THE UNIVERSItIt 1 OF ILLINOIS ' LIBRARY The person charging this material is re¬ sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN & 2 7 U 175 »k ‘DEC 3 fm • • • • . im ^ysc 1998 ' bUL 28 51 .'-3, i JUl 9 VI81 Dl :C 2 s 'S98 ? ^CD, 0 6 1 DEC 12 VI84 1 _— 1 1? SELECTIONS FROM THE » PROSE TALES OF EDGAR ALLAN POE lilacmtllan's amertcan anlr ISngltsI} Classics A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and | Secondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. s i6mo Cloth 25 cents each Addison’s Sir Roger de Coverley. Andersen’s Fairy Tales. Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Arnold’s Sohrab and Rustum. Bacon’s Essays. Bible (Memorable Passages from). Blackmore’s Lorna Doone. Browning's Shorter Poems. Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). Bryant’s Thanatopsis, etc. Bulwer’s Last Days of Pompeii. Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. Burke’s Speech on Conciliation. Burns' Poems (Selections from). Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Byron’s Shorter Poems. Carlyle’s Essay on Burns. Carlyle’s Heroes and Hero Worship. Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonder¬ land (Illustrated). Chaucer's Prologue and Knight’s Tale. Church's The Story of the Iliad. Church’s The Story of the Odyssey. Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. Cooper’s The Deerslayer. Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. De Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. De Quincey’s Joan of Arc, and The Eng¬ lish Mail-Coach. Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, and The Cricket on the Hearth. acnullau '0 ilmerican anti ISnrjUsl) Classics^ L Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and Iecondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. i6mo Cloth 25 cents each gfsley’s The Heroes, lb’s The Essays of Elia, gfellow’s Evangeline, gfellow's Hiawatha, gfellow’s Miles Standish. gfellow’s Tale^of a Wayside Inn. 'ell’s The Vision of Sir Launfal. aulay’s Essay on Addison, aulay’s Essay on Hastings, aulay’s Essay on Lord Clive, aulay’s Essay on Milton, aulay’s Lays of Ancient Ronne. aulay’s Life of Samuel Johnson, on’s Comus and Other Poems, on's Paradise Lost, Books I. and II. English Ballads. ' of the Northland, jrave's Golden Treasury, arch’s Lives (Caesar, Brutus, and dark Antony), ’s Poems. ’s Prose Tales (Selections from), e’s Homer’s Iliad, e’s The Rape of the Lock, kin’s Sesame and Lilies. ;t’s Ivanhoe. Ts Kenilworth. It’s Lady of the Lake, it’s Lay of the Last Minstrel, t’s Marmion. tt’s Quentin Durward. Scott’s The Talisman. Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Shakespeare’s Henry V. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Shakespeare’s King Lear. Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Shakespeare’s Midsummer hJight’s Dream. Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare’s Richard II. Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Shelley and Keats: Poems, Sheridan’s The Rivals and The School for Scandal. Southern Poets: Selections, Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Book 1. Stevenson’s The Master of Ballantrae. Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Tennyson’s The Princess. Tennyson’s Shorter Poems. Thackeray’s Henry Esmond. Washington’s Farewell Address, and Webster’s First Bunker Hill Oration. Whittier’s Snow-bound and Other Early Poems. Woolman’s Journal. Wordsworth’s Shorter Poems. •T s SELECTIONS FROM THE PROSE TALES ' OP EDGAR ALLAN POE WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTION . Keto gork THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 1908 All rights reserved r i Copyright, 1901, By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped February, 1901, Reprinted July, 1902; April, 1903; July, 1904 ; February, 1905 ; October, 1906; June, 1907 ; May, 1908- 1 t\^ PI 5^ > KOTE The text used in the following selection is that of f the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe, edited by Edmund Clarence Stedman and George Edward Wood- berry, and acknowledgments are here made for the very kind permission of the publishers, H. S. Stone & Co., to use the text of this the most authoritative ■ edition of Poe’s works. mr 400200 CONTENTS EDGAR ALLAN POE . . . - The Fall of the House of Ushek Ligeia^^— Silence — A Fable . 5 The Masque of the Red Death ^The Assignation The Cask of Amontillado, O ^/The Pit and the Pen^lum . ' "'^''iLLiAM Wilson ^ A Descent ii^to the Maelstrom ^The Gold-bug .... ^The Murders in the Rue Morgue "V /notes . . i -"I / ; 'V' ' < * -f A L-'.C- 71 339 EDGAR ALLAN POE ■•o Poe’s character is the most complex which has yet appeared among American writers, and his genius is the most elusive and individual. He fills a very con¬ siderable place in our literary development, and yet, in important aspects of his career, he seems to have been entirely detached from it. His genius is no longer questioned, nor is his influence; and yet his impress on the spiritual life of the country is hardly perceptible. Concerning no other American man of Letters has there been such a consensus of critical opinion abroad; concerning no other native poet, save Whitman, have there been such radical differences of opinion at home. He holds a secure place among American writers, but he is in no sense a representative writer: his character**^ and career were deeply affected by the conditions of the time in which he lived^^but one looks in vain for any vital expression of the life of his time in his prose or vers^ In his criticism, it is true, there is the reflec¬ tion and imprint of the literary conditions amid which ix H X EDGAR ALLAN POE he lived; but his criticism, although temporarily sig' I nificant and important, was the product of his analyti- * cal skill and insight, not of his genius. He is, within ] narrow limits, as true an artist as Hawthorne, and, at j times^-ihe master of a spell which Hawthorne did not i command^ and yet he has left a larger legacy of second- j class work behind him than any other American writer f .of his class. ■ He came early under Southern influence, he always , regarded himself as a Southerner, and he has been ” long accepted as the foremost representative of the South in our literature; but it would not be easy to discover the marks of the Southern spirit or the Southern tradition in his work. His temperament had ■ much in common, it is true, with the Southern tempera- I meni^it no man was more free from that intense lo- | calism of feeling which is characteristic of the Sout]^ ' As a critic his point of view was that of an Ameri¬ can sl ightly in advance of hisjbime: as a creative artist he has no country. A singular detachment is char¬ acteristic of his work at the very time when great passions were steadily rising and important historical movements taking shape. While X/owell, Emerson, and Whittier, were profoundly influenced by the spir¬ itual conditions about them, Poe took his solitary way as 1 emote from the inspiration of the period as he was from its disturbing influence. The contradictions in his \ EDGAR ALLAN POE XI character and life were even more radical than those in his genius and art; and neither the writer nor the man is comprehensible without careful, open-minded, and sympathetic study of his conditions and career. These contradictions began with his birth; for although he was to be the most widely known of Southern writers, he was born in Boston. He was always a man of solitary temper; he never struck roots into any soil; and it seems significant, there¬ fore, that although born in the capital city of New England, neither he nor his parents can be said to have lived there. His grandfather, David Poe, a man of Irish blood, was an ardent patriot during the Revolutionary period, and left a reputation in Baltimore as a vigorous and resolute person, whose will commanded his tempera¬ ment. Poe’s father began as a student of law, and ended by going on the stage. His mother, Elizabeth Arnold, the daughter of an English actress, who for¬ sook the region of Covent Garden for the precarious life of a player in the New World, was a woman of delicate figure, the possessor of a sweet voice of small range, and of a charm of manner which won friends if not popular success. The two young actors were married in the South, appeared in Richmond, Philadelphia, and New York, and reached Boston in the fall of 1806. Here they spent the three succeed- xii EDGAR ALLAN POE ing years, and here, on January 19, 1809, the second son was born and named Edgar. Two years later, the family, sharing the vicissitudes of players of mediocre talent in a country in which the position of the stage was still uncertain, were in Richmond in extreme destitution. The pathetic appeal, published in a local newspaper, in which Mrs. Poe, lingering on the bed of disease and surrounded by her children, asks your assistance, and asks it perhaps for the last time,’’ was not made in vain; but not even Southern generosity could prolong the life of a fragile and overburdened woman, and Mrs. Poe died a few days later. Of Mr. Poe nothing is known subsequent to the death of his wife. The three children were scattered; Edgar being fortunate enough to awaken the interest Of Mrs. John Allan, the young wife of a well-to-do business man in Richmond. The conditions of the boy’s life were changed as by magic; he became a member of a family living in easy and comfortable ways, he was tenderly cared for and greatly admired. The fascination of his personality was ^ already making itself felt, and his mobile and I sensitive face, his luminous eyes, and his talent for j declamation brought a foretaste of that applause of I which he was avid by nature. Mr. Allan had not only i the Scotch thrift, but the Scotch regard for education ; and the child of his adoption, now become Edgar i * EDGAR ALLAN POE xiii Allan Poe, liad the best opportunities of his time. .He went to school in Pichmond for several years; a fastidiously dressed child, fond of his pony and his '■dogs, and easily attracting the attention and awaken¬ ing the interest of many people outside his own home, in which he had all the honors of an only child. In 1815 Mr. Allan took his family to England, and Edgar entered the Manor House School, on the outskirts of London. In this secluded English village, with its long, shaded street, the boy spent five of the most impressionable years of his life, and the surroundings and experiences ■ of this period left an ineffaceable impress upon his im- I agination. The school was lodged in an old, spacious, ■ irregular structure; the schoolroom was low, ceiled with oak, and lighted by Gothic windows; its desks bore the marks of generations of jack-knives; the playground was wide and open to the sun ; a high ' brick wall, with great gates studded with spikes of a - size to daunt the most venturesome boy,' enclosed the grounds ; and beyond lay the sweet English landscape of green lanes, softly rolling fields, great trees with " the memories of forgotten centuries still murmuring in their branches ; and behind the visible landscape was that other landscape which is always unfolding itself to the imagination in that ripe old world.^ The neighborhood was rich in the most romantic history. XIV EDGAR ALLAN POE The names of its walks recalled Henry and Eliza- beth; Anne Boleyn and the Earl of Leicester had ive there; Essex had found his home there; and i there, too, was one of the original homes of English literature, for there De Foe had written the earliest 5 story of adventure and the earliest piece of perfectly ) developed fiction in the language. Hot far distant stood the ancient church. In Will- ' zam mison, which curiously predicts Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, there are unmistakable autobiographic ^ touches, and the manner of these recollections throws ■ light on the processes of the boy^s imagination and ^ the life he lived among his fellows:_ My earliest recollections of a school-life are connected with a toge rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled rees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In ruth. It was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that ven¬ erable town.^ At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deep-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of Its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable de¬ light, at the deep hollow note of the church bell, breaking, each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay im¬ bedded and asleep. ^ The school house, the narrative goes on to say,_ was old and irre^lar. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and EDGAR ALLAN POE XV broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like ram¬ part formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week — once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighboring fields — and twice during Sun¬ day, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to re¬ gard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with solemn step and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast — could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, I and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the I Draconian Laws of the academy ? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution ! i The old house is 'described as a veritable palace of enchantmeut; and the routine of a schoolboy’s life — recitations, study hours, half-holiday rambles, the broils and pleasures of the playground — become, “by a mental sorcery long forgotten,... a wilderness of sen¬ sation, a world of rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit- stirring.” The head master recognized Poe’s cleverness, but thought him spoilt by excess of pocket-money. Beneath the interest in sport, the construing of Latin and the learning of French, there must have been a wonderfully vivid life of imagination in the proud, xvi EDGAR ALLAN POE sensitive, and lonely boy. The English landscape with which he became familiar never faded, and re¬ appeared, especially in its architectural features, again and again in his stories. The mellow atmosphere, the gnarled and mossy trees, the half-ruined house, the rich verdure of meadow and lane, were easily touched with an overripe and mel^choly beauty, ; akin to the loneliness of desolate spirits and solitary i experiences, by the active imagination of a later. period. , The Allans returned to Richmond in 1820, and Edgar became the pupil of a solemn and pedantic Irishman, read the classics, made Latin verses, and gained greater ease in French. He had already begun to wiite verses, but his schoolfellows knew him as a brilliant student, irregular and desultory in his ' work, but doing with ease whatever he undertook; i lacking in accuracy and thoroughness, but quick and versatile; fond of reading ; satirical in temper; slight in figure, but well made, sinewy, active, and graceful; a daring swimmer; scrupulously neat in dress and ' noticeably courteous in manner. He had winning qualities, but he was not popular with his fellows. | The fact that he was the child of strolling players was not forgotten by them nor by himself; through i all the luxury which surrounded him, it remained t a painful reminder of other and less fortunate con- ' \ EDGAR ALLAN POE XVll ditions. He was proud, sensitive, solitary, and the slight chill of disapproval in the air about him evoked a defiant spirit. One who was on terms approaching intimacy with him described him as “ self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous impulses, not steadily kind or even amiable.’^ There was something in his nature, then and later, which held him back from complete confidence in men; he had warm friends among men, and at least two women were devoted to him, but the frank and generous freedom, the wholesome inter¬ change of confidence between man and man, he seems never to have known. There was a touch of unreality in his life as there was, later, in his art; he was not only a dreamer, as some of the sanest men have been,j ■fet he never quite clearly discovered and cepted^the distance between the actual and the imagi- naryT] One never feels entirely at home with him; not because such unusual tracts of experience are open to him, but because there is an elusive element in him, — a lack of large, deep, rich humanity beneath his talent. ^This element of unreality ^ made ^ solid friendship quite impossible ;^^|n^M^limited his art in certain respects quite as distinctly as it limited his characteS3 While he was in this critical stage of adolescence. Toe lost a friend who might have been a steadying J EDGAR ALLAN POE I influence in the perilous years before him; a lovely, 1 generous, and gracious woman, whose first sympa- f thetic words to him thrilled his heart and evoked 1 a passionate devotion. Mrs. Stanard was the mother | of one of his mates, and had, therefore, ready access i to his confidence; she became his confidant, and he I lavished upon her the affection which he would have i given his mother. But within a few months she 1 died, and the boy, who had found warmth and light j in her compehending affection, was almost pros- ? trated by grief. He haunted her grave and, in the j passionate melancholy which possessed him, became | aware of the tragic resources of a temperament singu- ^ larly accessible to misfortune and singularly sensitive I to the mystery of grief and despair, - a temperament 1 which seemed to assimilate the latent sadness of life I and to respond to the experiences of outcast and de- | spaiiing souls in a speech, both in prose and verse which magically gave back their most elusive tones. ' In 1825 Poe entered the University of Virginia, ' which, in that year, opened its doors to students and . began its influential career; an institution then and ; ^ill, in many respects; unique in the academic world. He was in his seventeenth year, compactly built, some¬ what short in stature, his face touched with sadness, but readily becoming animated. He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, studied Latin, Greek, , I EDGAR ALLAN POE XIX French, Spanish, and Italian, after a desultory fashion; played cards for stakes, and showed that taste for strong drink which later made his career a tragedy. At this period, gambling rather than excessive drink¬ ing was his undoing. Becoming involved in debt, he had to invoke the aid of Mr. Allan, who paid his j debts in Charlottesville, but refused to make good I his losses at play, amounting to the very respectable sum of twenty-five hundred dollars. Poe remained at the university until the close of the session, and re¬ turned home with honors in Latin and French to find 1 that his future was to be in Mr. Allan’s counting-room. His irregularities had cost him his educational oppor¬ tunities. He took his place in Mr. Allan’s counting-room only to disappear and begin the unsettled, roving career which never again found permanent lodgment or shelter. He next appears in Boston, where he made his first venture in the field to which his tastes and his genius were steadily and with increasing insistence drawing him. To/fifiGTlcLns cLnd OtJiST PoqWjS was the venture of an amateur publisher, but it had some suc- cess."^^ revealed the sensibility of a poetic nature rather than poetic poweFf^was full of traces of imita¬ tion, and its chief interest lies in the light which it throws on Poe’s mind and growth. Byron was in the full tide of his immense influence upon young men of XX EDGAR ALLAN POE imaginative temper, and Poe did not escape a fever which was not only highly contagious, but, in the case of all weak victims, fatal to original and natural de¬ velopment. Byron’s colossal pride found a quick soil in Poe’s naturej fmid^con firmed his tendency to idealize pride as a heroic~qu^lr^t7^ But a slender volume of verse was a very fragile reed to lean upon, and, by way of cutting the Gordian knot with a sword, in 1827 Poe enlisted in the United States army as a private soldier, under the name of Edgar A. Perry. After a service of two years, in which he appears to have done his work with entire fidelity and noticeable efficiency, he was discharged largely through the kindly offices of Mr. Allan, with whom he had effected a reconciliation. About this time he wrote: «I am young — not yet twenty — am a poet if deep worship of all beauty can make me one_ and wish to be so in the common meaning of the word. I would give the world to embody one half the ideas afloat in my imagination,” and by way of justifying these statements Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems were published in Baltimore, in 1829. The habit of slightly or radically revising a piece of work which had already appeared and send¬ ing it out in a new form, dates from his second volume and grew upon him as time went on. Al Aaraaf was an obscure allegory, with a brief narrative passage and EDGAR ALLAN POE XXI an abrupt ending; Tamerlane showed signs of care¬ ful revision, but gained, rather than lost, in imitative quality. In Fairyland alone among his earliest poems is there a clear and convincing glimpse of Poe’s genius. In the following year Poe is found at West Point; Mr. Allan had married a second time, and had, in his judgment, finally disposed of his difficult ward by secur¬ ing for him an appointment to the Military Academy. He is described at this period as shy and reserved, associating mainly with cadets from Virginia, a ready French scholar, apt at mathematics, an omnivorous reader of books; but neglectful, and even contemp¬ tuous of military duties. He paid no regard to the routine of roll-call, drill, and guard duty, was often under arrest, and at the end of six months’ service was dismissed by court-martial, on the charge of absenting himself from various military and academic duties, and of disobeying on two occasions the orders of the officer of the day. In March, 1831, Poe was again free to seek his fortune, and he was again penni¬ less. He had arranged, meantime, for the publication of a new edition of his works and the volume entitled “Poems” appeared, this time in New York. It v/as a new edition in name only. From the previously published volume six poems were omitted, several were greatly changed, and six additional pieces were included. W'ith the appearance of these new pieces EDGAR ALLAN POE xxil all doubt about Poe’s genius was finally dispelled; for these additional poems were Lenore, The Valley of Unrest, The City in the Sea, To Helen, and Isror fel. These poems were to attain perfection by many later touches, but both in conception and in form they disclose all that was original and distinctive t in Poe’s mind and art. Ole was already traversing those remote and mysterious worlds, lighted by low moons, haunted by strange tragic figures, with back¬ grounds of marvellously drawn landscape, sombre, weird, and solitary, with which he was to familiarize his readers both in prose and verse; while his art ' shows perfect sympathy and understanding between his thought and his skill. He had the magic of style; 'j he was a master of sound if not of language, and more ■‘perfectly than any other American poet he knows how : to beguile the ear by a melody which is at once simple and mysterious, which captivates the instant it is heard, and yet eludes all attempts at successful imita- tio^ There is something hypnotic in the spell of his verse which gives one an uneasy sense that he is yield¬ ing to a charm addressed to his senses rather than to his imagination. In The Raven and The Bells this hyp¬ notic quality is at its highest, and the higher poetic quality at its lowest; the outer courts of the soul are swept with sound, but the inner court remains silent, question about the reality of and its ea EDGAR ALLAN POE XXlll tire sincerity has undoubtedly stood in the way not of its wider, but of its higher appreciation in this coun- try^But this suspicion of the predominance of a purely sensuous over genuine poetic quality which finds con^hiafibn in The Raven and The Bells has no place in the consideration of such perfection of sense and sound as the lines To Helen, The City in the Sea^ and Israfel. The first of these pieces is so slight in ^ thought that its charm will hardly bear analysis; the second is a piece of description which shows Poe’s power of this kind at its best; the third is not only the most tender and beautiful expression of Poe’s genius, but, in the region of pure song, it is one of the final¬ ities in American poetry. In imaginative conception, and in form it is one of the finalities of modern art. It has the ease, the floating quality, the natural magic of those rare lyrics which are equally at home in the memory and the heart of the race. Meantime the poet was barely recognized, was without means of support, had exhausted the patience of Mr. Allan, wasted several opportunities, and was now to face the world at his own charges. He made his next experiment in the art of living in Baltimore, where he had friends and where there were a number of littera¬ teurs of local importance, and a weekly literary jour¬ nal. This journal. The Saturday Visitor, offered a prize of one hundred dollars for the best prose story j XXIV EDGAR ALLAN POE the prize was awarded to A MS. Found in a Bottle^ j and the story was published in the autumn of 1833. i Poe’s fortunes were at so low an ebb that he was declin- ; ing invitations because he could not dress presentably, and the stimulus of success in a practical form was of ' immense value to him. He was living with his father’s widowed sister, Mrs. Clemm, whose daughter, Virginia, | was then eleven years old.* The poet had now fairly launched himself on the uncertain tide of literary for- ) tune, had clearly shown his individual quality, both in i prose and verse, and there was but one more event needed to commit him entirely to his profession, and . that event came in 1834, when Mr. Allan died and left , him without an inheritance. He was writing stories and criticisms, and he was drinking too often and too • freely. Qjis sensitive nervous system, his irregular i life, the privation and strain of constant change and ■ uncertainty, his fitful and melancholy temperament,' and the intensity of his imagination made him an easy prey to intemperance and an easily shattered victim, i Nothing could have saved him except a strong will; ^ and, unluckily, he belonged to the class whose tern- peraments are in command of their will^ At this time, however, his excesses were infrequent, and there is no doubt of the sincerity of his effort to free himself from a weakness to the perils of which he seems never | to have been blind. I EDGAR ALLAN POE XXV The attachment between Poe and his cousin Virginia ripened into love and became the deepest and noblest passion of his life. The sensitive girl was barely thir¬ teen, but in September, 1835, the marriage took place. Poe had removed to Pichmond, was editing the South¬ ern Literary Messenger, and was writing poems, stories, and reviews with evident ease and delight. In one of these stories Poe brings on the stage the figure in whose temperament and fate he was most deeply inter¬ ested and who, under various names, was to reappear again and again in his later tales. ^/^^gg 0 us in Berenice belongs to the race of visionaries whose sphere of interest and experience touches the realities of life only at rare intervals and then solely for the sake of-heightening the sense of its difference and remoteness. ^Gloomy towers, gray hereditary halls, a solitary and desolate landscape, subtly suggest to the senses the tragedy of disordered fancy, morbid' tem¬ perament, diseased will, and abnormal fate which is to be worked out in a series of impressions designed to envelop the reader in an atmosphere of melancholy fore¬ bodings.^ The moment one breathes the air of Poe’s tales an oppre^ive sense of something ominous and sinister is felt.