarkable effect upon my fancy? And then the series of accidents
and coincidences—these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe
how mere an accident it was that these events should have occurred upon
the sole day of all the year in which it has been, or may be, sufficiently
cool for fire, and that without the fire, or without the intervention of
the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared, I should never have
become aware of the death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the
treasure?”

“But proceed—I am all impatience.”

“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current—the
thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere upon the
Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must have had
some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have existed so long and so
continuous, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the
circumstance of the buried treasure still remaining entombed. Had Kidd
concealed his plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the rumors
would scarcely have reached us in their present unvarying form. You will
observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about
money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the affair would
have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident—say the loss of a
memorandum indicating its locality—had deprived him of the means of
recovering it, and that this accident had become known to his followers,
who otherwise might never have heard that treasure had been concealed at
all, and who, busying themselves in vain, because unguided attempts, to
regain it, had given first birth, and then universal currency, to the
reports which are now so common. Have you ever heard of any important
treasure being unearthed along the coast?”

“Never.”

“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense, is well known. I took it for
granted, therefore, that the earth still held them; and you will scarcely
be surprised when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly amounting to
certainty, that the parchment so strangely found, involved a lost record
of the place of deposit.”

“But how did you proceed?”

“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat; but
nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating of dirt might
have something to do with the failure; so I carefully rinsed the parchment
by pouring warm water over it, and, having done this, I placed it in a tin
pan, with the skull downwards, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted
charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I
removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in
several places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again
I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another minute. Upon
taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now.”

Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my
inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint,
between the death’s-head and the goat:

“53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*8†83(88)5*†
;46(;88*96*?;8)*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)
6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?3
4;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;”

“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark as ever.
Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of this
enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them.”

“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so difficult as you
might be lead to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the
characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a
cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from what is
known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the
more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a
simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude
intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”

“And you really solved it?”

“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand times
greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to take
interest in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether human
ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which human ingenuity may
not, by proper application, resolve. In fact, having once established
connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere
difficulty of developing their import.

“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret writing—the
first question regards the language of the cipher; for the principles of
solution, so far, especially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned,
depend upon, and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom. In
general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed by
probabilities) of every tongue known to him who attempts the solution,
until the true one be attained. But, with the cipher now before us, all
difficulty was removed by the signature. The pun upon the word ‘Kidd’ is
appreciable in no other language than the English. But for this
consideration I should have begun my attempts with the Spanish and French,
as the tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally have
been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. As it was, I assumed the
cryptograph to be English.

“You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there been
divisions, the task would have been comparatively easy. In such case I
should have commenced with a collation and analysis of the shorter words,
and, had a word of a single letter occurred, as is most likely, (a or I,
for example,) I should have considered the solution as assured. But, there
being no division, my first step was to ascertain the predominant letters,
as well as the least frequent. Counting all, I constructed a table, thus:

Of the character 8 there are 33.

“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e.
Afterwards, succession runs thus: a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l m w b k
p q x z. E predominates so remarkably that an individual
sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the prevailing
character.

“Here, then, we leave, in the very beginning, the groundwork for something
more than a mere guess. The general use which may be made of the table is
obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we shall only very partially
require its aid. As our predominant character is 8, we will commence by
assuming it as the e of the natural alphabet. To verify the
supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples—for e
is doubled with great frequency in English—in such words, for
example, as ‘meet,’ ‘.fleet,’ ‘speed,’ ‘seen,’ been,’ ‘agree,’ &c. In
the present instance we see it doubled no less than five times, although
the cryptograph is brief.

“Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of all words in the
language, ‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore, whether there are
not repetitions of any three characters, in the same order of collocation,
the last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such letters, so
arranged, they will most probably represent the word ‘the.’ Upon
inspection, we find no less than seven such arrangements, the characters
being ;48. We may, therefore, assume that ; represents t, 4
represents h, and 8 represents e—the last being now
well confirmed. Thus a great step has been taken.

“But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish a
vastly important point; that is to say, several commencements and
terminations of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the last
instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs—not far from
the end of the cipher. We know that the ; immediately ensuing is the
commencement of a word, and, of the six characters succeeding this ‘the,’
we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these characters down,
thus, by the letters we know them to represent, leaving a space for the
unknown—

t eeth.

“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ‘th,’ as forming no portion
of the word commencing with the first t; since, by experiment of the
entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the vacancy, we perceive that no
word can be formed of which this th can be a part. We are thus
narrowed into

t ee,

and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we arrive at the
word ‘tree,’ as the sole possible reading. We thus gain another letter, r,
represented by (, with the words ‘the tree’ in juxtaposition.

“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see the
combination ;48, and employ it by way of termination to what
immediately precedes. We have thus this arrangement:

the tree ;4(‡?34 the,

or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus:

the tree thr‡?3h the.

“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we leave blank spaces, or
substitute dots, we read thus:

the tree thr…h the,

when the word ‘through’ makes itself evident at once. But this
discovery gives us three new letters, o, u and g,
represented by ‡, ? and 3.

“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known
characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement,

83(88, or egree,

which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ‘degree,’ and gives us
another letter, d, represented by †.

“Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’ we perceive the combination

;46(;88.

“Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown by dots,
as before, we read thus:

th.rtee,

an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word ‘thirteen,’
and again furnishing us with two new characters, i and n,
represented by 6 and *.

“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the
combination,

53‡‡†.

“Translating as before, we obtain

good,

which assures us that the first letter is A, and that the first two
words are ‘A good.’

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

“We have, therefore, no less than eleven of the most important letters
represented, and it will be unnecessary to proceed with the details of the
solution. I have said enough to convince you that ciphers of this nature
are readily soluble, and to give you some insight into the rationale of
their development. But be assured that the specimen before us appertains
to the very simplest species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give
you the full translation of the characters upon the parchment, as
unriddled. Here it is:

“‘A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat forty-one
degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by north main branch seventh
limb east side shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head a bee line from
the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”

“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as ever. How
is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon about ‘devil’s
seats,’ ‘death’s heads,’ and ‘bishop’s hotels?’”

“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a serious
aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first endeavor was to
divide the sentence into the natural division intended by the
cryptographist.”

“You mean, to punctuate it?”

“Something of that kind.”

“But how was it possible to effect this?”

“I reflected that it had been a point with the writer to run his words
together without division, so as to increase the difficulty of solution.
Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would be nearly
certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of his composition, he
arrived at a break in his subject which would naturally require a pause,
or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, at this
place, more than usually close together. If you will observe the MS., in
the present instance, you will easily detect five such cases of unusual
crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the division thus: ‘A good glass
in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s seat—forty-one degrees and
thirteen minutes—northeast and by north—main branch seventh
limb east side—shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head—a
bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”

“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.”

“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days; during
which I made diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island,
for any building which went by the name of the ‘Bishop’s Hotel;’ for, of
course, I dropped the obsolete word ‘hostel.’ Gaining no information on
the subject, I was on the point of extending my sphere of search, and
proceeding in a more systematic manner, when, one morning, it entered into
my head, quite suddenly, that this ‘Bishop’s Hostel’ might have some
reference to an old family, of the name of Bessop, which, time out of
mind, had held possession of an ancient manor-house, about four miles to
the northward of the island. I accordingly went over to the plantation,
and re-instituted my inquiries among the older negroes of the place. At
length one of the most aged of the women said that she had heard of such a
place as Bessop’s Castle, and thought that she could guide me to it, but
that it was not a castle nor a tavern, but a high rock.

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

“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the
eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I
stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more than a
foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above it gave it a rude
resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I
made no doubt that here was the ‘devil’s seat’ alluded to in the MS., and
now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.

“The ‘good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to nothing but a
telescope; for the word ‘glass’ is rarely employed in any other sense by
seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a
definite point of view, admitting no variation, from which to use it. Nor
did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, ‘forty-one degrees and
thirteen minutes,’ and ‘northeast and by north,’ were intended as
directions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these
discoveries, I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned to the
rock.

“I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible to
retain a seat upon it except in one particular position. This fact
confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of course,
the ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’ could allude to nothing but
elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal direction was
clearly indicated by the words, ‘northeast and by north.’ This latter
direction I at once established by means of a pocket-compass; then,
pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one degrees of elevation
as I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until my
attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of a
large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance. In the centre of
this rift I perceived a white spot, but could not, at first, distinguish
what it was. Adjusting the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now
made it out to be a human skull.

“Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma solved;
for the phrase ‘main branch, seventh limb, east side,’ could refer only to
the position of the skull upon the tree, while ‘shoot from the left eye of
the death’s head’ admitted, also, of but one interpretation, in regard to
a search for buried treasure. I perceived that the design was to drop a
bullet from the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other
words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk through
‘the shot,’ (or the spot where the bullet fell,) and thence extended to a
distance of fifty feet, would indicate a definite point—and beneath
this point I thought it at least possible that a deposit of value lay
concealed.”

“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although ingenious, still
simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then?”

“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned homewards.
The instant that I left ‘the devil’s seat,’ however, the circular rift
vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, turn as I would.
What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole business, is the fact
(for repeated experiment has convinced me it is a fact) that the circular
opening in question is visible from no other attainable point of view than
that afforded by the narrow ledge upon the face of the rock.

“In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’ I had been attended by
Jupiter, who had, no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the abstraction
of my demeanor, and took especial care not to leave me alone. But, on the
next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give him the slip, and
went into the hills in search of the tree. After much toil I found it.
When I came home at night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With
the rest of the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted as myself.”

“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the first attempt at
digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in letting the bug fall through the
right instead of through the left eye of the skull.”

“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches and a half
in the ‘shot’—that is to say, in the position of the peg nearest the
tree; and had the treasure been beneath the ‘shot,’ the error would have
been of little moment; but ‘the shot,’ together with the nearest point of
the tree, were merely two points for the establishment of a line of
direction; of course the error, however trivial in the beginning,
increased as we proceeded with the line, and by the time we had gone fifty
feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated impressions
that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, we might have had all
our labor in vain.”

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

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

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

“That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself. There
seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for them—and
yet it is dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would
imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure,
which I doubt not—it is clear that he must have had assistance in
the labor. But this labor concluded, he may have thought it expedient to
remove all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a
mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit;
perhaps it required a dozen—who shall tell?”

FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD

Chacun a ses vertus.

—Crébillon’s Xerxes.

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

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

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

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

—satisfying your eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That most renown this city.—

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

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

Very true.

“There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.”

There are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bless me! it is an ape!”

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

Mille, mille, mille,
Mille, mille, mille,
Decollavimus, unus homo!
Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!
Mille, mille, mille,
Vivat qui mille mille occidit!
Tantum vini habet nemo
Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)

Which may be thus paraphrased:

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
We, with one warrior, have slain!
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.
Sing a thousand over again!
Soho!—let us sing
Long life to our king,
Who knocked over a thousand so fine!
Soho!—let us roar,
He has given us more
Red gallons of gore
Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”

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

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

Then you must be blind.

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

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

Who is king but Epiphanes?
Say—do you know?
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Bravo!—bravo!
There is none but Epiphanes,
No—there is none:
So tear down the temples,
And put out the sun!

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

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

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

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

Come let us be off.

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

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

Footnotes—Four Beasts

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

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
all conjecture.

—Sir Thomas Browne.

The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves,
but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their
effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to
their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in
such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in
that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from
even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is
fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his
solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary
apprehension præternatural. His results, brought about by the very
soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical
study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and
merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if
par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to
analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the
other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much
at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher
powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully
tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate
frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and
bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only
complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an
instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The
possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such
oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more
concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In
draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and
the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To
be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are
reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be
expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players
being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of
some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources,
the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies
himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce
into error or hurry into miscalculation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was not a particle of charlatânerie about Dupin. “I
will explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I
spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in
question. The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion,
Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused
themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their
own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and
he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently
illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the
goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman
speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging
that he had spoken the truth. He continued:

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving
the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we
crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head,
brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving stones
collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped
upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle,
appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile,
and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what
you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species of
necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were
still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little alley called
Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the
overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and,
perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word
‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement.
I knew that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being
brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to
you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that
noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I
felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula
in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up;
and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s ‘Musée,’
the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler’s change of
name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have
often conversed. I mean the line

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

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

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

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

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

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

“Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that
he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the
testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they forced an entrance,
they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness
thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not
be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words, but
was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew
Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure
that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased.

“——Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his
testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a
native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks.
They lasted for several minutes—probably ten. They were long and
loud—very awful and distressing. Was one of those who entered the
building. Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was
sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could
not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken
apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so
much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice
said repeatedly ‘sacré,’ ‘diable,’ and once ‘mon
Dieu.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue.
This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the
Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we
reached it, as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we
resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons
gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the
opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel
in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we
walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning,
passed in the rear of the building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the
whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention
for which I could see no possible object.

Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang,
and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge.
We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The
disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw nothing
beyond what had been stated in the “Gazette des Tribunaux.” Dupin
scrutinized every thing—not excepting the bodies of the victims. We
then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme
accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when
we took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a
moment at the office of one of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Je les
ménageais:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent.
It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the
murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I
had observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

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

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

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

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the
reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all
apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality.

“I proceeded to think thus—a posteriori. The murderers
did escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have
refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened;—the
consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny
of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They
must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no
escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement,
withdrew the nail with some difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It
resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I
now know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my
premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the
circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light
the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery,
forbore to upraise the sash.

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

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

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

“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had
been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet
and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From
this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window
itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the
shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian
carpenters ferrades—a kind rarely employed at the present
day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.
They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door),
except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus
affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these
shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the
rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say,
they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the
police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so,
in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they
must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at
all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once
satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter,
they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear
to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of
the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet
of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very
unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from
the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance
of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole
extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work.
Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against
the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so
as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even
have swung himself into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I made the attempt in vain.

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

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

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

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large
fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature,
the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative
propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I
understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

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

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

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

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

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

“I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here,
however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its
greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of
those long queues of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot
is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese.
I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have
belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my
induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a
Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the
advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I have been
misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to
inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant although
innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about
replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He
will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of
great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why
should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within
my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance
from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute
beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have
failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal,
it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to
implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, I am
known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I
am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid
claiming a property of so great value, which it is known that I possess, I
will render the animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy
to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the
advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter
has blown over.’”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them nor show
them until at a signal from myself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To be sure I am, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had
strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape
from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it
might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much
cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter
reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is
ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had
arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was
stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to
obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly
fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous
shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates
of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their
night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in
the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle
of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. The
victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the window; and,
from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and the screams,
it seems probable that it was not immediately perceived. The flapping-to
of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the wind.

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

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

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

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

(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloïse.

THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)

A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.”

Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle
modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie
unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen
sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
Lutherthum hervor.
    There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real
ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify
the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its
consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation;
instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism.—Novalis.(*2) Moral Ansichten.

There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not
occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence in the
supernatural, by coincidences of so seemingly marvellous a character that,
as mere coincidences, the intellect has been unable to receive them. Such
sentiments—for the half-credences of which I speak have never the
full force of thought—such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled
unless by reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically
termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in its
essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of the most
rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of the
most intangible in speculation.

The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public, will
be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the primary branch of a
series of scarcely intelligible coincidences, whose secondary or
concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in the late murder of
Mary Cecila Rogers, at New York.

When, in an article entitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” I
endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable features in
the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did
not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject. This depicting of
character constituted my design; and this design was thoroughly fulfilled
in the wild train of circumstances brought to instance Dupin’s
idiosyncrasy. I might have adduced other examples, but I should have
proven no more. Late events, however, in their surprising development,
have startled me into some farther details, which will carry with them the
air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard, it would be
indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to what I both heard and
saw so long ago.

Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame
L’Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at once
from his attention, and relapsed into his old habits of moody reverie.
Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in with his humor;
and, continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we
gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present,
weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may readily be
supposed that the part played by my friend, in the drama at the Rue
Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon the fancies of the Parisian
police. With its emissaries, the name of Dupin had grown into a household
word. The simple character of those inductions by which he had
disentangled the mystery never having been explained even to the Prefect,
or to any other individual than myself, of course it is not surprising
that the affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the
Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of intuition.
His frankness would have led him to disabuse every inquirer of such
prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all farther agitation of a topic
whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found
himself the cynosure of the political eyes; and the cases were not few in
which attempt was made to engage his services at the Prefecture. One of
the most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl named
Marie Rogêt.

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue.
Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once arrest attention from
their resemblance to those of the unfortunate “cigar girl,” was the only
daughter of the widow Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the
child’s infancy, and from the period of his death, until within eighteen
months before the assassination which forms the subject of our narrative,
the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue Pavée Saint
Andrée; (*3) Madame there keeping a pension, assisted by Marie.
Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second year,
when her great beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one
of the shops in the basement of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay
chiefly among the desperate adventurers infesting that neighborhood.
Monsieur Le Blanc (*4) was not unaware of the advantages to be derived
from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more
of hesitation by Madame.

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon
became notorious through the charms of the sprightly grisette. She had
been in his employ about a year, when her admirers were thrown info
confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was
unable to account for her absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted
with anxiety and terror. The public papers immediately took up the theme,
and the police were upon the point of making serious investigations, when,
one fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health, but
with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her usual counter
in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a private character, was of
course immediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as
before. Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week
had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair
died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to
relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a final
adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her mother’s residence in
the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.

It was about five months after this return home, that her friends were
alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time. Three days
elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth her corpse was found
floating in the Seine, * near the shore which is opposite the Quartier of
the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a point not very far distant from the
secluded neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule. (*6)

The atrocity of this murder, (for it was at once evident that murder had
been committed,) the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her
previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds
of the sensitive Parisians. I can call to mind no similar occurrence
producing so general and so intense an effect. For several weeks, in the
discussion of this one absorbing theme, even the momentous political
topics of the day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and
the powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to the
utmost extent.

Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the
murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief period, the
inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was not until the
expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary to offer a reward; and
even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs. In the mean time
the investigation proceeded with vigor, if not always with judgment, and
numerous individuals were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the
continual absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement
greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought advisable to
double the sum originally proposed; and, at length, the second week having
elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the prejudice which always
exists in Paris against the Police having given vent to itself in several
serious émeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum
of twenty thousand francs “for the conviction of the assassin,” or, if
more than one should prove to have been implicated, “for the conviction of
any one of the assassins.” In the proclamation setting forth this reward,
a full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in
evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it
appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten
thousand francs, in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The
entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs, which
will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider the humble
condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in large cities, of such
atrocities as the one described.

No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be immediately
brought to light. But although, in one or two instances, arrests were made
which promised elucidation, yet nothing was elicited which could implicate
the parties suspected; and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it
may appear, the third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and
passed without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a
rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind, reached the
ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which absorbed our whole
attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad,
or received a visitor, or more than glanced at the leading political
articles in one of the daily papers. The first intelligence of the murder
was brought us by G——, in person. He called upon us early in
the afternoon of the thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us
until late in the night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his
endeavors to ferret out the assassins. His reputation—so he said
with a peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his honor was
concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was really no
sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the development of the
mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what
he was pleased to term the tact of Dupin, and made him a direct, and
certainly a liberal proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel
myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper
subject of my narrative.

The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the proposition he
accepted at once, although its advantages were altogether provisional.
This point being settled, the Prefect broke forth at once into
explanations of his own views, interspersing them with long comments upon
the evidence; of which latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed
much, and beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional
suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his
accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore
spectacles, during the whole interview; and an occasional signal glance
beneath their green glasses, sufficed to convince me that he slept not the
less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight
leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of the
Prefect.

In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the
evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every
paper in which, from first to last, had been published any decisive
information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all that was
positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus:

Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, about nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, June the
twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur
Jacques St. Eustache, (*7) and to him only, of her intention to
spend the day with an aunt who resided in the Rue des Drômes. The
Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare, not
far from the banks of the river, and at a distance of some two miles, in
the most direct course possible, from the pension of Madame Rogêt.
St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took
his meals, at the pension. He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk,
and to have escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to
rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain all night at her
aunt’s, (as she had done under similar circumstances before,) he did not
think it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew on, Madame Rogêt
(who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age,) was heard to express a
fear “that she should never see Marie again;” but this observation
attracted little attention at the time.

On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue des Drômes;
and when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy search was
instituted at several points in the city, and its environs. It was not,
however until the fourth day from the period of disappearance that any
thing satisfactory was ascertained respecting her. On this day,
(Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais, (*8) who, with
a friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du
Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore
by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon seeing the
body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of the
perfumery-girl. His friend recognized it more promptly.

The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the
mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned. There was
no discoloration in the cellular tissue. About the throat were bruises and
impressions of fingers. The arms were bent over on the chest and were
rigid. The right hand was clenched; the left partially open. On the left
wrist were two circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or
of a rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist, also, was
much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but more
especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to the shore the
fishermen had attached to it a rope; but none of the excoriations had been
effected by this. The flesh of the neck was much swollen. There were no
cuts apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of
lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight;
it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which lay
just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to produce death.
The medical testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous character of the
deceased. She had been subjected, it said, to brutal violence. The corpse
was in such condition when found, that there could have been no difficulty
in its recognition by friends.

The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a
slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the
waist, but not torn off. It was wound three times around the waist, and
secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The dress immediately beneath the
frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had
been torn entirely out—torn very evenly and with great care. It was
found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over
this muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet were
attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the strings of the
bonnet were fastened, was not a lady’s, but a slip or sailor’s knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the
Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily interred not far
from the spot at which it was brought ashore. Through the exertions of
Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as far as possible; and
several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A weekly
paper, (*9) however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was
disinterred, and a re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited
beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now
submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified
as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.

Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were
arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under suspicion; and
he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account of his whereabouts
during the Sunday on which Marie left home. Subsequently, however, he
submitted to Monsieur G——, affidavits, accounting
satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and
no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumors were circulated, and
journalists busied themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which
attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rogêt still
lived—that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other
unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages
which embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal
translations from L’Etoile, (*10) a paper conducted, in general, with much
ability.

“Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother’s house on Sunday morning, June
the twenty-second, 18—, with the ostensible purpose of going to see
her aunt, or some other connexion, in the Rue des Drômes. From that
hour, nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no trace or tidings of
her at all…. There has no person, whatever, come forward, so far, who
saw her at all, on that day, after she left her mother’s door…. Now,
though we have no evidence that Marie Rogêt was in the land of the
living after nine o’clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof
that, up to that hour, she was alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a
female body was discovered afloat on the shore of the Barrière de
Roule. This was, even if we presume that Marie Rogêt was thrown
into the river within three hours after she left her mother’s house, only
three days from the time she left her home—three days to an hour.
But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on her
body, could have been consummated soon enough to have enabled her
murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight. Those who are
guilty of such horrid crimes choose darkness rather the light…. Thus we
see that if the body found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it
could only have been in the water two and a half days, or three at the
outside. All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to
ten days for decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the
water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at
least five or six days’ immersion, it sinks again, if let alone. Now, we
ask, what was there in this case to cause a departure from the ordinary
course of nature?… If the body had been kept in its mangled state on
shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the
murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon
afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And,
furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any villains who had
committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in
without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily
been taken.”

The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in the
water “not three days merely, but, at least, five times three days,”
because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great difficulty in
recognizing it. This latter point, however, was fully disproved. I
continue the translation:

“What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt
the body was that of Marie Rogêt? He ripped up the gown sleeve, and
says he found marks which satisfied him of the identity. The public
generally supposed those marks to have consisted of some description of
scars. He rubbed the arm and found hair upon it—something as
indefinite, we think, as can readily be imagined—as little
conclusive as finding an arm in the sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return
that night, but sent word to Madame Rogêt, at seven o’clock, on
Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in progress respecting
her daughter. If we allow that Madame Rogêt, from her age and
grief, could not go over, (which is allowing a great deal,) there
certainly must have been some one who would have thought it worth while to
go over and attend the investigation, if they thought the body was that of
Marie. Nobody went over. There was nothing said or heard about the matter
in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, that reached even the occupants
of the same building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and intended husband of
Marie, who boarded in her mother’s house, deposes that he did not hear of
the discovery of the body of his intended until the next morning, when M.
Beauvais came into his chamber and told him of it. For an item of news
like this, it strikes us it was very coolly received.”

In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an apathy
on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with the supposition
that these relatives believed the corpse to be hers. Its insinuations
amount to this: that Marie, with the connivance of her friends, had
absented herself from the city for reasons involving a charge against her
chastity; and that these friends, upon the discovery of a corpse in the
Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the
opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death. But
L’Etoile was again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that no apathy,
such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was exceedingly feeble,
and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty; that St. Eustache,
so far from receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore
himself so frantically, that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and
relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the examination
at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated by L’Etoile, that
the corpse was re-interred at the public expense—that an
advantageous offer of private sculpture was absolutely declined by the
family—and that no member of the family attended the ceremonial;—although,
I say, all this was asserted by L’Etoile in furtherance of the impression
it designed to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily disproved. In
a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion
upon Beauvais himself. The editor says:

“Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that on one
occasion, while a Madame B—— was at Madame Rogêt’s
house, M. Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a gendarme was
expected there, and she, Madame B., must not say anything to the gendarme
until he returned, but let the matter be for him…. In the present
posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up
in his head. A single step cannot be taken without M. Beauvais, for, go
which way you will, you run against him…. For some reason, he determined
that nobody shall have any thing to do with the proceedings but himself,
and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way, according to their
representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been very
much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.”

By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus thrown
upon Beauvais. A 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, (*11) however, a print of
extensive influence, was earnest in combating this popular idea. I quote a
passage or two from its columns:

“We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so far
as it has been directed to the Barrière du Roule. It is impossible
that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should
have passed three blocks without some one having seen her; and any one who
saw her would have remembered it, for she interested all who knew her. It
was when the streets were full of people, when she went out…. It is
impossible that she could have gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to
the Rue des Drômes, without being recognized by a dozen persons;
yet no one has come forward who saw her outside of her mother’s door, and
there is no evidence, except the testimony concerning her expressed
intentions, that she did go out at all. Her gown was torn, bound round
her, and tied; and by that the body was carried as a bundle. If the murder
had been committed at the Barrière du Roule, there would have been
no necessity for any such arrangement. The fact that the body was found
floating near the Barrière, is no proof as to where it was thrown
into the water….. A piece of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats,
two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin
around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by
fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief.”