(^r Poe had the art which Maeterlinck has so successnmy practised, of securing possession of the reader’s mind by assailing his sensex^^ne after^he other with the sa‘m^'"^et~uf~~^gTi^at ions r ^ Po'6^s tales, xxvi EDGAR ALLAN POE to constructed to shut the reader m by excluding all other obiects nd impressions until his imagination is entirely at he mercy of the story-teller, Lilie those Egypton temples which produced, by architectural devtoes an mpression of depth and space, out of all propS to their magnitude, Poe’s tales have not only^/e“us power of their construction, but the more magical and usive influence of imaginative suggestion. Ij^te are entirely under their splig They withdraw us com- ; the*t "'ith which reut^ one “Ranged in the iQpera House at Bay- fu e el merging into another so gradually totofn transported from the suflit glade senses are /consciousness th/t his into\he rear“^f rT transition beguiltoVTh“i f "^are and so ' g ing that he almost persuades us that we are dealing wrth realities and not with abstractions. Egaeus has no human warmth or passion : although like most of Poe’s heroes, he is consumed with the anrnefer veritable phantasm, of reX. hL"fr“ ««““ance ing ofi!n’ fa T f e ^cc’s artistic feel- g often failed to keep him in the realm of pure suggestion in dealing with tne horrible. In the most XXVll EDQAR ALLAN POE , i perfect of the prose tales, The Fall of the Hous e_j>f Jhher . Ligeia, Eleonora, and^T^ Masque of the'^ed Death, the full force of Poe’s marvellous accuracy and j nraisip.mMa.ncp. of detail is, felt by the im agina tion; but it must be added that the failure to completely possess the mind of the reader is due to no limitation in Poe’s art; it is due to the limitation of his material. He went as far on the road to complete illusion as his subject-matter permitted; but his subject-matter was so largely made up of the morbid, the abnormal, the phantasmal, that it can never seem other than it was in its substance. these tales, so full of powerful effects and charms wrought out of the potencies of sin, disease, solitary desolation, abnormal play of the senses '^ oe’s artistic quality is supreme; in them, as in halfadbzeh-po^msj'he is one of the modern masters of technique; and their limitations as works of art must be sought not in the skill but in the soul of the work¬ man. ^jThat limitation is found in the fact that Poe deals with experience of a very narrow and limited kind; with emotions, passions, and tendencies which are PYpApfinti^l abnormal ; with landscapes an d- localities which a^ es sentially pha ntasmal an d unreal, m the sense of bei ng pur ely imaginary, but of fving outsi de tff^rang e of ima'gm^ on creating _aIong -IrT ThA exact degree in which a writer deals with XXVlll EDGAR ALLAN POE life in the most inclusive forms of experience does he reveal breadth of view, sanity of insight, and con¬ structive power. These are the characteristics of writers of the first and second rank; of Homer, Dante, and Shakespere, and of Cervantes, Moliere, Schiller, and Tennyson, ^nd because of this breadth of view and of sympathetic insight, these writers are one and all representative or interpretative artists; they make their art the medium of the disclosure and expression of race experience on a large scale. 'In tMsj*epr esen t- afi ye quality Poe is almos t utterly lacking; he was detachednjn”imagination from the world about him. i His tales and poems bear the trace of no fatherland; | they have no racial marks upon them. And this lack \ of representative quality carries with it a certain limitation of insight, of interest, and of artistic power which excludes Poe from the company of the greater ' poets. 4jle has neither the depth of emotion nor the solidity of thought which the great artists share. There is a touch of unreality about his passion as well as about his material; he is never quite convinc¬ ing, even in the expression of the deepest feeli;^ /It is as a poet and story-teller of purely individual quality that Poe must be regarded, and in the class of those who stand apart and speak for themselves only he holds a very sure place. His stories place him with Hoffmann, his verse associates him with Leo- i EDGAR ALLAN POE XXIX pardi and Baudelaire. He has more genius than Hoff¬ mann; his melancholy has not the tinge of bitterness which made Leopardi one of the forerunners of mod¬ ern literary'”^^^^simism. He belongs with these writ¬ ers not because his^^rk resembles theirs, but because, like them, he was a man of detached and solitary gen- iiis^^^h an individuality of talent so distinct that it is impossible to classify hiii^Tndeed, in his case, com¬ parison with other poets ana story-writers is of value chiefly as bringing into higher relief his unique indi¬ viduality of imagination, temperament, material, and method. If~Poe lost by the narrowness of his range and of his artistic power, he gained in definiteness of im¬ pression and in directness of influence, •'^^he artist who creates his world and resolutely keeps within its limits; has the great advantage of assailing his reader with a few harmonious and original impressions. Ten¬ nyson’s quality must be searched for; Poe’s is felt at ojice^ The magic which lies in The City in the Sea and in Israfel, vaJ The Fall of the House of Ushe r, and in Ligeia is ^t at once, and . the conceptions and i mpressions which it conveys or suggests are so uuusnal and so disUnct in their quality, that they tak e lustflut -poftResaion of the imagiha tion . Health is %iuch more elusive than disease T)ecau s e, bei ng essen- tially harmony of condition and action a mong all parts XXX EDGAR ALLAN POE pi-J Jie body, it has no local consciousness f while dis¬ ease, iir^lving maladjustment and pain at some defi¬ nite point, creates jin intense local consciousness, and produces a sharp and poignant impression. By seiz¬ ing upon morbid and disordered mental and moral experiences, passions, and pursuits, and creating con¬ ditions which harmonize with and heighten their peculiar effects, Poe gained instant power with a class of minds never very large in number but always, ardent in discipleship and full of talent. His influ¬ ence upon a small group of writers in Prance and Ger¬ many, and the regard in which he has been held by contemporary English poets, has not been understood in this country, nor has sufficient attention been paid to it. This influence had its source, in the case of some of the continental poets and story-writers, in Poe’s power in dealing with morbid and abnormal conditions, and in the case of men like Tennyson in the perfection of his art. It requires an entire rearrangement of the present impression of Poe to think of him chiefly, not as a poet„.aiid—^tory-writer, but as a critic . It was as a critic, however, that'he was most highly regarded, although not most widely known by his contempo¬ raries. And it was in the columns of The Southern Literary Messenger that his critical gift first disclosed itself. In December, 1835, Poe fastened upon a recent \ EDGAR ALLAE FOE xxxi aiid widely exploited novel of a very inferior quality, Norman Leslie, as an example of the provincial taste which prevailed in the country and hindered the growth of a genuine literature by the failure to dis¬ criminate between the good and the bad in literary art. There was a small body of admirable writers in the country, but there was no authoritative and search¬ ing criticism. Local feelings were stronger, in many cases, than the critical instinct. The New Englander and the Knickerbocker, the two periodicals which had some claims upon cultivated opinion, were not free from local prejudices, even when they rose above personal predilections. Poe exposed the pretentious crudity of Norman Leslie with a frankness which was evidently not distasteful to himself, and with such force and intelligence that he secured instant attention and wide recognition as a critic of ideas and convic¬ tions. During the remaining sixteen years of his life Poe supported himself chiefly by editorial and journal¬ istic work ; he had inventiveness and skill in adapting the various publications with which he was connected to public taste; but he was by interest and qualifica¬ tion a critic of contemporary English and American literatuT’e. He lacked the spiritual insight which has made the great critics not only the custodians of the literary tradition, but the interpreters of literary art; he had neither the breadth of view of Goethe, the XXXll EDGAR ALLAN POE grasp of philosophical principles of Coleridge, of whom he was, in a sense, a pupil, nor the clear intelligence of Arnold. He was, however, a thinker with a marked aptitude for analysis, and a lover of general principles often abstract and somewhat artificial in application, but essentially sound; he had a very keen sense of form; his knowledge was extensive although not always accurate; and he was not averse to contro¬ versy. He was out of sympathy with the vigorous literary movement which was fast taking on large proportions in Boston ; and although he spent a good deal of time in New York, the superficiality of the later Knickerbocker school was always distasteful to him. The time was ripe for frank and disinterested criti¬ cism, and Poe not only recognized the opportunity but regarded himself as having definite reformatory work to do. He was a born lover of beauty and of art for its own sake, without reference to anything beyond or beneath the immediate impression produced; and he was, therefore, well adapted to the task of judging a generation whose limited intelligence and uncertain taste in matters of workmanship made it the dupe or the victim of the cheap, the meretricious, and pre¬ tentious in contemporary writing. His collected re¬ views and critical articles fill three volumes in the edition of his works edited with such scholarly thor- EDGAR ALLAK POE xxxiii oughness and literary judgment by Mr. Stedman and Professor Woodberry, and these selections present only a part of his work in this field; for Poe was a Yoluminous writer, in spite of the vicissitudes of his ' career. Much of his critical writing was of slight value; none of it is likely to survive by reason of its intrinsic interest, for Poe was creative and masterful only when his imagination was in play. But his criti¬ cal work absorbed a large part of his time; it attracted wide attention among his contemporaries, and it filled an important place in the literary development of the country. He was quick to recognize excellence, and his early discernment of Hawthorne’s quality must always be remembered to his credit; he hated slovenly work and vulgarity of manner, and never hesitated to hold them up to ridicule; he meant to be impartial and disinterested; but he was sometimes misled by his own wilfulness of mind, as when he 'failed to discriminate between Longfellow’s frank and open use of existing literary material and plagiarism; and he was sometimes blinded by his theories of art, as in his sweeping condemnation of the writers who were more or less in sympathy with the Transcen¬ dental movement. He was not entirely free from those personal influences which at times deflect the judgment of most critics: he was sometimes led away by the showy brilliancy of a momentary success; his XXXIV EDGAR ALLAN POE poise was disturbed by his own conditions; he often wrote under great pressure and without due consider-> ation and self-restraint. His critical work was, how¬ ever, in the main, sound, wholesome, and of great value in educating public opinion. The fact that his “ estimates of Bryant, Cooper, Hawthorne, Lowell, and Tennyson, formed when these writers were making; the first disclosures of their genius, were largely pre¬ dictive of the judgment of a later and more critical age, is conclusive evidence of his possession of critical; insight and power. Poe was now twenty-seven, and his wife not yet fourteen. The Messenger was making rapid gains in influence and circulation; the Southern press was singing the praises of the young poet and critic, and the cooler judgment of the North recognized his genius; there seemed to be solid foundation for fu¬ ture growth and work; but at the end of eighteen months the successful young editor had resigned his position on the Messenger and was trying to gain a foothold in New York. Although an indefatigable worker, with a keen sense of the business aspects of editorial work and a skilful advertiser of his own successes, Poe was of a temperament which became restive under recurring duties and the necessity of observing times and seasons; there were, moreover, occasional excesses which mercilessly drained his EDGAR ALLAN ROE XXXV vitality. In many respects Poe was better placed at Kichmond, in charge of .the leading literary journal of the South, among people who were warmly attached to him, in a section which recognized his leadership and gave him unstinted admiration, than at any other time in his troubled and wandering life. His genius placed him on an easy equality with the rising group of New England writers; he was bred under other conditions and was the exponent of a different con¬ ception of the literary art; to the didactic tendency of New England he opposed the love of beauty for its own sake; and he had uncommon skill as a con¬ troversialist. He was in a position to organize the literary forces outside of New England and to co¬ operate in an expression of the spiritual life of the country, which would have been measurably inclu¬ sive. Unfortunately he wa^ the victim of his tem¬ perament, and, like all men of his class, was unable to give his work organic direction and completeness. His influence was to be very great, but it was to lie in other directions; the quality of leadership was denied him. Poe reached New York when the financial panic of 1837 was at its height; established literary en¬ terprises were in distress, and new ventures were abandoned. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym ap¬ peared in the summer of 1838, but brought neithei XXXVl EDGAR ALLAN POE reputation nor material returns. It contains passages which nobody but Poe could have written; it also contains passages which no one but Poe would have permitted himself to write, — passages so revolting in detail and so nauseating that they violate the most rudimentary artistic instinct. The little family was living meantime by the aid of Mrs. Clemm’s tireless and measureless devotion to her daughter and her daughter’s husband. Among all women who have given their lives to art through vicarious sacrifice, Mrs. Clemm holds a foremost place. Her faith matched her patience, and her patience attained a kind of epical dignity in her uncomplaining and beau¬ tiful ministry. Poe had the refuge of his dreams, his fame, and the joy which is never denied the man of creative mind however hard his conditions; Mrs. Clemm fought the sordid and inglorious fight with poverty day by day and gave no sign. In the autumn of the same year, the poet was try¬ ing to find work in Philadelphia. To this period belong two of his most characteristic pieces: the im¬ pressive and nobly imaginative prose sketch Silence, after^rd found its true setting is —of _ the House o f (Js h ^, The Haunted all the mystery anfimapj of the poet’s genius at its best; but there lies at its heart a lesson so tragic that it jnust be a conclusive answer to those ) . EDGAR ALLAN POE XXXV11 who hold thalLToe^s fflft was w holly detached^, from mdraTlhsight. In 1839, two vhluines^f stories and shelves appeared, made up largely of reprints. The sale was sm^-llj although the books contained some of the most original work in modern literature. In The Fall of the House of Usher and Liqeia, ToQ touched the high-water rn^k of creative andj^UsticjkHI; in ”slieer force of Imli^natioii lasEibning a form which is at the same time sharp in outline and yet shading off eyeryyy^e into mystery, these masterpieces hold a jface by themselves. In both these pieces, a torch is held aloft in the gloom, and serves both to throw cer¬ tain forms and figures into bold relief and to inten¬ sify the blackness of the darkness in which they are finally engulfed, “^^pe is seen here dealing with abnormal characters and incidents under conditions which seem to interpret and to vizualize strange and mysterious experiences, excluding with marvellous skill all distracting sound or disturbing light, and silently creating, in the imagination of his reader, a theatre for the sombre tragedy of smitten, wande^ring, or lost soul^3 In William Wilson, which appeared in the same collection of tales, there is the same quality of imagination, working not in a region of fantasy, but in that of moral perversion and degeneration with a psychologic insight which is more searching and striking in its working out than that which Stevenson xxxviii EDGAR ALLAN POE brought to bear on the same problem in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In this original and impressive tale, he was on Hawthorne’s ground, but the methods of the two great romancers had almost nothing in common. These stories are often classed with The Raven and The Bells ; they belong rather, in the perfection of their form and the depth of their conception, with j Israfel and The City in the Sea. ' During the residence in Philadelphia appeared the ! first of those stories of ratiocination which exhibit 1 another side of his mind and which have been the ' prolific ancestors of a host of more or less successful ventures in the field of detective story-writing. The Murders of the Rue Morgue belongs in the same group with The Mystery of Marie Roget, The Purloined Letter, and The Gold Bug; tales which are on a much lower level of imagination than Ligeia and its kindred pieces, and the interest of which depends rather on pure inven¬ tiveness than on creative power. They appeal to curiosity and are skilful rather than original. The Descent into the Maelstrom, which belongs to this period, is a masterpiece of swift, impressive, and ab¬ sorbing narrative; while The Masque of the Red Death is a study in color which has an_ intensity out of all proportion to its incidents. In all these stories, Poe was demonstrating the soundness of the principle that a writer ‘‘having conceived, with deliberate care, a EDGAR ALLAN POE xxxix certain unique or single effect to be wrought out . . . combines such events as may best aid him in establish¬ ing this preconceived effect. ... In the whole com¬ position there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one preestablished design.” Poe was now the editor of Oraham^s Magazine, which had made a notable success within a very short time, and was living in more comfort and apparent security than at any earlier period, when the great sorrow of his life suddenly overtook him. His deli¬ cate young wife, still hardly more than a girl, ruptured a blood-vessel while singing, hung for a long time be¬ tween life and death, and was never again well. Poe’s devotion had a passionate intensity; he hung over the sick-bed in an agony of apprehension, and was stretched for long years on the rack of anxiety and uncertainty. Under this terrible strain his character yielded at its weakest point. Six years ago [he wrote at a later period], a wife, whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of her for¬ ever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recov¬ ered partially, and I again hoped. At the end of the year the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same scene. . . . Then again, again, and even once again, at varying in¬ tervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death ; and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly and xl SDGAR ALLAN POE clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. Biit I am i constitutionally sensitive — nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. Dur¬ ing these fits of absolute unconsciousness I drank — God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to the drink, rather than the I drink to the insanity. ■ There is no reason to doubt the substantial ac- ! curacy of this statement, and from this time Poe’s powers of concentration grew weaker. He who would venture to pronounce judgment on such a career as Poe’s in the sense of determining the moral responsi- h bility of the victim, and striking the balance between the force of temptation in inheritance, temperament, physique and conditions, and the power of resistance, must be either supremely rash or blindly ignorant; no such judgment is possible or necessary. It is equally futile to attempt to minimize the weight of the facts, or to deny their reaction on his productive power. Absolute veracity is a fundamental duty in all portraitures or estimates of men of genius; for the law under which all men live nowhere works its ' will more unmistakably than in the case of men of superior quality of mind, ^^e relation of character to genius is not solely a matter of morals; it is quite as obviously a matter of psychology .'7 To affirm that conduct and creativeness have no~vital connection EDGAR ALLAN POE xl\ with one another, is to confuse the facts of psy¬ chology as well as to conceal those of moral history. Artistic power is often strikingly put forth without regard to sanity of life; but genius is never com¬ pletely expressed and its largest results harvested save by those who conform to the conditions of pro¬ ductiveness. In the last analysis, as Goethe saw so clearly, the artist is conditioned on the man ; and the source of the limitations of a man’s art will be found, as a rule, in his character and life. Entire frank¬ ness, therefore, is the prime duty of the biographer and critic; the facts must have their full weight. But only the bigot will attempt to adjust the moral bal¬ ance and determine the moral responsibility. The editorship of Graham’s was soon lost, with the usual accompaniment of contradictory statements re¬ garding the cause. In 1844, with very few dollars in hand, Poe was venturing “ a hazard of new fortunes ” in New York. The conditions would have disheartened a man less hopeful and daring. It was almost impos¬ sible to live by writing, and Poe seemed incapable of keeping editorial positions after he secured them. He had done a vast amount of work and had been paid a starving wage; he had shown himself to be not only a man of letters in the strictest sense of the word, but he had shown himself to be also a shrewd and success¬ ful editor. He had not been the victim of conditions xlii EDGAR ALLAN POE ] I I wholly adverse, for he had had important editorial opportunities and had lost them. There is reason to believe that a certain amount of editorial work was not distasteful to him. He failed, in other words, to make a sound working basis for his life for reasons which must be sought not in his conditions, but in his character. Early in 1845, The Raven was published; Ulalume and The Bells appeared later. With these poems the measure of Poe’s poetic expression was complete; and no American poems are so widely known. *The Raven is probably known by more people than any other piece of verse yet written on this continent. In these poems Poe’s technical skill is almost unsur¬ passed; he seems to have a magical command of sound; he knows by instinct and uses by intelligence the subtle resources of melody that lie in the open vowels; he produces the most striking effects by his masterly use of refrain and repetend. But the quality of Poe’s genius must be sought elsewhere; for there is a note of artificiality in each of these pieces of verse; they are marvellous pieces of construction, and melody seems to issue from the heart of them; but they have no spiritual root, and no deep artistic necessity fashioned them. In Hew York Poe found large opportunities for work, but with the exception of The Bells he wrote EDGAR ALLAN POE xliii little which added to his reputation or to American literature. He attacked Longfellow as a plagiarist and failed to support the accusation; he reprinted, with changes more or less important, many of his earlier pieces; he was guilty in several instances of that exaggeration of .the importance of insignificant contemporary writers which he had courageously con¬ demned in others, and he was steadily sinking deeper into the morass which was finally to engulf him. His collected poems were published in Hew York under the title. The Raven and Other Poems. The revisions which appear in this volume are important, because they form the definitive text of his work in verse. In the preface'there is a very frank confession of the obvious lim itations of his poetic achievement in com¬ parison with his genius : “ Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making at any time any seri¬ ous effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my. choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a,passion; and the pas¬ sions should be held in reverence ; they must not — they cannot at will — be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commenda¬ tions, of mankind.’’ The note of sincerity is clear in the first statement; the note of insincerity, so often heard in Poe, is equally clear in the closing statements. The cottage at Fordham on the outskirts of Hew xliv EDGAR ALLAN POE York was overshadowed by the approaching death of Virginia and by the declining health of Poe himself; the ravages of care, the strain of overwork, and the disintegrating force of liquor and drugs, were rapidly destroying his nervous system. The young wife, upon whom he lavished the purest and noblest passion of his life, died in January, 1847; Poe went through a long illness and was tenderly cared for by friends. He recovered, wrote Eureka; a Prose Poem, in which is revealed the marvellous inventiveness of his mind, and his singular lack of real philosophical insight and grasp of principles; published The Bells; delivered an occasional lecture; completed The Domain of Arn<~ helm, one of his most characteristic tales of fantasy, and passed through at least one personal experience which made clear the inroads of weakness upon his will and intelligence. As the end approached a deep de¬ spondency settled upon him. In June, 1849, he started on a journey to Eichmond. In Philadelphia he had a severe attack of delirium tremens, from which he recovered sufficiently to complete his journey and to find pleasure during a three months’ stay in the hos¬ pitable capital of Virginia among friends, who were glad to show him every honor. Late in September he started to return to New York. An uncertainty which is not likely to be dispelled rests on the history of the next few days; the few and tragic facts are that EDGAR ALLAN POE xlv on Wednesday afternoon of the following week, he was recognized in a drinking-place in Baltimore, by a printer who reported the fact to Dr. Snodgrass. The latter promptly had Poe taken to a hospital, where he was received in an unconscious condition, and there on the following Sunday he died. “Lord help my poor soul,” was his last appeal to the mercy of God and the charity of men. Poe made his most definite impression upon his own contemporaries by his criticism; there is evidence that he attached the greater importance to his prose tales; but the reading world, which often reveals a very true instinct in these matters, insists upon the higher value and significance of his poetry. And the world is right; for Poe’s genius is most completely expressed in his verse. His criticism is memorable chiefly for its historical significance; it has no place with the endur¬ ing work in this field; its author has no standing with Sainte Beuve, Coleridge, and Arnold. His prose tales have intense individuality of conception and workman¬ ship, and are among the most distinctive and original work yet done in America. It is by his poetry, how¬ ever, that Poe must stand or fall; for in his poetry, his power and his limitation are most clearly revealed. Although not in any sense a deep and consistent thinker, Poe made his art a matter of constant medi¬ tation, and, with the aid of Coleridge, had evolved a xlvi EDGAR ALLAN POE theory both of verse and of short-story writing which 1 throws clear light on his aims and methods. The Rationale of Yerse and The Poetic Principle are lucid and definite in the statement of that theory. Truth, he held, appealed and gave expression to the intellect, passion stirred the heart, but beauty was the natural speech of the soul; beauty was, therefore, the expres¬ sion of the deepest part of man’s nature, the immor¬ tal part; its presence liberated the noblest forces in him, excited the highest emotions and supplied the deepest satisfactions. Under the pressure of the need of his own soul and the recognition of the beautiful in the world about him man is impelled to create, under the forms of art, a beauty of his own in which the