A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some important
information reached the police, which seemed to overthrow, at least, the
chief portion of Le Commerciel’s argument. Two small boys, sons of a
Madame Deluc, while roaming among the woods near the Barrière du
Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket, within which were three or
four large stones, forming a kind of seat, with a back and footstool. On
the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second a silk scarf. A
parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The
handkerchief bore the name “Marie Rogêt.” Fragments of dress were
discovered on the brambles around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were
broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. Between the thicket
and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore
evidence of some heavy burthen having been dragged along it.

A weekly paper, Le Soleil,(*12) had the following comments upon this
discovery—comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole
Parisian press:

“The things had all evidently been there at least three or four weeks;
they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the rain and stuck
together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them.
The silk on the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run
together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was
all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its being opened….. The pieces of
her frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six
inches long. One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended;
the other piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like
strips torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about a foot from the
ground….. There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of this
appalling outrage has been discovered.”

Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame Deluc
testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the bank of the
river, opposite the Barrière du Roule. The neighborhood is secluded—particularly
so. It is the usual Sunday resort of blackguards from the city, who cross
the river in boats. About three o’clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in
question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young man of
dark complexion. The two remained here for some time. On their departure,
they took the road to some thick woods in the vicinity. Madame Deluc’s
attention was called to the dress worn by the girl, on account of its
resemblance to one worn by a deceased relative. A scarf was particularly
noticed. Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made
their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making
payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to the
inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in great haste.

It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame Deluc, as well
as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the
inn. The screams were violent but brief. Madame D. recognized not only the
scarf which was found in the thicket, but the dress which was discovered
upon the corpse. An omnibus driver, Valence, (*13) now also testified that
he saw Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in
question, in company with a young man of dark complexion. He, Valence,
knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity. The articles found
in the thicket were fully identified by the relatives of Marie.

The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself, from the
newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only one more point—but
this was a point of seemingly vast consequence. It appears that,
immediately after the discovery of the clothes as above described, the
lifeless, or nearly lifeless body of St. Eustache, Marie’s betrothed, was
found in the vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A
phial labelled “laudanum,” and emptied, was found near him. His breath
gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking. Upon his person was
found a letter, briefly stating his love for Marie, with his design of
self-destruction.

“I need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, as he finished the perusal of my
notes, “that this is a far more intricate case than that of the Rue
Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect. This is an
ordinary, although an atrocious instance of crime. There is nothing
peculiarly outré about it. You will observe that, for this reason,
the mystery has been considered easy, when, for this reason, it should
have been considered difficult, of solution. Thus; at first, it was
thought unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G——
were able at once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have
been committed. They could picture to their imaginations a mode—many
modes—and a motive—many motives; and because it was not
impossible that either of these numerous modes and motives could have been
the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of them must. But
the case with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very
plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative
rather of the difficulties than of the facilities which must attend
elucidation. I have before observed that it is by prominences above the
plane of the ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search
for the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is not
so much ‘what has occurred?’ as ‘what has occurred that has never occurred
before?’ In the investigations at the house of Madame L’Espanaye, (*14)
the agents of G—— were discouraged and confounded by that very
unusualness which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have afforded
the surest omen of success; while this same intellect might have been
plunged in despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in
the case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy triumph
to the functionaries of the Prefecture.

“In the case of Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter there was, even at the
beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been committed.
The idea of suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the
commencement, from all supposition of self-murder. The body found at the
Barrière du Roule, was found under such circumstances as to leave
us no room for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has been
suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the Marie Rogêt
for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered,
and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has been arranged with the
Prefect. We both know this gentleman well. It will not do to trust him too
far. If, dating our inquiries from the body found, and thence tracing a
murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other individual
than Marie; or, if starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find
her unassassinated—in either case we lose our labor; since it is
Monsieur G—— with whom we have to deal. For our own purpose,
therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that our
first step should be the determination of the identity of the corpse with
the Marie Rogêt who is missing.

“With the public the arguments of L’Etoile have had weight; and that the
journal itself is convinced of their importance would appear from the
manner in which it commences one of its essays upon the subject—‘Several
of the morning papers of the day,’ it says, ‘speak of the conclusive
article in Monday’s Etoile.’ To me, this article appears conclusive of
little beyond the zeal of its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in
general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation—to
make a point—than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is
only pursued when it seems coincident with the former. The print which
merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded this opinion
may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass of the people
regard as profound only him who suggests pungent contradictions of
the general idea. In ratiocination, not less than in literature, it is the
epigram which is the most immediately and the most universally
appreciated. In both, it is of the lowest order of merit.

“What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and melodrame of
the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than any true
plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to L’Etoile, and
secured it a favorable reception with the public. Let us examine the heads
of this journal’s argument; endeavoring to avoid the incoherence with
which it is originally set forth.

“The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the interval
between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the floating corpse, that
this corpse cannot be that of Marie. The reduction of this interval to its
smallest possible dimension, becomes thus, at once, an object with the
reasoner. In the rash pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere
assumption at the outset. ‘It is folly to suppose,’ he says, ‘that the
murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated
soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river
before midnight.’ We demand at once, and very naturally, why? Why is it
folly to suppose that the murder was committed within five minutes
after the girl’s quitting her mother’s house? Why is it folly to suppose
that the murder was committed at any given period of the day? There have
been assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at any
moment between nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, and a quarter before
midnight, there would still have been time enough ‘to throw the body into
the river before midnight.’ This assumption, then, amounts precisely to
this—that the murder was not committed on Sunday at all—and,
if we allow L’Etoile to assume this, we may permit it any liberties
whatever. The paragraph beginning ‘It is folly to suppose that the murder,
etc.,’ however it appears as printed in L’Etoile, may be imagined to have
existed actually thus in the brain of its inditer—‘It is folly to
suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the body, could have
been committed soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body
into the river before midnight; it is folly, we say, to suppose all this,
and to suppose at the same time, (as we are resolved to suppose,) that the
body was not thrown in until after midnight’—a sentence sufficiently
inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the one
printed.

“Were it my purpose,” continued Dupin, “merely to make out a case
against this passage of L’Etoile’s argument, I might safely leave it where
it is. It is not, however, with L’Etoile that we have to do, but with the
truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning, as it stands; and
this meaning I have fairly stated; but it is material that we go behind
the mere words, for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and
failed to convey. It was the design of the journalist to say that, at
whatever period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed,
it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear the
corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the
assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was
committed at such a position, and under such circumstances, that the
bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the assassination might
have taken place upon the river’s brink, or on the river itself; and,
thus, the throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to, at
any period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate
mode of disposal. You will understand that I suggest nothing here as
probable, or as cöincident with my own opinion. My design, so far,
has no reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to caution you
against the whole tone of L’Etoile’s suggestion, by calling your attention
to its ex parte character at the outset.

“Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions;
having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have been in
the water but a very brief time, the journal goes on to say:

‘All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the
water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days
for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the
water. Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at
least five or six days’ immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’

“These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris, with
the exception of Le Moniteur. (*15) This latter print endeavors to combat
that portion of the paragraph which has reference to ‘drowned bodies’
only, by citing some five or six instances in which the bodies of
individuals known to be drowned were found floating after the lapse of
less time than is insisted upon by L’Etoile. But there is something
excessively unphilosophical in the attempt on the part of Le Moniteur, to
rebut the general assertion of L’Etoile, by a citation of particular
instances militating against that assertion. Had it been possible to
adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies found floating at the end
of two or three days, these fifty examples could still have been properly
regarded only as exceptions to L’Etoile’s rule, until such time as the
rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the rule, (and this Le Moniteur
does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions,) the argument of
L’Etoile is suffered to remain in full force; for this argument does not
pretend to involve more than a question of the probability of the body
having risen to the surface in less than three days; and this probability
will be in favor of L’Etoile’s position until the instances so childishly
adduced shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical rule.

“You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be urged, if
at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we must examine the
rationale of the rule. Now the human body, in general, is neither much
lighter nor much heavier than the water of the Seine; that is to say, the
specific gravity of the human body, in its natural condition, is about
equal to the bulk of fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and
fleshy persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter than
those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the specific gravity of
the water of a river is somewhat influenced by the presence of the tide
from sea. But, leaving this tide out of question, it may be said that very
few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, of their own
accord. Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if
he suffer the specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in
comparison with his own—that is to say, if he suffer his whole
person to be immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper
position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the walker on
land, with the head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and
nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus circumstanced, we shall
find that we float without difficulty and without exertion. It is evident,
however, that the gravities of the body, and of the bulk of water
displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either
to preponderate. An arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus
deprived of its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the
whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of timber will
enable us to elevate the head so as to look about. Now, in the struggles
of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown upwards, while
an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position.
The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception,
during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the
lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body becomes
heavier by the difference between the weight of the air originally
distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which now fills them.
This difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general
rule; but is insufficient in the cases of individuals with small bones and
an abnormal quantity of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float
even after drowning.

“The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there remain
until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes less than that of
the bulk of water which it displaces. This effect is brought about by
decomposition, or otherwise. The result of decomposition is the generation
of gas, distending the cellular tissues and all the cavities, and giving
the puffed appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so
far progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased without
a corresponding increase of mass or weight, its specific gravity becomes
less than that of the water displaced, and it forthwith makes its
appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified by innumerable
circumstances—is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies; for
example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral impregnation or
purity of the water, by its depth or shallowness, by its currency or
stagnation, by the temperament of the body, by its infection or freedom
from disease before death. Thus it is evident that we can assign no
period, with any thing like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise
through decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would be
brought about within an hour; under others, it might not take place at
all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal frame can be
preserved forever from corruption; the bi-chloride of mercury is one. But,
apart from decomposition, there may be, and very usually is, a generation
of gas within the stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable
matter (or within other cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a
distension which will bring the body to the surface. The effect produced
by the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may either
loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is imbedded, thus
permitting it to rise when other agencies have already prepared it for so
doing; or it may overcome the tenacity of some putrescent portions of the
cellular tissue; allowing the cavities to distend under the influence of
the gas.

“Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can easily
test by it the assertions of L’Etoile. ‘All experience shows,’ says this
paper, ‘that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately
after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient
decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even
when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or
six days’ immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’

“The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of inconsequence and
incoherence. All experience does not show that ‘drowned bodies’ require
from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring
them to the surface. Both science and experience show that the period of
their rising is, and necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a
body has risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not ‘sink
again if let alone,’ until decomposition has so far progressed as to
permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call your attention
to the distinction which is made between ‘drowned bodies,’ and ‘bodies
thrown into the water immediately after death by violence.’ Although the
writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all in the same
category. I have shown how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes
specifically heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at
all, except for the struggles by which he elevates his arms above the
surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface—gasps
which supply by water the place of the original air in the lungs. But
these struggles and these gasps would not occur in the body ‘thrown into
the water immediately after death by violence.’ Thus, in the latter
instance, the body, as a general rule, would not sink at all—a fact
of which L’Etoile is evidently ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded
to a very great extent—when the flesh had in a great measure left
the bones—then, indeed, but not till then, should we lose sight of
the corpse.

“And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found could
not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having
elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman, she
might never have sunk; or having sunk, might have reappeared in
twenty-four hours, or less. But no one supposes her to have been drowned;
and, dying before being thrown into the river, she might have been found
floating at any period afterwards whatever.

“‘But,’ says L’Etoile, ‘if the body had been kept in its mangled state on
shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the
murderers.’ Here it is at first difficult to perceive the intention of the
reasoner. He means to anticipate what he imagines would be an objection to
his theory—viz.: that the body was kept on shore two days, suffering
rapid decomposition—more rapid than if immersed in water. He
supposes that, had this been the case, it might have appeared at the
surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that only under such circumstances it
could so have appeared. He is accordingly in haste to show that it was not
kept on shore; for, if so, ‘some trace would be found on shore of the
murderers.’ I presume you smile at the sequitur. You cannot be made to see
how the mere duration of the corpse on the shore could operate to multiply
traces of the assassins. Nor can I.

“‘And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,’ continues our journal,
‘that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed,
would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a
precaution could have so easily been taken.’ Observe, here, the laughable
confusion of thought! No one—not even L’Etoile—disputes the
murder committed on the body found. The marks of violence are too
obvious. It is our reasoner’s object merely to show that this body is not
Marie’s. He wishes to prove that Marie is not assassinated—not that
the corpse was not. Yet his observation proves only the latter point. Here
is a corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would not
have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown in by
murderers. This is all which is proved, if any thing is. The question of
identity is not even approached, and L’Etoile has been at great pains
merely to gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before. ‘We are
perfectly convinced,’ it says, ‘that the body found was that of a murdered
female.’

“Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject,
where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself. His evident
object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as possible, the
interval between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the corpse. Yet
we find him urging the point that no person saw the girl from the moment
of her leaving her mother’s house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, ‘that
Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine o’clock on
Sunday, June the twenty-second.’ As his argument is obviously an ex parte
one, he should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any
one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in
question would have been much reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the
probability much diminished of the corpse being that of the grisette. It
is, nevertheless, amusing to observe that L’Etoile insists upon its point
in the full belief of its furthering its general argument.

“Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference to the
identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the hair upon the
arm, L’Etoile has been obviously disingenuous. M. Beauvais, not being an
idiot, could never have urged, in identification of the corpse, simply
hair upon its arm. No arm is without hair. The generality of the
expression of L’Etoile is a mere perversion of the witness’ phraseology.
He must have spoken of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a
peculiarity of color, of quantity, of length, or of situation.

“‘Her foot,’ says the journal, ‘was small—so are thousands of feet.
Her garter is no proof whatever—nor is her shoe—for shoes and
garters are sold in packages. The same may be said of the flowers in her
hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly insists is, that the clasp
on the garter found, had been set back to take it in. This amounts to
nothing; for most women find it proper to take a pair of garters home and
fit them to the size of the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try
them in the store where they purchase.’ Here it is difficult to suppose
the reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the body of
Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and appearance to
the missing girl, he would have been warranted (without reference to the
question of habiliment at all) in forming an opinion that his search had
been successful. If, in addition to the point of general size and contour,
he had found upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had
observed upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly
strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have been in the
ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the hairy mark. If, the feet
of Marie being small, those of the corpse were also small, the increase of
probability that the body was that of Marie would not be an increase in a
ratio merely arithmetical, but in one highly geometrical, or accumulative.
Add to all this shoes such as she had been known to wear upon the day of
her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be ‘sold in packages,’
you so far augment the probability as to verge upon the certain. What, of
itself, would be no evidence of identity, becomes through its
corroborative position, proof most sure. Give us, then, flowers in the hat
corresponding to those worn by the missing girl, and we seek for nothing
farther. If only one flower, we seek for nothing farther—what then
if two or three, or more? Each successive one is multiple evidence—proof
not added to proof, but multiplied by hundreds or thousands. Let us
now discover, upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and it
is almost folly to proceed. But these garters are found to be tightened,
by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner as her own had been
tightened by Marie, shortly previous to her leaving home. It is now
madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What L’Etoile says in respect to this
abbreviation of the 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 necessity require foreign
adjustment but rarely. It must have been by an accident, in its strictest
sense, that these garters of Marie needed the tightening described. They
alone would have amply established her identity. But it is not that the
corpse was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or found to have
her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a
peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance—it is
that the corpse had each, and all collectively. Could it be proved
that the editor of L’Etoile really entertained a doubt, under the
circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a commission de
lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious to echo the small talk of
the lawyers, who, for the most part, content themselves with echoing the
rectangular precepts of the courts. I would here observe that very much of
what is rejected as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the
intellect. For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of
evidence—the recognized and booked principles—is averse
from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to
principle, with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure
mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long sequence of
time. The practice, in mass, is therefore philosophical; but it is not the
less certain that it engenders vast individual error. (*16)

“In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will be willing
to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed the true character
of this good gentleman. He is a busy-body, with much of romance and little
of wit. Any one so constituted will readily so conduct himself, upon
occasion of real excitement, as to render himself liable to suspicion on
the part of the over acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it
appears from your notes) had some personal interviews with the editor of
L’Etoile, and offended him by venturing an opinion that the corpse,
notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in sober fact, that of
Marie. ‘He persists,’ says the paper, ‘in asserting the corpse to be that
of Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, in addition to those which we
have commented upon, to make others believe.’ Now, without re-adverting to
the fact that stronger evidence ‘to make others believe,’ could never have
been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be understood to
believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to advance a single
reason for the belief of a second party. Nothing is more vague than
impressions of individual identity. Each man recognizes his neighbor, yet
there are few instances in which any one is prepared to give a reason for
his recognition. The editor of L’Etoile had no right to be offended at M.
Beauvais’ unreasoning belief.

“The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found to tally
much better with my hypothesis of romantic busy-bodyism, than with the
reasoner’s suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the more charitable
interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in comprehending the rose in
the key-hole; the ‘Marie’ upon the slate; the ‘elbowing the male relatives
out of the way;’ the ‘aversion to permitting them to see the body;’ the
caution given to Madame B——, that she must hold no
conversation with the gendarme until his return (Beauvais’); and, lastly,
his apparent determination ‘that nobody should have anything to do with
the proceedings except himself.’ It seems to me unquestionable that
Beauvais was a suitor of Marie’s; that she coquetted with him; and that he
was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and
confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this point; and, as the evidence
fully rebuts the assertion of L’Etoile, touching the matter of apathy on
the part of the mother and other relatives—an apathy inconsistent
with the supposition of their believing the corpse to be that of the
perfumery-girl—we shall now proceed as if the question of identity
were settled to our perfect satisfaction.”

“And what,” I here demanded, “do you think of the opinions of Le
Commerciel?”

“That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any which
have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from the premises
are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in two instances, at least,
are founded in imperfect observation. Le Commerciel wishes to intimate
that Marie was seized by some gang of low ruffians not far from her
mother’s door. ‘It is impossible,’ it urges, ‘that a person so well known
to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks
without some one having seen her.’ This is the idea of a man long resident
in Paris—a public man—and one whose walks to and fro in the
city, have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public offices. He
is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own
bureau, without being recognized and accosted. And, knowing the extent of
his personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he compares
his notoriety with that of the perfumery-girl, finds no great difference
between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her walks,
would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This could
only be the case were her walks of the same unvarying, methodical
character, and within the same species of limited region as are his own.
He passes to and fro, at regular intervals, within a confined periphery,
abounding in individuals who are led to observation of his person through
interest in the kindred nature of his occupation with their own. But the
walks of Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular
instance, it will be understood as most probable, that she proceeded upon
a route of more than average diversity from her accustomed ones. The
parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of Le Commerciel
would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals traversing
the whole city. In this case, granting the personal acquaintances to be
equal, the chances would be also equal that an equal number of personal
rencounters would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as
possible, but as very far more than probable, that Marie might have
proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many routes between her
own residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a single individual
whom she knew, or by whom she was known. In viewing this question in its
full and proper light, we must hold steadily in mind the great
disproportion between the personal acquaintances of even the most noted
individual in Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself.

“But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion of Le
Commerciel, will be much diminished when we take into consideration the
hour at which the girl went abroad. ‘It was when the streets were full of
people,’ says Le Commerciel, ‘that she went out.’ But not so. It was at
nine o’clock in the morning. Now at nine o’clock of every morning in the
week, with the exception of Sunday, the streets of the city are, it
is true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are chiefly
within doors preparing for church. No observing person can have
failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town, from about eight
until ten on the morning of every Sabbath. Between ten and eleven the
streets are thronged, but not at so early a period as that designated.

“There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of observation
on the part of Le Commerciel. ‘A piece,’ it says, ‘of one of the
unfortunate girl’s petticoats, two feet long, and one foot wide, was torn
out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to
prevent screams. This was done, by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.’ Whether this idea is, or is not well founded, we
will endeavor to see hereafter; but by ‘fellows who have no
pocket-handkerchiefs’ the editor intends the lowest class of ruffians.
These, however, are the very description of people who will always be
found to have handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have
had occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years, to
the thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.”

“And what are we to think,” I asked, “of the article in Le Soleil?”

“That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in which
case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has
merely repeated the individual items of the already published opinion;
collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this paper and from that.
‘The things had all evidently been there,’ he says, ‘at least, three or
four weeks, and there can be no doubt that the spot of this
appalling outrage has been discovered.’ The facts here re-stated by Le
Soleil, are very far indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject,
and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with
another division of the theme.

“At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations. You cannot
fail to have remarked the extreme laxity of the examination of the corpse.
To be sure, the question of identity was readily determined, or should
have been; but there were other points to be ascertained. Had the body
been in any respect despoiled? Had the deceased any articles of jewelry
about her person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found? These
are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and there are
others of equal moment, which have met with no attention. We must endeavor
to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be
re-examined. I have no suspicion of this person; but let us proceed
methodically. We will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the
affidavits in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this
character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there be
nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from our
investigations. His suicide, however corroborative of suspicion, were
there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is, without such deceit, in no
respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need cause us to
deflect from the line of ordinary analysis.

“In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this
tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least
usual error, in investigations such as this, is the limiting of inquiry to
the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or circumstantial
events. It is the mal-practice of the courts to confine evidence and
discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown,
and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger
portion of truth, arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the
spirit of this principle, if not precisely through its letter, that modern
science has resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen. But perhaps you do
not comprehend me. The history of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly
shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are
indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has
at length become necessary, in any prospective view of improvement, to
make not only large, but the largest allowances for inventions that shall
arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation. It is
no longer philosophical to base, upon what has been, a vision of what is
to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make
chance a matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlooked for and
unimagined to the mathematical formulae of the schools.

“I repeat that it is no more than fact, that the larger portion of all
truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in accordance with the
spirit of the principle involved in this fact, that I would divert
inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and hitherto unfruitful
ground of the event itself, to the contemporary circumstances which
surround it. While you ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will
examine the newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far,
we have only reconnoitred the field of investigation; but it will be
strange indeed if a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of the public
prints, will not afford us some minute points which shall establish a
direction for inquiry.”

In pursuance of Dupin’s suggestion, I made scrupulous examination of the
affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction of their
validity, and of the consequent innocence of St. Eustache. In the mean
time my friend occupied himself, with what seemed to me a minuteness
altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper files. At
the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts:

“About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the
present, was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie Rogêt,
from the parfumerie of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais Royal. At the end
of a week, however, she re-appeared at her customary comptoir, as well as
ever, with the exception of a slight paleness not altogether usual. It was
given out by Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother, that she had merely been on
a visit to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily hushed
up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the same nature, and
that, at the expiration of a week, or perhaps of a month, we shall have
her among us again.”—Evening Paper—Monday, June 23. (*17)

“An evening journal of yesterday, refers to a former mysterious
disappearance of Mademoiselle Rogêt. It is well known that, during
the week of her absence from Le Blanc’s parfumerie, she was in the company
of a young naval officer, much noted for his debaucheries. A quarrel, it
is supposed, providentially led to her return home. We have the name of
the Lothario in question, who is, at present, stationed in Paris, but, for
obvious reasons, forbear to make it public.”—Le Mercurie—Tuesday
Morning, June 24. (*18)

“An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near this city
the day before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife and daughter,
engaged, about dusk, the services of six young men, who were idly rowing a
boat to and fro near the banks of the Seine, to convey him across the
river. Upon reaching the opposite shore, the three passengers stepped out,
and had proceeded so far as to be beyond the view of the boat, when the
daughter discovered that she had left in it her parasol. She returned for
it, was seized by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged, brutally
treated, and finally taken to the shore at a point not far from that at
which she had originally entered the boat with her parents. The villains
have escaped for the time, but the police are upon their trail, and some
of them will soon be taken.”—Morning Paper—June 25. (*19)

“We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to
fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais; (*20) but as this
gentleman has been fully exonerated by a loyal inquiry, and as the
arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more zealous than
profound, we do not think it advisable to make them public.”—Morning
Paper—June 28. (*21)

“We have received several forcibly written communications, apparently from
various sources, and which go far to render it a matter of certainty that
the unfortunate Marie Rogêt has become a victim of one of the
numerous bands of blackguards which infest the vicinity of the city upon
Sunday. Our own opinion is decidedly in favor of this supposition. We
shall endeavor to make room for some of these arguments hereafter.”—Evening
Paper—Tuesday, June 31. (*22)

“On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service, saw an
empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the
boat. The bargeman towed it under the barge office. The next morning it
was taken from thence, without the knowledge of any of the officers. The
rudder is now at the barge office.”—Le Diligence—Thursday,
June 26.

Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me
irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them could be
brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for some explanation
from Dupin.

“It is not my present design,” he said, “to dwell upon the first and
second of those extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show you the
extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can understand from the
Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any respect, with an examination
of the naval officer alluded to. Yet it is mere folly to say that between
the first and second disappearance of Marie there is no supposable
connection. Let us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel
between the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are now
prepared to view a second elopement (if we know that an elopement has
again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the betrayer’s advances,
rather than as the result of new proposals by a second individual—we
are prepared to regard it as a ‘making up’ of the old amour, rather than
as the commencement of a new one. The chances are ten to one, that he who
had once eloped with Marie, would again propose an elopement, rather than
that she to whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual,
should have them made to her by another. And here let me call your
attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the first
ascertained, and the second supposed elopement, is a few months more than
the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been
interrupted in his first villany by the necessity of departure to sea, and
had he seized the first moment of his return to renew the base designs not
yet altogether accomplished—or not yet altogether accomplished by him?
Of all these things we know nothing.

“You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was no
elopement as imagined. Certainly not—but are we prepared to say that
there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St. Eustache, and perhaps
Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no honorable suitors of Marie.
Of none other is there any thing said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of
whom the relatives (at least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie
meets upon the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence,
that she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the evening
descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barrière du Roule? Who is
that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most of the relatives know
nothing? And what means the singular prophecy of Madame Rogêt on
the morning of Marie’s departure?—‘I fear that I shall never see
Marie again.’