real and the imaginary are harmoniously blended. From this creative activity, truth and passion are not to be excluded; but they are to be kept in strict subordina¬ tion to the main purpose of creating a definite and overpowering impression of beauty. The soul is to be nourished and enriched not by ethical impulse, or by the vision of larger knowledge, but by the dilation of the imagination. It must be added that beauty, in Poe’s view, was a witness to the presence of the divine in the world, and had, therefore, a spiritual signifi¬ cance and quality. Poetry he defined as “ the rhyth¬ mical creation of beauty”; he insisted upon brevity as essential to lyrical perfection, and went so far as to EDGAR ALLAN POE xlvii affirm that long poem does not exist”; h e did ,not exclude ethical or allegorical conceptions, as his ffnuLpfjul. ^m^'TTieConqueror TFdrwTshow, but "he hJd that the poet should aim td'^duce a single and | perfectly definite effect, and that any secondary meaning should arise inevitably out of a clear impres¬ sion of a beautiful creation ; and he insisted that every piece of verse ought to have some marked quality of \ metre or rhythm. If these principles or maxims are applied to Poe’s verse, it will be found that it stands the test. No artist has made his work more consistently embody and express his conception of the aims and methods of his art. Unlike Wordsworth and Whitman, Poe gains by the approach of his poetry to his philosophy. So far as his philosophy of art was concerned, there was nothing original in it; it was, however, exactly suited to his temperament and his genius. So far as his maxims of construction are concerned, they are the laws of his own nature rather than of art. They so nicely bring out the structure of his own work that the suspicion of the ex post facto origin cannot be avoided. Within the limits which Poe set to the poetic art, there was ample room for the deepest and noblest activity of the poetic impulse; for Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Goethe, and Tennyson. But this field 1 EDGAR ALLAN POE was greatly narrowed by his maxims for verse pro¬ duction. In this narrower field of artistic vision and power he made his great and lasting success. In at least half a dozen poems he has shown a skill akin to magic in producing a single striking and unusual effect, by concentration of interest, subordi¬ nation of secondary meaning, compression of thought within a narrow compass, and the identification of the poem with a distinctive metrical effect. Within these narrow limits, imposed by his own genius, confirmed, by his character, and, later, rationalized into a philoso¬ phy? Poe was a master. He fashioned, under these rules, a few poems which are finalities, and a finality marks the end of the path. Poe has gone as far as man can go in his own field, and that is saying that he is a genuine creative artistij^^one whose work betrays not only perfection of form but individuality of touch. It is from this point of view that Poe has compelled the admiration of foreign students of literature, and has been given, sometimes the first place, always one of the first places, in our literature. When his work is brought to the test of the supreme poetic work of the race, it is seen, however, that it has very marked limitations; it remains perfect of its kind and unique in its quality, but it lacks mass, reality, passion, and spirituality. H is devoi ti of ■ b rcrfndf^"tha great human quality which, with one or two excep- EDGAR ALLAN POE X tions, flows through the greatest imaginative work; it is not representative on a large scale of human life and interpretative of human experience; there is no I real grasp of character in it; its formative ideas are few and lacking in depth. Poe is the most individual of our poets and the most magical; but he lacks the veracity, insight, range, and fertility of the great poet. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER°* o Y A "F ^ ^ H. Son coeur est mi luth suspendu; Sit6t qu’on le touche il rfeonne. Beranger. O hJ Y t E f cL“t. During tliG whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insuffer¬ able gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half- pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain, upon the bleak B * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 1 V 0 I i T A ' I H 2 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER ^ y walls, upon the vacant j^eiUM^ludows, upon a few I j rankjedg^ and upon a few white trunks of decayed Lfrees — with an utter depressjpn of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream «f the reveller upon opium: the : bitter lapse into everyday life, the hideous dropping I off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a smkenmg of the heart, an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it — I paused to think —what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with : the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pon- i dered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatis- ; factory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are i combinations of very simple natural objects which have > the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this i power lies among consideratio;is beyond our depth. It | was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrange- I ment of the particulars of the scene, of the details of J the picture, would be siifiieient to modify, or perhaps | to annihilate, its capacity for sorrowful impression- ’ and acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the 1 precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay j THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER ' 3 in unruffled lustre by the dweUing, and gazed down — but with a shudder even more thrilling than be¬ fore— upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now pro¬ posed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its pro¬ prietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of the country — a letter from him — which in its wildly importunate nature had admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness, of a mental disorder which oppressed him, and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said — it was the apparent heart that went with his re¬ quest— which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still con¬ sidered a very singular summons. Although as boys we had been even intimate as- 4 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER sociates, yet I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibil¬ ity of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested of late in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtru¬ sive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the or¬ thodox and easily recognizable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put forth at no period any enduring branch; in other words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with the accredited character of the peo¬ ple, and while speculating upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the other — it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent unde¬ viating transmission from sire to son of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so identified the i I 1 i THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 5 t two as to merge the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation of the “ House of Usher— an appellation which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the I family and the family mansion. I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat ■ childish experiment, that of looking down within the t tarn, had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the I rapid increase of my superstition — for why should II not so term it ? — served mainly to accelerate the 1 increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the ] paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as : a basis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immedi¬ ate vicinity: an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the b THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. silent tarn: a pestilent and mystic vapor^ dull, slug¬ gish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued. Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal-feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole ex¬ terior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of exten¬ sive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing ob¬ server might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the build- ing in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. Noticing these things, I xode over a short causeway THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 7 to the house. A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in si¬ lence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me — while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre tap¬ estries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rat¬ tled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accustomed from my infancy — while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all this — I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up." On one of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence of his master. The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black 8 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trellised panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. Upon my entrance. Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality — of the constrained effort of the ennuy4 man of the world. A glance, however, at his countenance convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely man had never before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Eoderick Usher! It was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan ' THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 9 Deing before me with the companion of my early boy¬ hood. Yet the character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpass¬ ingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril unusual in simi¬ lar formations; a finely moulded' chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want of moral energy • hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made up altogether a coun¬ tenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these features, and of the expression they were wont to con¬ vey, lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect its arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity. In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence, an inconsistency; and I soon V’ V ■i $ 10 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER ' found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile i struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy, an ex- ^ cessive nervous agitation. For something of this ; nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his i letter than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, j and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physi¬ cal conformation and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of : energetic concision —that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, j and hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, self- balanced and perfectly modulated guttural utterance ji — which may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his ' most intense excitement. j It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, •! of his earnest desire to see me, and of ^lie solace he v| expected me to afford him. He entered, at some v length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family I evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed 1 itself in a host pf unnatural sensations. Some of 1' I THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 11 these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms and the general manner of the narration had their weight. He suf¬ fered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; I the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him with horror. To an anomalous species of terror I found him a Ibounden slave: ^‘1 shall perish,’^ said he, “I must 1 perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the 1 future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger,’ except in its absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved — in this pitiable condition, I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim phantasm, Fear.