“But if we cannot imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of
elopement, may we not at least suppose this design entertained by the
girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that she was about
to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes and St. Eustache was
requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first glance, this fact
strongly militates against my suggestion;—but let us reflect. That
she did meet some companion, and proceed with him across the river,
reaching the Barrière du Roule at so late an hour as three o’clock
in the afternoon, is known. But in consenting so to accompany this
individual, (for whatever purpose—to her mother known or unknown,)
she must have thought of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of
the surprise and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor,
St. Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the Rue des
Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and when,
moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming intelligence,
he should become aware of her continued absence from home. She must have
thought of these things, I say. She must have foreseen the chagrin of St.
Eustache, the suspicion of all. She could not have thought of returning to
brave this suspicion; but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial
importance to her, if we suppose her not intending to return.

“We may imagine her thinking thus—‘I am to meet a certain person for
the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known only to
myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of interruption—there
must be sufficient time given us to elude pursuit—I will give it to
be understood that I shall visit and spend the day with my aunt at the Rue
des Drômes—I well tell St. Eustache not to call for me until
dark—in this way, my absence from home for the longest possible
period, without causing suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I
shall gain more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call
for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but, if I wholly
neglect to bid him call, my time for escape will be diminished, since it
will be expected that I return the earlier, and my absence will the sooner
excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to return at all—if I had
in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question—it
would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache call; for, calling, he will be
sure to ascertain that I have played him false—a fact of which I
might keep him for ever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying
him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I
had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my
design never to return—or not for some weeks—or not until
certain concealments are effected—the gaining of time is the only
point about which I need give myself any concern.’

“You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in
relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that the girl had
been the victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, the popular opinion, under
certain conditions, is not to be disregarded. When arising of itself—when
manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous manner—we should look
upon it as analogous with that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy
of the individual man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I
would abide by its decision. But it is important that we find no palpable
traces of suggestion. The opinion must be rigorously the
public’s own; and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to
perceive and to maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that
this ‘public opinion’ in respect to a gang, has been superinduced by the
collateral event which is detailed in the third of my extracts. All Paris
is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful and
notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and floating
in the river. But it is now made known that, at the very period, or about
the very period, in which it is supposed that the girl was assassinated,
an outrage similar in nature to that endured by the deceased, although
less in extent, was perpetuated, by a gang of young ruffians, upon the
person of a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known
atrocity should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other
unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so
opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found in the river; and upon
this very river was this known outrage committed. The connexion of the two
events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder would
have been a failure of the populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in
fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing,
evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so
committed. It would have been a miracle indeed, if, while a gang of
ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most unheard-of wrong,
there should have been another similar gang, in a similar locality, in the
same city, under the same circumstances, with the same means and
appliances, engaged in a wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely
the same period of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of
coincidence, does the accidentally suggested opinion of the populace call
upon us to believe?

“Before proceeding farther, let us consider the supposed scene of the
assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule. This
thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public road.
Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back
and footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a white petticoat; on the
second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief, were
also here found. The handkerchief bore the name, ‘Marie Rogêt.’
Fragments of dress were seen on the branches around. The earth was
trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a
violent struggle.

“Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket
was received by the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to
indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it must be admitted that there
was some very good reason for doubt. That it was the scene, I may or I may
not believe—but there was excellent reason for doubt. Had the true
scene been, as Le Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still
resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror at the
public attention thus acutely directed into the proper channel; and, in
certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense of the
necessity of some exertion to redivert this attention. And thus, the
thicket of the Barrière du Roule having been already suspected, the
idea of placing the articles where they were found, might have been
naturally entertained. There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so
supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a very few days
in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof that they could
not have remained there, without attracting attention, during the twenty
days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they
were found by the boys. ‘They were all mildewed down hard,’ says Le
Soleil, adopting the opinions of its predecessors, ‘with the action of the
rain, and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around
and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads
of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled
and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being opened.’
In respect to the grass having ‘grown around and over some of them,’ it is
obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the words, and
thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the
articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party.
But grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather, (such as was
that of the period of the murder,) as much as two or three inches in a
single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single
week, be entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing grass. And
touching that mildew upon which the editor of Le Soleil so pertinaciously
insists, that he employs the word no less than three times in the brief
paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew?
Is he to be told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which
the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within
twenty-four hours?

“Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in
support of the idea that the articles had been ‘for at least three or four
weeks’ in the thicket, is most absurdly null as regards any evidence of
that fact. On the other hand, it is exceedingly difficult to believe that
these articles could have remained in the thicket specified, for a longer
period than a single week—for a longer period than from one Sunday
to the next. Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the
extreme difficulty of finding seclusion unless at a great distance from
its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored, or even an unfrequently
visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be
imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet
chained by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis—let
any such one attempt, even during the weekdays, to slake his thirst for
solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which immediately surround
us. At every second step, he will find the growing charm dispelled by the
voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing
blackguards. He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain.
Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most abound—here are the
temples most desecrate. With sickness of the heart the wanderer will flee
back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less incongruous
sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the
working days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now
especially that, released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the
customary opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the precincts
of the town, not through love of the rural, which in his heart he
despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities
of society. He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the
utter license of the country. Here, at the road-side inn, or beneath the
foliage of the woods, he indulges, unchecked by any eye except those of
his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity—the
joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than what must
be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the
circumstance of the articles in question having remained undiscovered, for
a longer period than from one Sunday to another, in any thicket in
the immediate neighborhood of Paris, is to be looked upon as little less
than miraculous.

“But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the
articles were placed in the thicket with the view of diverting attention
from the real scene of the outrage. And, first, let me direct your notice
to the date of the discovery of the articles. Collate this with the date
of the fifth extract made by myself from the newspapers. You will find
that the discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications
sent to the evening paper. These communications, although various and
apparently from various sources, tended all to the same point—viz.,
the directing of attention to a gang as the perpetrators of the outrage,
and to the neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule as its scene. Now
here, of course, the suspicion is not that, in consequence of these
communications, or of the public attention by them directed, the articles
were found by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well have been,
that the articles were not before found by the boys, for the reason that
the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been deposited
there only at so late a period as at the date, or shortly prior to the
date of the communication, by the guilty authors of these communications
themselves.

“This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one. It was
unusually dense. Within its naturally walled enclosure were three
extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and footstool. And this
thicket, so full of a natural art, was in the immediate vicinity, within a
few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of
closely examining the shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the
sassafras. Would it be a rash wager—a wager of one thousand to one—that
a day never passed over the heads of these boys without finding at least
one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its
natural throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have either
never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature. I repeat—it
is exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained in
this thicket undiscovered, for a longer period than one or two days; and
that thus there is good ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic
ignorance of Le Soleil, that they were, at a comparatively late date,
deposited where found.

“But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so
deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And, now, let me beg your
notice to the highly artificial arrangement of the articles. On the upper
stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf; scattered around,
were a parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name, ‘Marie
Rogêt.’ Here is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made
by a not over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But
it is by no means a really natural arrangement. I should rather have
looked to see the things all lying on the ground and trampled under foot.
In the narrow limits of that bower, it would have been scarcely possible
that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the
stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling
persons. ‘There was evidence,’ it is said, ‘of a struggle; and the earth
was trampled, the bushes were broken,’—but the petticoat and the
scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. ‘The pieces of the frock
torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long.
One part was the hem of the frock and it had been mended. They looked like
strips torn off.’ Here, inadvertently, Le Soleil has employed an
exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces, as described, do indeed ‘look
like strips torn off;’ but purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest
of accidents that a piece is ‘torn off,’ from any garment such as is now
in question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such
fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming entangled in them, tears them
rectangularly—divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right
angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters—but
it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece ‘torn off.’ I never so knew
it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from such fabric, two distinct
forces, in different directions, will be, in almost every case, required.
If there be two edges to the fabric—if, for example, it be a
pocket-handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from it a slip, then, and
then only, will the one force serve the purpose. But in the present case
the question is of a dress, presenting but one edge. To tear a piece from
the interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a
miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could accomplish
it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary,
operating, the one in two distinct directions, and the other in one. And
this in the supposition that the edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter
is nearly out of the question. We thus see the numerous and great
obstacles in the way of pieces being ‘torn off’ through the simple agency
of ‘thorns;’ yet we are required to believe not only that one piece but
that many have been so torn. ‘And one part,’ too, ‘was the hem of the
frock!’ Another piece was ‘part of the skirt, not the hem,’—that is
to say, was torn completely out through the agency of thorns, from the
uncaged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things which one may well
be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps,
less of reasonable ground for suspicion, than the one startling
circumstance of the articles’ having been left in this thicket at all, by
any murderers who had enough precaution to think of removing the corpse.
You will not have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my
design to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might have
been a wrong here, or, more possibly, an accident at Madame Deluc’s. But,
in fact, this is a point of minor importance. We are not engaged in an
attempt to discover the scene, but to produce the perpetrators of the
murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness with which I
have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show the folly of the
positive and headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and chiefly,
to bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation of the
doubt whether this assassination has, or has not, been the work of a gang.

“We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting details of
the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only necessary to say that his
published inferences, in regard to the number of ruffians, have been
properly ridiculed as unjust and totally baseless, by all the reputable
anatomists of Paris. Not that the matter might not have been as inferred,
but that there was no ground for the inference:—was there not much
for another?

“Let us reflect now upon ‘the traces of a struggle;’ and let me ask what
these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang. But do they not
rather demonstrate the absence of a gang? What struggle could have taken
place—what struggle so violent and so enduring as to have left its
‘traces’ in all directions—between a weak and defenceless girl and
the gang of ruffians imagined? The silent grasp of a few rough arms and
all would have been over. The victim must have been absolutely passive at
their will. You will here bear in mind that the arguments urged against
the thicket as the scene, are applicable in chief part, only against it as
the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single individual. If we
imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the
struggle of so violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the
‘traces’ apparent.

“And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by the
fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain at all in the
thicket where discovered. It seems almost impossible that these evidences
of guilt should have been accidentally left where found. There was
sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet
a more positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might have
been quickly obliterated by decay,) is allowed to lie conspicuously in the
scene of the outrage—I allude to the handkerchief with the name of
the deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident of a gang. We
can imagine it only the accident of an individual. Let us see. An
individual has committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the
departed. He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of
his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the
natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which the presence
of numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the dead. He trembles and
is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing of the corpse. He
bears it to the river, but leaves behind him the other evidences of guilt;
for it is difficult, if not impossible to carry all the burthen at once,
and it will be easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome
journey to the water his fears redouble within him. The sounds of life
encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies the step of an
observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him. Yet, in time
and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the river’s
brink, and disposes of his ghastly charge—perhaps through the medium
of a boat. But now what treasure does the world hold—what threat of
vengeance could it hold out—which would have power to urge the
return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to
the thicket and its blood chilling recollections? He returns not, let the
consequences be what they may. He could not return if he would. His sole
thought is immediate escape. He turns his back forever upon those dreadful
shrubberies and flees as from the wrath to come.

“But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired them with
confidence; if, indeed confidence is ever wanting in the breast of the
arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the supposed gangs
ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have prevented the
bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have imagined to paralyze the
single man. Could we suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this
oversight would have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left
nothing behind them; for their number would have enabled them to carry all
at once. There would have been no need of return.

“Consider now the circumstance that in the outer garment of the corpse
when found, ‘a slip, about a foot wide had been torn upward from the
bottom hem to the waist wound three times round the waist, and secured by
a sort of hitch in the back.’ This was done with the obvious design of
affording a handle by which to carry the body. But would any number of men
have dreamed of resorting to such an expedient? To three or four, the
limbs of the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the
best possible hold. The device is that of a single individual; and this
brings us to the fact that ‘between the thicket and the river, the rails
of the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evident traces of
some heavy burden having been dragged along it!’ But would a number of men
have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for
the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have lifted
over any fence in an instant? Would a number of men have so dragged a
corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the dragging?

“And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel; an observation
upon which I have already, in some measure, commented. ‘A piece,’ says
this journal, ‘of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats was torn out
and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to
prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.’

“I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a
pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I now especially
advert. That it was not through want of a handkerchief for the purpose
imagined by Le Commerciel, that this bandage was employed, is rendered
apparent by the handkerchief left in the thicket; and that the object was
not ‘to prevent screams’ appears, also, from the bandage having been
employed in preference to what would so much better have answered the
purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in question
as ‘found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot.’
These words are sufficiently vague, but differ materially from those of Le
Commerciel. The slip was eighteen inches wide, and therefore, although of
muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally.
And thus rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary
murderer, having borne the corpse, for some distance (whether from the
thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched around its middle,
found the weight, in this mode of procedure, too much for his strength. He
resolved to drag the burthen—the evidence goes to show that it was
dragged. With this object in view, it became necessary to attach something
like a rope to one of the extremities. It could be best attached about the
neck, where the head would prevent its slipping off. And, now, the
murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins. He
would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the hitch
which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been ‘torn off’
from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip from the petticoat. He
tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the
brink of the river. That this ‘bandage,’ only attainable with trouble and
delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose—that this bandage
was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity for its employment
sprang from circumstances arising at a period when the handkerchief was no
longer attainable—that is to say, arising, as we have imagined,
after quitting the thicket, (if the thicket it was), and on the road
between the thicket and the river.

“But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points especially to
the presence of a gang, in the vicinity of the thicket, at or about the
epoch of the murder. This I grant. I doubt if there were not a dozen
gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the
Barrière du Roule at or about the period of this tragedy. But the
gang which has drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the
somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is the only
gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous old lady as having
eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy, without putting themselves to
the trouble of making her payment. Et hinc illæ iræ?

“But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? ‘A gang of miscreants
made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making
payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to the
inn about dusk, and recrossed the river as if in great haste.’

“Now this ‘great haste’ very possibly seemed greater haste in the eyes of
Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly upon her
violated cakes and ale—cakes and ale for which she might still have
entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why, otherwise, since it was
about dusk, should she make a point of the haste? It is no cause for
wonder, surely, that even a gang of blackguards should make haste to get
home, when a wide river is to be crossed in small boats, when storm
impends, and when night approaches.

“I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was only about
dusk that the indecent haste of these ‘miscreants’ offended the sober eyes
of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon this very evening that
Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, ‘heard the screams of a female in
the vicinity of the inn.’ And in what words does Madame Deluc designate
the period of the evening at which these screams were heard? ‘It was soon
after dark,’ she says. But ‘soon after dark,’ is, at least, dark; and
‘about dusk’ is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly clear that
the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule prior to the screams
overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the many reports of
the evidence, the relative expressions in question are distinctly and
invariably employed just as I have employed them in this conversation with
yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been
taken by any of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police.

“I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but this one has, to
my own understanding at least, a weight altogether irresistible. Under the
circumstances of large reward offered, and full pardon to any king’s
evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a moment, that some member of a
gang of low ruffians, or of any body of men, would not long ago have
betrayed his accomplices. Each one of a gang so placed, is not so much
greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He
betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be betrayed. That the
secret has not been divulged, is the very best of proof that it is, in
fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are known only to one, or
two, living human beings, and to God.

“Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long analysis. We
have attained the idea either of a fatal accident under the roof of Madame
Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in the thicket at the Barrière
du Roule, by a lover, or at least by an intimate and secret associate of
the deceased. This associate is of swarthy complexion. This complexion,
the ‘hitch’ in the bandage, and the ‘sailor’s knot,’ with which the
bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the
deceased, a gay, but not an abject young girl, designates him as above the
grade of the common sailor. Here the well written and urgent
communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration. The
circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned by Le Mercurie, tends to
blend the idea of this seaman with that of the ‘naval officer’ who is
first known to have led the unfortunate into crime.

“And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued absence of
him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe that the complexion of
this man is dark and swarthy; it was no common swarthiness which
constituted the sole point of remembrance, both as regards Valence and
Madame Deluc. But why is this man absent? Was he murdered by the gang? If
so, why are there only traces of the assassinated girl? The scene of the
two outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his
corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the
same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from
making himself known, through dread of being charged with the murder. This
consideration might be supposed to operate upon him now—at this late
period—since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with
Marie—but it would have had no force at the period of the deed. The
first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the outrage,
and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This policy would have suggested.
He had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in an
open ferry-boat. The denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even
to an idiot, the surest and sole means of relieving himself from
suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the night of the fatal Sunday, both
innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed. Yet only under
such circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed, if
alive, in the denouncement of the assassins.

“And what means are ours, of attaining the truth? We shall find these
means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to
the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let us know the full
history of ‘the officer,’ with his present circumstances, and his
whereabouts at the precise period of the murder. Let us carefully compare
with each other the various communications sent to the evening paper, in
which the object was to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these
communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to the
morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so vehemently upon the
guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us again compare these various
communications with the known MSS. of the officer. Let us endeavor to
ascertain, by repeated questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well
as of the omnibus driver, Valence, something more of the personal
appearance and bearing of the ‘man of dark complexion.’ Queries, skilfully
directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information
on this particular point (or upon others)—information which the
parties themselves may not even be aware of possessing. And let us now
trace the boat picked up by the bargeman on the morning of Monday the
twenty-third of June, and which was removed from the barge-office, without
the cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder, at
some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution
and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can the
bargeman who picked it up identify it, but the rudder is at hand. The
rudder of a sail-boat would not have been abandoned, without inquiry, by
one altogether at ease in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a
question. There was no advertisement of the picking up of this boat. It
was silently taken to the barge-office, and as silently removed. But its
owner or employer—how happened he, at so early a period as Tuesday
morning, to be informed, without the agency of advertisement, of the
locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine some connexion
with the navy—some personal permanent connexion leading to
cognizance of its minute in interests—its petty local news?

“In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore, I
have already suggested the probability of his availing himself of a boat.
Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt was precipitated from a
boat. This would naturally have been the case. The corpse could not have
been trusted to the shallow waters of the shore. The peculiar marks on the
back and shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That
the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If
thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can only
account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have neglected the
precaution of supplying himself with it before pushing off. In the act of
consigning the corpse to the water, he would unquestionably have noticed
his oversight; but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would
have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself
of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the city.
There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land. But the boat—would
he have secured it? He would have been in too great haste for such things
as securing a boat. Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have
felt as if securing evidence against himself. His natural thought would
have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held
connection with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but
he would not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he would have
cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.—In the morning, the
wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at finding that the boat has
been picked up and detained at a locality which he is in the daily habit
of frequenting —at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him
to frequent. The next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he
removes it. Now where is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our first
purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of
our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which
will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed it in the midnight of
the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise upon corroboration, and the
murderer will be traced.”

[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers will
appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omitting, from the MSS.
placed in our hands, such portion as details the following up of the
apparently slight clew obtained by Dupin. We feel it advisable only to
state, in brief, that the result desired was brought to pass; and that the
Prefect fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his
compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe’s article concludes with the following
words.—Eds. (*23)]

It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more. What I
have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own heart there dwells
no faith in præter-nature. That Nature and its God are two, no man
who thinks, will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will,
control or modify it, is also unquestionable. I say “at will;” for the
question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of
power. It is not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult
him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin
these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in
the Future. With God all is Now.

I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences. And
farther: in what I relate it will be seen that between the fate of the
unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is known, and the fate of
one Marie Rogêt up to a certain epoch in her history, there has
existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude the
reason becomes embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not
for a moment be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of
Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its dénouement
the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an
extension of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures adopted in
Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded
in any similar ratiocination, would produce any similar result.

For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be
considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the two cases
might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by diverting
thoroughly the two courses of events; very much as, in arithmetic, an
error which, in its own individuality, may be inappreciable, produces, at
length, by dint of multiplication at all points of the process, a result
enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former branch, we
must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to
which I have referred, forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel—forbids
it with a positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this
parallel has already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those
anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether
apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the mathematician can
fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more difficult than to convince
the merely general reader that the fact of sixes having been thrown twice
in succession by a player at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the
largest odds that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A
suggestion to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It
does not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and which
lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the throw which
exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing sixes seems to be
precisely as it was at any ordinary time—that is to say, subject
only to the influence of the various other throws which may be made by the
dice. And this is a reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that
attempts to controvert it are received more frequently with a derisive
smile than with anything like respectful attention. The error here
involved—a gross error redolent of mischief—I cannot pretend
to expose within the limits assigned me at present; and with the
philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to say that
it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise in the path of
Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail.

FOOTNOTES—Marie Rogêt

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

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

(*3) Nassau Street.

(*4) Anderson.

(*5) The Hudson.

(*6) Weehawken.

(*7) Payne.

(*8) Crommelin.

(*9) The New York “Mercury.”

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

(*11) New York “Journal of Commerce.”

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

(*13) Adam

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

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

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

(*17) New York “Express”

(*18) New York “Herald.”

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

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

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

(*22) New York “Evening Post.”

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

THE BALLOON-HOAX

[Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk!—The Atlantic crossed in
Three Days! Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying
Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan’s Island, near Charlestown, S.C., of
Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four
others, in the Steering Balloon, “Victoria,” after a passage of
Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the Voyage!
    The subjoined jeu d’esprit with the preceding heading in
magnificent capitals, well interspersed with notes of admiration, was
originally published, as matter of fact, in the “New York Sun,” a
daily newspaper, and therein fully subserved the purpose of creating
indigestible aliment for the quidnuncs during the few hours intervening
between a couple of the Charleston mails. The rush for the “sole paper
which had the news,” was something beyond even the prodigious; and, in
fact, if (as some assert) the “Victoria” did not absolutely
accomplish the voyage recorded, it will be difficult to assign a reason why she
should not have accomplished it.]

The great problem is at length solved! The air, as well as the earth and
the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become a common and
convenient highway for mankind. The Atlantic has been actually crossed
in a Balloon! and this too without difficulty—without any great
apparent danger—with thorough control of the machine—and in
the inconceivably brief period of seventy-five hours from shore to shore!
By the energy of an agent at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the
first to furnish the public with a detailed account of this most
extraordinary voyage, which was performed between Saturday, the 6th
instant, at 11, A.M., and 2, P.M., on Tuesday, the 9th instant, by Sir
Everard Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck’s; Mr. Monck
Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the well-known æronauts; Mr. Harrison
Ainsworth, author of “Jack Sheppard,” &c.; and Mr. Henson, the
projector of the late unsuccessful flying machine—with two seamen
from Woolwich—in all, eight persons. The particulars furnished below
may be relied on as authentic and accurate in every respect, as, with a
slight exception, they are copied verbatim from the joint diaries
of Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our
agent is also indebted for much verbal information respecting the balloon
itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only
alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of throwing
the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a connected and
intelligible form.

“THE BALLOON.

“Two very decided failures, of late—those of Mr. Henson and Sir
George Cayley—had much weakened the public interest in the subject
of aerial navigation. Mr. Henson’s scheme (which at first was considered
very feasible even by men of science,) was founded upon the principle of
an inclined plane, started from an eminence by an extrinsic force, applied
and continued by the revolution of impinging vanes, in form and number
resembling the vanes of a windmill. But, in all the experiments made with
models at the Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these
fans not only did not propel the machine, but actually impeded its flight.
The only propelling force it ever exhibited, was the mere impetus
acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and this impetus
carried the machine farther when the vanes were at rest, than when they
were in motion—a fact which sufficiently demonstrates their
inutility; and in the absence of the propelling, which was also the sustaining
power, the whole fabric would necessarily descend. This consideration led
Sir George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller to some machine
having of itself an independent power of support—in a word, to a
balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original, with Sir George,
only so far as regards the mode of its application to practice. He
exhibited a model of his invention at the Polytechnic Institution. The
propelling principle, or power, was here, also, applied to interrupted
surfaces, or vanes, put in revolution. These vanes were four in number,
but were found entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding
its ascending power. The whole project was thus a complete failure.

“It was at this juncture that Mr. Monck Mason (whose voyage from Dover to
Weilburg in the balloon, “Nassau,” occasioned so much excitement in 1837,)
conceived the idea of employing the principle of the Archimedean screw for
the purpose of propulsion through the air—rightly attributing the
failure of Mr. Henson’s scheme, and of Sir George Cayley’s, to the
interruption of surface in the independent vanes. He made the first public
experiment at Willis’s Rooms, but afterward removed his model to the
Adelaide Gallery.

“Like Sir George Cayley’s balloon, his own was an ellipsoid. Its length
was thirteen feet six inches—height, six feet eight inches. It
contained about three hundred and twenty cubic feet of gas, which, if pure
hydrogen, would support twenty-one pounds upon its first inflation, before
the gas has time to deteriorate or escape. The weight of the whole machine
and apparatus was seventeen pounds—leaving about four pounds to
spare. Beneath the centre of the balloon, was a frame of light wood, about
nine feet long, and rigged on to the balloon itself with a network in the
customary manner. From this framework was suspended a wicker basket or
car.

“The screw consists of an axis of hollow brass tube, eighteen inches in
length, through which, upon a semi-spiral inclined at fifteen degrees,
pass a series of steel wire radii, two feet long, and thus projecting a
foot on either side. These radii are connected at the outer extremities by
two bands of flattened wire—the whole in this manner forming the
framework of the screw, which is completed by a covering of oiled silk cut
into gores, and tightened so as to present a tolerably uniform surface. At
each end of its axis this screw is supported by pillars of hollow brass
tube descending from the hoop. In the lower ends of these tubes are holes
in which the pivots of the axis revolve. From the end of the axis which is
next the car, proceeds a shaft of steel, connecting the screw with the
pinion of a piece of spring machinery fixed in the car. By the operation
of this spring, the screw is made to revolve with great rapidity,
communicating a progressive motion to the whole. By means of the rudder,
the machine was readily turned in any direction. The spring was of great
power, compared with its dimensions, being capable of raising forty-five
pounds upon a barrel of four inches diameter, after the first turn, and
gradually increasing as it was wound up. It weighed, altogether, eight
pounds six ounces. The rudder was a light frame of cane covered with silk,
shaped somewhat like a battle-door, and was about three feet long, and at
the widest, one foot. Its weight was about two ounces. It could be turned
flat, and directed upwards or downwards, as well as to the right or
left; and thus enabled the æronaut to transfer the resistance of
the air which in an inclined position it must generate in its passage, to
any side upon which he might desire to act; thus determining the balloon
in the opposite direction.

“This model (which, through want of time, we have necessarily described in
an imperfect manner,) was put in action at the Adelaide Gallery, where it
accomplished a velocity of five miles per hour; although, strange to say,
it excited very little interest in comparison with the previous complex
machine of Mr. Henson—so resolute is the world to despise anything
which carries with it an air of simplicity. To accomplish the great
desideratum of ærial navigation, it was very generally supposed
that some exceedingly complicated application must be made of some
unusually profound principle in dynamics.

“So well satisfied, however, was Mr. Mason of the ultimate success of his
invention, that he determined to construct immediately, if possible, a
balloon of sufficient capacity to test the question by a voyage of some
extent—the original design being to cross the British Channel, as
before, in the Nassau balloon. To carry out his views, he solicited and
obtained the patronage of Sir Everard Bringhurst and Mr. Osborne, two
gentlemen well known for scientific acquirement, and especially for the
interest they have exhibited in the progress of ærostation. The
project, at the desire of Mr. Osborne, was kept a profound secret from the
public—the only persons entrusted with the design being those
actually engaged in the construction of the machine, which was built
(under the superintendence of Mr. Mason, Mr. Holland, Sir Everard
Bringhurst, and Mr. Osborne,) at the seat of the latter gentleman near
Penstruthal, in Wales. Mr. Henson, accompanied by his friend Mr.
Ainsworth, was admitted to a private view of the balloon, on Saturday last—when
the two gentlemen made final arrangements to be included in the adventure.
We are not informed for what reason the two seamen were also included in
the party—but, in the course of a day or two, we shall put our
readers in possession of the minutest particulars respecting this
extraordinary voyage.

“The balloon is composed of silk, varnished with the liquid gum
caoutchouc. It is of vast dimensions, containing more than 40,000 cubic
feet of gas; but as coal gas was employed in place of the more expensive
and inconvenient hydrogen, the supporting power of the machine, when fully
inflated, and immediately after inflation, is not more than about 2500
pounds. The coal gas is not only much less costly, but is easily procured
and managed.

“For its introduction into common use for purposes of aerostation, we are
indebted to Mr. Charles Green. Up to his discovery, the process of
inflation was not only exceedingly expensive, but uncertain. Two, and even
three days, have frequently been wasted in futile attempts to procure a
sufficiency of hydrogen to fill a balloon, from which it had great
tendency to escape, owing to its extreme subtlety, and its affinity for
the surrounding atmosphere. In a balloon sufficiently perfect to retain
its contents of coal-gas unaltered, in quantity or amount, for six months,
an equal quantity of hydrogen could not be maintained in equal purity for
six weeks.

“The supporting power being estimated at 2500 pounds, and the united
weights of the party amounting only to about 1200, there was left a
surplus of 1300, of which again 1200 was exhausted by ballast, arranged in
bags of different sizes, with their respective weights marked upon them—by
cordage, barometers, telescopes, barrels containing provision for a
fortnight, water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and various other
indispensable matters, including a coffee-warmer, contrived for warming
coffee by means of slack-lime, so as to dispense altogether with fire, if
it should be judged prudent to do so. All these articles, with the
exception of the ballast, and a few trifles, were suspended from the hoop
overhead. The car is much smaller and lighter, in proportion, than the one
appended to the model. It is formed of a light wicker, and is wonderfully
strong, for so frail looking a machine. Its rim is about four feet deep.
The rudder is also very much larger, in proportion, than that of the
model; and the screw is considerably smaller. The balloon is furnished
besides with a grapnel, and a guide-rope; which latter is of the most
indispensable importance. A few words, in explanation, will here be
necessary for such of our readers as are not conversant with the details
of aerostation.

“As soon as the balloon quits the earth, it is subjected to the influence
of many circumstances tending to create a difference in its weight;
augmenting or diminishing its ascending power. For example, there may be a
deposition of dew upon the silk, to the extent, even, of several hundred
pounds; ballast has then to be thrown out, or the machine may descend.
This ballast being discarded, and a clear sunshine evaporating the dew,
and at the same time expanding the gas in the silk, the whole will again
rapidly ascend. To check this ascent, the only recourse is, (or rather was,
until Mr. Green’s invention of the guide-rope,) the permission of the
escape of gas from the valve; but, in the loss of gas, is a proportionate
general loss of ascending power; so that, in a comparatively brief period,
the best-constructed balloon must necessarily exhaust all its resources,
and come to the earth. This was the great obstacle to voyages of length.

“The guide-rope remedies the difficulty in the simplest manner
conceivable. It is merely a very long rope which is suffered to trail from
the car, and the effect of which is to prevent the balloon from changing
its level in any material degree. If, for example, there should be a
deposition of moisture upon the silk, and the machine begins to descend in
consequence, there will be no necessity for discharging ballast to remedy
the increase of weight, for it is remedied, or counteracted, in an exactly
just proportion, by the deposit on the ground of just so much of the end
of the rope as is necessary. If, on the other hand, any circumstances
should cause undue levity, and consequent ascent, this levity is
immediately counteracted by the additional weight of rope upraised from
the earth. Thus, the balloon can neither ascend or descend, except within
very narrow limits, and its resources, either in gas or ballast, remain
comparatively unimpaired. When passing over an expanse of water, it
becomes necessary to employ small kegs of copper or wood, filled with
liquid ballast of a lighter nature than water. These float, and serve all
the purposes of a mere rope on land. Another most important office of the
guide-rope, is to point out the direction of the balloon. The rope
drags, either on land or sea, while the balloon is free; the
latter, consequently, is always in advance, when any progress whatever is
made: a comparison, therefore, by means of the compass, of the relative
positions of the two objects, will always indicate the course. In
the same way, the angle formed by the rope with the vertical axis of the
machine, indicates the velocity. When there is no angle—in
other words, when the rope hangs perpendicularly, the whole apparatus is
stationary; but the larger the angle, that is to say, the farther the
balloon precedes the end of the rope, the greater the velocity; and the
converse.

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

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

“THE JOURNAL.

“Saturday, April the 6th.—Every preparation likely to
embarrass us, having been made over night, we commenced the inflation this
morning at daybreak; but owing to a thick fog, which encumbered the folds
of the silk and rendered it unmanageable, we did not get through before
nearly eleven o’clock. Cut loose, then, in high spirits, and rose gently
but steadily, with a light breeze at North, which bore us in the direction
of the British Channel. Found the ascending force greater than we had
expected; and as we arose higher and so got clear of the cliffs, and more
in the sun’s rays, our ascent became very rapid. I did not wish, however,
to lose gas at so early a period of the adventure, and so concluded to
ascend for the present. We soon ran out our guide-rope; but even when we
had raised it clear of the earth, we still went up very rapidly. The
balloon was unusually steady, and looked beautifully. In about ten minutes
after starting, the barometer indicated an altitude of 15,000 feet. The
weather was remarkably fine, and the view of the subjacent country—a
most romantic one when seen from any point,—was now especially
sublime. The numerous deep gorges presented the appearance of lakes, on
account of the dense vapors with which they were filled, and the pinnacles
and crags to the South East, piled in inextricable confusion, resembling
nothing so much as the giant cities of eastern fable. We were rapidly
approaching the mountains in the South; but our elevation was more than
sufficient to enable us to pass them in safety. In a few minutes we soared
over them in fine style; and Mr. Ainsworth, with the seamen, was surprised
at their apparent want of altitude when viewed from the car, the tendency
of great elevation in a balloon being to reduce inequalities of the
surface below, to nearly a dead level. At half-past eleven still
proceeding nearly South, we obtained our first view of the Bristol
Channel; and, in fifteen minutes afterward, the line of breakers on the
coast appeared immediately beneath us, and we were fairly out at sea. We
now resolved to let off enough gas to bring our guide-rope, with the buoys
affixed, into the water. This was immediately done, and we commenced a
gradual descent. In about twenty minutes our first buoy dipped, and at the
touch of the second soon afterwards, we remained stationary as to
elevation. We were all now anxious to test the efficiency of the rudder
and screw, and we put them both into requisition forthwith, for the
purpose of altering our direction more to the eastward, and in a line for
Paris. By means of the rudder we instantly effected the necessary change
of direction, and our course was brought nearly at right angles to that of
the wind; when we set in motion the spring of the screw, and were rejoiced
to find it propel us readily as desired. Upon this we gave nine hearty
cheers, and dropped in the sea a bottle, enclosing a slip of parchment
with a brief account of the principle of the invention. Hardly, however,
had we done with our rejoicings, when an unforeseen accident occurred
which discouraged us in no little degree. The steel rod connecting the
spring with the propeller was suddenly jerked out of place, at the car
end, (by a swaying of the car through some movement of one of the two
seamen we had taken up,) and in an instant hung dangling out of reach,
from the pivot of the axis of the screw. While we were endeavoring to
regain it, our attention being completely absorbed, we became involved in
a strong current of wind from the East, which bore us, with rapidly
increasing force, towards the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving
out to sea at the rate of not less, certainly, than fifty or sixty miles
an hour, so that we came up with Cape Clear, at some forty miles to our
North, before we had secured the rod, and had time to think what we were
about. It was now that Mr. Ainsworth made an extraordinary, but to my
fancy, a by no means unreasonable or chimerical proposition, in which he
was instantly seconded by Mr. Holland—viz.: that we should take
advantage of the strong gale which bore us on, and in place of beating
back to Paris, make an attempt to reach the coast of North America. After
slight reflection I gave a willing assent to this bold proposition, which
(strange to say) met with objection from the two seamen only. As the
stronger party, however, we overruled their fears, and kept resolutely
upon our course. We steered due West; but as the trailing of the buoys
materially impeded our progress, and we had the balloon abundantly at
command, either for ascent or descent, we first threw out fifty pounds of
ballast, and then wound up (by means of a windlass) so much of the rope as
brought it quite clear of the sea. We perceived the effect of this
manoeuvre immediately, in a vastly increased rate of progress; and, as the
gale freshened, we flew with a velocity nearly inconceivable; the
guide-rope flying out behind the car, like a streamer from a vessel. It is
needless to say that a very short time sufficed us to lose sight of the
coast. We passed over innumerable vessels of all kinds, a few of which
were endeavoring to beat up, but the most of them lying to. We occasioned
the greatest excitement on board all—an excitement greatly relished
by ourselves, and especially by our two men, who, now under the influence
of a dram of Geneva, seemed resolved to give all scruple, or fear, to the
wind. Many of the vessels fired signal guns; and in all we were saluted
with loud cheers (which we heard with surprising distinctness) and the
waving of caps and handkerchiefs. We kept on in this manner throughout the
day, with no material incident, and, as the shades of night closed around
us, we made a rough estimate of the distance traversed. It could not have
been less than five hundred miles, and was probably much more. The
propeller was kept in constant operation, and, no doubt, aided our
progress materially. As the sun went down, the gale freshened into an
absolute hurricane, and the ocean beneath was clearly visible on account
of its phosphorescence. The wind was from the East all night, and gave us
the brightest omen of success. We suffered no little from cold, and the
dampness of the atmosphere was most unpleasant; but the ample space in the
car enabled us to lie down, and by means of cloaks and a few blankets, we
did sufficiently well.

“P.S. (by Mr. Ainsworth.) The last nine hours have been unquestionably the
most exciting of my life. I can conceive nothing more sublimating than the
strange peril and novelty of an adventure such as this. May God grant that
we succeed! I ask not success for mere safety to my insignificant person,
but for the sake of human knowledge and—for the vastness of the
triumph. And yet the feat is only so evidently feasible that the sole
wonder is why men have scrupled to attempt it before. One single gale such
as now befriends us—let such a tempest whirl forward a balloon for
four or five days (these gales often last longer) and the voyager will be
easily borne, in that period, from coast to coast. In view of such a gale
the broad Atlantic becomes a mere lake. I am more struck, just now, with
the supreme silence which reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding
its agitation, than with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The
waters give up no voice to the heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes
and is tortured uncomplainingly. The mountainous surges suggest the idea
of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony. In a
night such as is this to me, a man lives—lives a whole
century of ordinary life—nor would I forego this rapturous delight
for that of a whole century of ordinary existence.

“Sunday, the seventh. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning the gale, by
10, had subsided to an eight or nine—knot breeze, (for a vessel at
sea,) and bears us, perhaps, thirty miles per hour, or more. It has
veered, however, very considerably to the north; and now, at sundown, we
are holding our course due west, principally by the screw and rudder,
which answer their purposes to admiration. I regard the project as
thoroughly successful, and the easy navigation of the air in any direction
(not exactly in the teeth of a gale) as no longer problematical. We could
not have made head against the strong wind of yesterday; but, by
ascending, we might have got out of its influence, if requisite. Against a
pretty stiff breeze, I feel convinced, we can make our way with the
propeller. At noon, to-day, ascended to an elevation of nearly 25,000
feet, by discharging ballast. Did this to search for a more direct
current, but found none so favorable as the one we are now in. We have an
abundance of gas to take us across this small pond, even should the voyage
last three weeks. I have not the slightest fear for the result. The
difficulty has been strangely exaggerated and misapprehended. I can choose
my current, and should I find all currents against me, I can make
very tolerable headway with the propeller. We have had no incidents worth
recording. The night promises fair.

P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] I have little to record, except the fact (to me
quite a surprising one) that, at an elevation equal to that of Cotopaxi, I
experienced neither very intense cold, nor headache, nor difficulty of
breathing; neither, I find, did Mr. Mason, nor Mr. Holland, nor Sir
Everard. Mr. Osborne complained of constriction of the chest—but
this soon wore off. We have flown at a great rate during the day, and we
must be more than half way across the Atlantic. We have passed over some
twenty or thirty vessels of various kinds, and all seem to be delightfully
astonished. Crossing the ocean in a balloon is not so difficult a feat
after all. Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Mem: at 25,000 feet
elevation the sky appears nearly black, and the stars are distinctly
visible; while the sea does not seem convex (as one might suppose) but
absolutely and most unequivocally concave.(*1)

“Monday, the 8th. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning we had again some
little trouble with the rod of the propeller, which must be entirely
remodelled, for fear of serious accident—I mean the steel rod—not
the vanes. The latter could not be improved. The wind has been blowing
steadily and strongly from the north-east all day and so far fortune seems
bent upon favoring us. Just before day, we were all somewhat alarmed at
some odd noises and concussions in the balloon, accompanied with the
apparent rapid subsidence of the whole machine. These phenomena were
occasioned by the expansion of the gas, through increase of heat in the
atmosphere, and the consequent disruption of the minute particles of ice
with which the network had become encrusted during the night. Threw down
several bottles to the vessels below. Saw one of them picked up by a large
ship—seemingly one of the New York line packets. Endeavored to make
out her name, but could not be sure of it. Mr. Osborne’s telescope made it
out something like “Atalanta.” It is now 12, at night, and we are still
going nearly west, at a rapid pace. The sea is peculiarly phosphorescent.

“P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] It is now 2, A.M., and nearly calm, as well as I
can judge—but it is very difficult to determine this point, since we
move with the air so completely. I have not slept since quitting
Wheal-Vor, but can stand it no longer, and must take a nap. We cannot be
far from the American coast.

“Tuesday, the 9th. [Mr. Ainsworth’s MS.] One, P.M. We are
in full view of the low coast of South Carolina. The great problem is
accomplished. We have crossed the Atlantic—fairly and easily
crossed it in a balloon! God be praised! Who shall say that anything is
impossible hereafter?”

The Journal here ceases. Some particulars of the descent were
communicated, however, by Mr. Ainsworth to Mr. Forsyth. It was nearly dead
calm when the voyagers first came in view of the coast, which was
immediately recognized by both the seamen, and by Mr. Osborne. The latter
gentleman having acquaintances at Fort Moultrie, it was immediately
resolved to descend in its vicinity. The balloon was brought over the
beach (the tide being out and the sand hard, smooth, and admirably adapted
for a descent,) and the grapnel let go, which took firm hold at once. The
inhabitants of the island, and of the fort, thronged out, of course, to
see the balloon; but it was with the greatest difficulty that any one
could be made to credit the actual voyage—the crossing of the
Atlantic. The grapnel caught at 2, P.M., precisely; and thus the whole
voyage was completed in seventy-five hours; or rather less, counting from
shore to shore. No serious accident occurred. No real danger was at any
time apprehended. The balloon was exhausted and secured without trouble;
and when the MS. from which this narrative is compiled was despatched from
Charleston, the party were still at Fort Moultrie. Their farther
intentions were not ascertained; but we can safely promise our readers
some additional information either on Monday or in the course of the next
day, at farthest.

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

(*1) Note.—Mr. Ainsworth has not attempted to account for
this phenomenon, which, however, is quite susceptible of explanation. A
line dropped from an elevation of 25,000 feet, perpendicularly to the
surface of the earth (or sea), would form the perpendicular of a
right-angled triangle, of which the base would extend from the right angle
to the horizon, and the hypothenuse from the horizon to the balloon. But
the 25,000 feet of altitude is little or nothing, in comparison with the
extent of the prospect. In other words, the base and hypothenuse of the
supposed triangle would be so long when compared with the perpendicular,
that the two former may be regarded as nearly parallel. In this manner the
horizon of the æronaut would appear to be on a level with
the car. But, as the point immediately beneath him seems, and is, at a
great distance below him, it seems, of course, also, at a great distance
below the horizon. Hence the impression of concavity; and this
impression must remain, until the elevation shall bear so great a
proportion to the extent of prospect, that the apparent parallelism of the
base and hypothenuse disappears—when the earth’s real convexity must
become apparent.

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre
N’a plus rien a dissimuler.

—Quinault—Atys.

Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length
of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other.
Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a
contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early
study very diligently garnered up.—Beyond all things, the study of
the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised
admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my
habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often
been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination
has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has
at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical
philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this
age—I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least
susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the
whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the
severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have
thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to
tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than
the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been
a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18— ,
from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a
voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger—having
no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me
as a fiend.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons,
copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted
with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board
coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage
was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along
the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the
monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small
grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular,
isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as
from its being the first we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I
watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the
eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of
vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon
afterwards attracted by the dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the
peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change,
and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I could
distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in
fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with
spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heat iron. As night came
on, every breath of wind died away, an more entire calm it is impossible
to conceive. The flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least
perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb,
hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the
captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were
drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the
anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of
Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below—not
without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every appearance warranted me
in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain my fears; but he paid no
attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My
uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went
upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the
companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming noise, like that
occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and before I could
ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the
next instant, a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and,
rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.

The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of
the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by
the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering
awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted.

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by
the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between
the stern-post and rudder. With great difficulty I gained my feet, and
looking dizzily around, was, at first, struck with the idea of our being
among breakers; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the
whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed.
After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us
at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength,
and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that we were the
sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of
ourselves, had been swept overboard;—the captain and mates must have
perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without
assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and
our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of
going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the
first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously
overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the
water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was
shattered excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received
considerable injury; but to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked,
and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of
the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from
the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total cessation
with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should
inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very
just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verified. For five
entire days and nights—during which our only subsistence was a small
quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the
hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws
of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were
still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course
for the first four days was, with trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and
we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the
cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to
the northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and
clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting no decisive
light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was upon the
increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly
as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of
the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen
glow without reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before
sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if
hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim,
sliver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean.

We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me
has not yet arrived—to the Swede, never did arrive. Thenceforward we
were enshrouded in patchy darkness, so that we could not have seen an
object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued to envelop
us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea-brilliancy to which we had been
accustomed in the tropics. We observed too, that, although the tempest
continued to rage with unabated violence, there was no longer to be
discovered the usual appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto
attended us. All around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black
sweltering desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by degrees
into the spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent
wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless, and
securing ourselves, as well as possible, to the stump of the mizen-mast,
looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no means of
calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our situation. We were,
however, well aware of having made farther to the southward than any
previous navigators, and felt great amazement at not meeting with the
usual impediments of ice. In the meantime every moment threatened to be
our last—every mountainous billow hurried to overwhelm us. The swell
surpassed anything I had imagined possible, and that we were not instantly
buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and
reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship; but I could not help
feeling the utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself
gloomily for that death which I thought nothing could defer beyond an
hour, as, with every knot of way the ship made, the swelling of the black
stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for
breath at an elevation beyond the albatross—at times became dizzy
with the velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew
stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken.

We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream from my
companion broke fearfully upon the night. “See! see!” cried he, shrieking
in my ears, “Almighty God! see! see!” As he spoke, I became aware of a
dull, sullen glare of red light which streamed down the sides of the vast
chasm where we lay, and threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting
my eyes upwards, I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of my blood.
At a terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the
precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of, perhaps, four thousand
tons. Although upreared upon the summit of a wave more than a hundred
times her own altitude, her apparent size exceeded that of any ship of the
line or East Indiaman in existence. Her huge hull was of a deep dingy
black, unrelieved by any of the customary carvings of a ship. A single row
of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and dashed from their
polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, which swung to
and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with horror and
astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of sail in the very teeth
of that supernatural sea, and of that ungovernable hurricane. When we
first discovered her, her bows were alone to be seen, as she rose slowly
from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror
she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own
sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and—came down.

At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my
spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the ruin
that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length ceasing from her
struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The shock of the
descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame
which was already under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me,
with irresistible violence, upon the rigging of the stranger.

As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the confusion
ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the crew. With little
difficulty I made my way unperceived to the main hatchway, which was
partially open, and soon found an opportunity of secreting myself in the
hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, which at
first sight of the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was
perhaps the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself
with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken,
so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and apprehension. I therefore
thought proper to contrive a hiding-place in the hold. This I did by
removing a small portion of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to
afford me a convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.

I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced me to
make use of it. A man passed by my place of concealment with a feeble and
unsteady gait. I could not see his face, but had an opportunity of
observing his general appearance. There was about it an evidence of great
age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his
entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low
broken tone, some words of a language which I could not understand, and
groped in a corner among a pile of singular-looking instruments, and
decayed charts of navigation. His manner was a wild mixture of the
peevishness of second childhood, and the solemn dignity of a God. He at
length went on deck, and I saw him no more.

A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul
—a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons
of bygone times are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity itself will
offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own, the latter
consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know that I shall never—be
satisfied with regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not
wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite, since they have their
origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense—a new entity is
added to my soul.

It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the rays
of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus. Incomprehensible men!
Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I cannot divine, they pass me by
unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly on my part, for the people will not
see. It was but just now that I passed directly before the eyes of the
mate; it was no long while ago that I ventured into the captain’s own
private cabin, and took thence the materials with which I write, and have
written. I shall from time to time continue this journal. It is true that
I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the world, but I will
not fall to make the endeavour. At the last moment I will enclose the MS.
in a bottle, and cast it within the sea.

An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. Are
such things the operation of ungoverned chance? I had ventured upon deck
and thrown myself down, without attracting any notice, among a pile of
ratlin-stuff and old sails in the bottom of the yawl. While musing upon
the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the
edges of a neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The
studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless touches of
the brush are spread out into the word DISCOVERY.

I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the vessel.
Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging,
build, and general equipment, all negative a supposition of this kind.
What she is not, I can easily perceive—what she is I fear it is
impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange
model and singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of
canvas, her severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there will
occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, and
there is always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of recollection, an
unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago.

I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a material
to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character about the wood
which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the purpose to which it has
been applied. I mean its extreme porousness, considered independently by
the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of navigation in these
seas, and apart from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear
perhaps an observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood would have
every characteristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by any
unnatural means.

In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old weather-beaten
Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection. “It is as sure,” he was
wont to say, when any doubt was entertained of his veracity, “as sure as
there is a sea where the ship itself will grow in bulk like the living
body of the seaman.”

About an hour ago, I made bold to thrust myself among a group of the crew.
They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in the very
midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious of my presence. Like the one
I had at first seen in the hold, they all bore about them the marks of a
hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity; their shoulders were
bent double with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind;
their voices were low, tremulous and broken; their eyes glistened with the
rheum of years; and their gray hairs streamed terribly in the tempest.
Around them, on every part of the deck, lay scattered mathematical
instruments of the most quaint and obsolete construction.

I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From that period
the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has continued her terrific
course due south, with every rag of canvas packed upon her, from her
trucks to her lower studding-sail booms, and rolling every moment her
top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water which it can
enter into the mind of a man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where
I find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to
experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of miracles
that our enormous bulk is not swallowed up at once and forever. We are
surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink of eternity, without
taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand times more
stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of
the arrowy sea-gull; and the colossal waters rear their heads above us
like demons of the deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and
forbidden to destroy. I am led to attribute these frequent escapes to the
only natural cause which can account for such effect. I must suppose
the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or impetuous
under-tow.

I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin—but, as I
expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his appearance there is, to
a casual observer, nothing which might bespeak him more or less than
man, still, a feeling of irrepressible reverence and awe mingled with the
sensation of wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he is nearly my
own height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a well-knit
and compact frame of body, neither robust nor remarkably otherwise. But it
is the singularity of the expression which reigns upon the face—it
is the intense, the wonderful, the thrilling evidence of old age, so
utter, so extreme, which excites within my spirit a sense—a
sentiment ineffable. His forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear
upon it the stamp of a myriad of years. His gray hairs are records
of the past, and his grayer eyes are sibyls of the future. The cabin floor
was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and mouldering
instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten charts. His head was
bowed down upon his hands, and he pored, with a fiery unquiet eye, over a
paper which I took to be a commission, and which, at all events, bore the
signature of a monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman
whom I saw in the hold, some low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue,
and although the speaker was close at my elbow, his voice seemed to reach
my ears from the distance of a mile.

The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide
to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries; their eyes have an eager
and uneasy meaning; and when their fingers fall athwart my path in the
wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never felt before,
although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed
the shadows of fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until
my very soul has become a ruin.

When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions. If I
trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not stand
aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any idea of which the
words tornado and simoom are trivial and ineffective? All in the immediate
vicinity of the ship is the blackness of eternal night, and a chaos of
foamless water; but, about a league on either side of us, may be seen,
indistinctly and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away
into the desolate sky, and looking like the walls of the universe.

As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current—if that appellation can
properly be given to a tide which, howling and shrieking by the white ice,
thunders on to the southward with a velocity like the headlong dashing of
a cataract.

To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible;
yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions,
predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to the most
hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we are hurrying onwards to
some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose
attainment is destruction. Perhaps this current leads us to the southern
pole itself. It must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild
has every probability in its favor.