^^ I learned moreover at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another singular feature of his 12 THE FALL OF^ THE HOUSE OF USHER | mental condition. He was enchained by certain super* stitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which he : tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had never i ventured forth — in regard >to an influence whose sup- ; posititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy ' here to be restated — an influence which some pecu- i liarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, ob- . tained over his spirit — an effect which the physique of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn ' into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence. He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him ' could be traced to a more natural and far more pal- ; pable origin — to the severe and long-continued illness, ■ indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution, of a tenderly beloved sister — his sole companion for long years, his last and only relative on earth. “Her de¬ cease,” he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, “ would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers.” While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the Jj apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, || THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 13 disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonish¬ ment not unmingled with dread, and yet I found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her re¬ treating steps. When a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother; but he had buried his face in his hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated fingers through which trickled many pas¬ sionate tears. The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially catalepti- cal character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should obtain — that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more. 14 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER For several days ensuing, her name was unmen¬ tioned by either Usher or myself j and during this period I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an in¬ herent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of gloom. I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many ' solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved .me, or led me the way. An excited and highly dis¬ tempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Yon Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 15 which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly because I shuddered knowing not why ; — from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Koderick Usher. For me at least, in the circumstances then surrounding me, there arose, out of the pure abstrac¬ tions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of FuSeli. One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceed¬ ing depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet 16 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER was observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no ] torch or other artificial source of light was discern!- j ble; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, | and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate j splendor. | I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable to ' the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of • stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the ^ guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the ' fantastic character of his performances. But the fer¬ vid facility of his impromptus could not be so ac¬ counted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild fan- ^ tasias (for he not unfrequontly accompanied himself ' with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that 1 intense mental collectedness and concentration to 9 which I have previously alluded as observable only I in particular moments of the highest artificial excite- I ment. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have I easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly I impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under A or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I per- I ceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness, on « THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 17 |tthe part of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason lupon her throne. The verses, which were entitled ‘ The Haunted Palace,” ° ran very nearly, if not ac¬ curately, thus: — I In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace — Radiant palace — reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion, It stood there ; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. II Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This — all this —was in the olden Time long ago) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day. Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Ill "Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous cities saw •Spirits moving musically To ^ lute’s well-tun^d law, THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER Round about a throne where, sitting, Porphyrogene, In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. IV And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door. Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing. In voices of surpassing beauty. The wit and wisdom of their king. V But evil things in robes of sorrow. Assailed the monarch’s high estate ; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. VI And travellers now within that valley Through the red-litten windows see THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 19 Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody ; While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever. And laugh—but smile no more. I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a train of thought, wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher’s which I men¬ tion not so much on account of its novelty, (for other men have thought thus,) as on account of the perti¬ nacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vege¬ table things. But in his disordered fancy the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of in organ¬ ization. I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones — in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of the many fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood around THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence — the evidence of the sen¬ tience— was to be seen, he said (and I here started as he spoke), in the gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made him what I now saw him — what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none. Our books — the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid — were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We pored together over such works as the Ververt and Chartreuse of Gres- setthe Belphegor of Machiavelli; ° the Heaven a7id Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg; ° the Chiromancy of Eobert Find, of Jean D’Indagine, and of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the City of the Sun of Campanella.® One favorite volume was a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium^ by the Dominican Eymeric THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 21 de Gironne; and there were passages in Pomponins Mela,° about the old African Satyrs and u^gipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — the Vigilice Mor- tuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesice Maguntince. I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence upon the hypo¬ chondriac, when one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fort¬ night, (previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the .build¬ ing. The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of the un¬ usual character of the malady of the deceased, of cer¬ tain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to -“V' 22 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution. At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. ' The vault in which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep, ana in later days as a place of deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway through which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, haa been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges. Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon / / s THE Fall of the house of usher 23 the face of the tenant. A striking similitude be¬ tween the brother and sister now first arrested my attention ; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead — for we could not re¬ gard her unawed. The disease which had thus en¬ tombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical charac¬ ter, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and sc rewed down the lid, n nd. having secured the do or of iron ^ made our way, with toil, into t^scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house. And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neg¬ lected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and. objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if pos- 24 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER sible, a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a tremu¬ lous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually charac¬ terized his utterance. There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he strug¬ gled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the pro- foundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions. It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the Lady Madeline within the donjon, that I experi¬ enced the full power of such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch, while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if not all, of what I felt was due to the bewilder¬ ing influence of the gloomy furniture of the room_ THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 25 of the dark and tattered draperies which, tortured into I motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fit- 1 fully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were I fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded I my' frame; and at length there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber, hearkened—I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted me — to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste, (for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night,) and endeavored to arouse my¬ self from the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment. I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my atten¬ tion. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped with a gentle touch at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His counte¬ nance was, as usual, cadaverously wan — but, more- 26 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER over, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes — an evidently restrained hysteria iii his whole de¬ meanor. His air appalled me — but anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief. ^^And you have not seen it?’^ he said abruptly, after having stared about him for some moments in silence — “you have not then seen it? — but, stay! you shall.Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the storm. The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had appar¬ ently collected its force in our vicinity ; for there were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering from all points against each other, without passing away into the distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not pre¬ vent our perceiving this; yet we had no glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was there any flashing forth of THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 27 the lightning. But the under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and en¬ shrouded the mansion. You must not — you shall not behold this! ” said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle violence from the window to a seat. These appear¬ ances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phe¬ nomena not uncommon — or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement; the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favor¬ ite romances. I will read, and you shall listen; and so we will pass away this terrible night together.” The antique volume which I had taken up was the Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the hypochondriac might find THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER relief (for the history of mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have congratulated myself upon the success of my design. I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where^ Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwell ing of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus : — “And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of « the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold ^ parley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and A mahceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and Y fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, ^ and with blows made quickly room in the planking of the door ^ for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood alarmed and reverberated ^.^roughout the forest.” 6 At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment paused ; for it appeared to me (although oo THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 29 I I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived [rnie) — it appeared to me that from some very remote {portion of the mansion there came, indistinctly, to my • ears, what might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one cer- ttainly) of'the very cracking and ripping sound which ' Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, 1 beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested 1 my attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of 1 the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or dis¬ turbed me. I continued the story : — “ But tlie good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; hut, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver ; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend en written — Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin ; ^ Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that cJU THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER ? Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the | dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard.” Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feel- i ing of wild amazement; for there could be no doubt ^ whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but I harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grat- i ing sound the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as described by the romancer. Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence ^ of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder ' and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained - su^fficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my com¬ panion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question} although, assuredly, *1 a strange alteration had during the last few minutes !' taken place in his demeanor. From a position front- ji ing my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, vi so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; 'j and thus I could but partially perceive his features, *| although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were |‘ THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 31 murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast — yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea — for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I re¬ sumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded: — “ And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out of the way before him, and ap¬ proached valorously over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.” Ho sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than — as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver — I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic and clangorous yet ap^ parently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking move¬ ment of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly 32 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER before him, and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile quivered abCut his lips 5 and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my pres¬ ence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words. ^^Not hear it? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long — long — long — many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it —yet I dared not —oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! — I dared not — I dared not speak ! We have put her living in the tomb ! Said I not that my senses were acute ? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them — many, many days — y6^ I dared not — I dared not speak ! And now to-night — Ethelred — ha! ha! — the breaking of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield! — say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh, whither shall I fly ? Will she not be here anon ? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste ? Have I not heard her footstep on the THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 33 stair ? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart ? Madman ! ’’ — here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his soul — Madman I I tell you that she now stands without the door! ” As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebtoy jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — but then without those doors there did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the Lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evi¬ dence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained .trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold — then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and, in her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. FrdmminF~^amber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to 34 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF' USHER \ see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued- ^ for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through ; that once barely discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the build¬ ing, m a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed this fissure rapidly widened —there came a fierce - breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the satel- r lite burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled as \ saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters - and the deep and dank tarn at my 1 feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher 1 LIGEIA°* And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor ? For God is hut a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. Joseph Glanvill. I CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the Lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and I my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, 1 because in truth the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low 1 musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family I * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 35 36 LIGEIA have surely heard her speak. That it is of a remotely H ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! | Buried in studies of a nature more than all else 1 adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, i it is by that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I ^ bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who J is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia ? or was it a test of my strength : of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon J this point ? or was it rather a caprice of my own — a . wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion ? I but indistinctly recall the fact itself—what wonder that I have utterly for- I gotten the circumstances which originated or attended it ? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance — if ever she, the wan and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she pre¬ sided over mine. There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia. In LIGEIA 37 t.tature slie was tall, somewliat slender, and, in her lat¬ er days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to oortray the majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanor, )r the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her [ootfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was aever made aware of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In ‘ beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was I the radiance of an opium-dream an airy and spirit¬ lifting vision more wildly divine than the fantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the ' daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not of :that regular mould which we have been falsely taught :to worship in the classical labors of the heathen. There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, without some strangeness in the propor- ^ tion.” Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity — although I perceived ■ that her loveliness was indeed exquisite,” and felt that there was much of strangeness ” pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of “the strange.” I examined the contour of the lofty and pale fore* 38 LIGEIA head: it was faultless — how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine ! — the skin rival¬ ling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and re¬ pose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the < luxuriant and naturally curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, ‘‘ hyacinthine! I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose — and no¬ where but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly — the magnificent turn of the short upper lip — the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under — the dimples which sported, and the color which spoke — the teeth glanc¬ ing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I I scrutinized the formation of the chin: and here, too, , I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and j the majesty, the fulness and the spirituality, of the j Greek — the contour which the god Apollo revealed | LIGEIA 39 but in a dream to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia. ; For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. : It might have been, too, that in these eyes of my be- ^ loved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes. 1 They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordi- I nary eyes of our own race. They were even fuller than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of ISTourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals — in moments of intense excitement — that this peculi¬ arity became more than slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty — in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps—the beauty of beings either above or apart from the earth, the beauty of the fabulous Houri of the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint. The “ strange¬ ness,’’ however, which I found in the eyes, was of a nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be re¬ ferred to the expression. Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual. The ex¬ pression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours 40 LIGEIA have I pondered upon it! How have I, through the whole of a inidsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it — that something more profound than the well of Democritus — which lay far within the pupils of my beloved ? What was it ? I was pos¬ sessed with a passion to discover. Those eyes ! those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers. There is no point, among the many incomprehen¬ sible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact — never, I believe, noticed in the schools — that in our endeavors to recall to mem¬ ory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. And thus how fre¬ quently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge of their expres¬ sion— felt it approaching, yet not quite be mine, and so at length entirely depart! And (strange, oh strang¬ est mystery of all!) I found, in the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression. I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in LIOEIA 41 the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always around, within me, by her large and luminous orbs. , Yet not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. I recognized it, let ii me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly grow- |i ing vine — in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, li a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have felt it in the ocean; in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people. And there are one or two stars in heaven, (one especially, a star I of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra,) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feel¬ ing. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by pas¬ sages from books. Among innumerable other in¬ stances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph GlanvilPs,® which (perhaps merely from its quaintness — who shall say ?) never failed to inspire me with the sentiment: And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor ? For God is but a great will per¬ vading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.” 42 LIGEIA Length of years and subsequent reflection have ^ enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection • between this passage in the English moralist and a I portion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a result, i or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, 4 during our long intercourse, failed to give other and ^ more immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the ' women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly ' calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And -j of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the ^ miraculous expansions of those eyes which at once so ! delighted and appalled me — by the almost magical [ melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice — and by the fierce energy (rendered ' doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utter- ^ ance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered. | I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was i immense such as I have never known in woman. In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, because simply the most abstruse of the ! LIQEIA 43 -oasted erudition of the academy, have I ever found .jigeia at fault ? How singularly, how thrillingly, this ;»ne point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, •,t this late period only, upon my attention! I said ler knowledge was such as I have never known in \roman — but where breathes the man who has trav- irsed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, t )hysical, and mathematical science ? I saw not then fvhat I now clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of I Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was suf- liciently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign inyself, with a child-like confidence, to her guidance i through the chaotic world of metaphysical investiga- , non at which I was most busily occupied during the ■earlier years of our marriage. With how vast a triumph, with how vivid a delight, with how much lOf all that is ethereal in hope, did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought—but less known, that delicious vista by slow degree expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden! How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded : expectations take wings to themselves and fly away / 44 LIOEIA Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed. Wanting the radiant lustre of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew i duller than Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too •— too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead i swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that she must die — and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic than njy own. There had been much in her stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death would ■ have come without its terrors; but not so. Words are \ impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow. : I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have soothed — I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life — for life — i but for life — solace and reason were alike the utter- i LIGEIA 45 most of folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her demeanor. Her voice grew more gentle — grew more low — yet I would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened, entranced, to a melody more than mortal — to assumptions and aspirations which mortality had never before'known. That she loved me I should not have doubted ; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the over¬ flowing of a heart whose more than passionate devo¬ tion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions ? how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of her making them ? But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in Li- geia’s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas i all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the principle of her long ing, with so wildly earnest a desireT~fdi‘ the “life which was now fleeing 46 LIGEIA SO rapidly away. It is this wild longing, it is this eager vehemence of desire for life — hut for life, that I have no power to portray, no utterance capable of expressing. At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me peremptorily to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses composed by herself not many days before. I obeyed her. They were these : Lo ! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly ; Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro. Flapping from out their condor wings Invisible Woe. V That motley drama — oh, be sure It shall not be forgot I LIGEIA 47 With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot; And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude: A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude ! It writhes — it writhes ! with mortal pangs The mimes become its food. And seraphs sob at vermin fangs. In human gore imbrued. Out — out are the lights — out all 1 And over each quivering form The curtain, a funeral pall. Comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan. Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “ Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 0 God ! ’’ half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending her arms aloft with a spasmodic move¬ ment, as I made an end of these lines — ‘^0 God! 0 Divine Father! shall these things be undeviatingly so ? shall this conqueror be not once conquered ? Are 48 LIQEIA we not part and parcel in Thee ? Who — who know- j eth the mysteries of the will with its vigor ? ^ Man I doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death \utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble '■ will/'’ ‘| And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms to fall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death. And as she breathed her last sighs, there came mingled wuth them a low murmur from her lips. I bent to them my ear, and distinguished, again, \ the concluding words of the passage in Glanvill: i “ Man doth yiot yield him to the angels, nor unto death | utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble I wiliy I She died: and I, crushed into the very dust with 1 sorrow, could no longer endure the lonely desolation | of my dwelling in the dim and decaying city by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls wealth. '! Ligeia had brought me far more, very far more, than ji ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. After a few months, therefore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and put in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, in one of the wilde^ and least fre¬ quented portions of fair England, ^he gloomy and L dreary grandeur of the building, tne almost savage LIGEIA 49 aspect of the domain, the many melancholy and time- honored memories connected with both, had much in unison with the feelings of utter abandonment which ; had driven me into that remote and unsocial region of I the country. Yet although the external abbey, with ji its verdant decay hanging about it, suffered but little I I alteration, I gave way with a child-like perversity, and ' perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence within. For such follies, even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste, and now they came back to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of incipi¬ ent madness might have been discovered in the gor¬ geous and fantastic drai^eries, in the solemn carvings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the carpets of tufted gold ! I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and my labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my dreams. But these absurdities I must not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that one cham¬ ber ever accursed, whither, in a moment of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my bride — as the successor of the unforgotten Ligeia — the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Bowena Trevanion, of Tremaine. There is no individual portion of the architecture E 50 LIQEIA and decoration of that bridal chamber which is not now visibly before me. Where were the souls of the haughty family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the threshold of an apart¬ ment so bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so be¬ loved ? I have said that I minutely remember the details of the chamber — yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment; and here there was no system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the memory. The room lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of capacious size. Occupying the whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole window — an immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice — a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the sun or moon, passing through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects within. Over the upper portion of this huge window extended the trellis-work of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret. The ceiling,' of gloomy-looking oak, was ex¬ cessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi- Gothic, semi-Druidical device. Trom out the most central recess of this melancholy vaulting depended, by a single chain of gold with long links, a huge I l! j I LIGEIA 51 censer of the same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and \ with many perforations so contrived that there writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a serpent vitality, a continual succession of party-colored fires. I Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of East- ^ ern figure, were in various stations about; and there was the couch, too — the bridal couch — of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy above. In each of the angles of the chamber stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with their aged lids full of immemorial sculp¬ ture. But in the draping of the apartment lay, alas ! the chief fantasy of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in height, even unproportionably so, were hung from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy and massive-looking tapestry — tapestry of a material which was found alike as a carpet on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and the ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of the curtains which partially shaded the window. The material was the richest cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with arabesque figures,^ about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the most jetty black. But 52 LIGEIA 1 these figures partook of the true character of the I arabesque only when regarded from a single point of i' view. By a contrivance now common, and indeed traceable to a very remote period of antiquity, they were made changeable in aspect. To one entering the , room, they bore the appearance of simple monstrosi- i ties j but upon a farther advance, this appearance I gradually departed; and, step by step, as the visitor j moved his station in the chamber, he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of the ghastly forms which belong to the superstition of the Nor¬ man, or arise in the guilty slumbers of the monk, i The phantasmagoric effect was vastly heightened by i the artificial introduction of a strong continual cur- \ rent of wind behind the draperies, giving a hideous i and uneasy animation to the whole. ,j In halls such as these, in a bridal chamber such as this, I passed, with the Lady of Tremaine, the unhal- ' lowed hours of the first month of our marriage_ 'j passed them with but little disquietude. That my ? wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my temper— -i that she shunned me, and loved me but little—I 1 could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather :| pleasure than otherwise. I loathed her with a hatred ! I belonging more to demon than to man. My memory LIGEIA 53 iflew back (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, the : entombed. I revelled in recollections of her purity, ' of her wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of I her passionate, her idolatrous love. Now, then, did 1 my spirit fully and freely burn with more than all i the fires of her own. In the excitement of my opium dreams, (for I was habitually fettered in the shackles I of the drug,) I would call aloud upon her name, during the silence of the night, or among the sheltered re¬ cesses of the glens by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn passion, the consuming ardor of my longing for the departed, I could restore her to the pathway she had abandoned — ah, could it be for¬ ever ? — upon the earth. About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the Lady Lowena was attacked with sudden illness, from which her recovery was slow. The fever which consumed her, rendered her nights uneasy; and in her perturbed, state of half-slumber, she spoke of sounds, and of motions, in and about the chamber of the turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the distemper of her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric influences of the chamber itself. She became at length convalescent—^’finally, well 54 LIGEIA Yet but a brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent disorder again threw her upon a bed of suffer¬ ing; and from this attack her frame, at all times feeble, never altogether recovered. Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming character, and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the knowledge and the great exertions of her physicians. With the increase of the chronic disease, which had thus appar- ently taken too sure hold upon her constitution to be eradicated by human means, I could not fail to ob¬ serve a similar increase in the nervous irritation of her temperament, and in her excitability by trivial causes of fear. She spoke again, and now more fre¬ quently and pertinaciously, of the sounds — of the slight sounds and of the unusual motions among the tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded. One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed this distressing subject w;th more than usual emphasis upon my attention. She had just awak¬ ened fiom an unquiet slumber, and I had been watch- ing, with feelings half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the workings of her emaciated countenance. I sat by the side of her ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of India. She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of sounds which she then heard, but LIQEIA 55 ? ■ which I could not hear — of motions which she then saw, but which I could not perceive. The wind was rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries, and I wished to show her (what, let me confess it, I could not all believe) that those almost inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations of the figures upon the wall, were but the natural effects of that customary rushing of the wind. But a deadly pallor, overspread¬ ing her face, had proved to me that my exertions to reassure her would be fruitless. She appeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within call. I re¬ membered where was deposited a decanter of light wine which had been ordered by her physicians, and hastened across the chamber to procure it. But, as I stepped beneath the light of the censer, two circum¬ stances of a startling nature attracted my attention. I had felt that some palpable although invisible object had passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there lay upon the golden carpet, in the very middle of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a shadow— a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect — such as might be fancied for the shadow of a shade. But I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate dose of opium, and heeded these things but little, nor spoke of them to Eowena. Having found the wine, I re* 56 LIGEIA II crossed the chamber, and poured out a gobletful, which j I held to the lips of the fainting lady. She had now partially recovered, however, and took the vessel her¬ self, while I sank upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person. It was then that I became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon the carpet, and near the couch; and in a second there¬ after, as Eowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some invisible spring in i the atmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby-colored fluid. If this I saw — not so Eowena. She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I forbore to speak to her of a circumstance which i must after all, I considered, have been but the sugges- > tion of a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly active | by the terror of the lady, by the opium, and by the ! hour. Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immediately subsequent to the fall of the ruby- j drops, a rapid change for the worst took place in the i disorder of my wife; so that, on the third subsequent | night, the hands of her menials prepared her for the | tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which had received her j V LIGEIA 57 as my bride. Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted shadow-like before me. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room, upon the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the party-colored fires in the censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer where I had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, however, no longer; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Then rushed upon me a thousand memories of Ligeia — and then came back upon my heart, with the turbulent violence of a flood, I the whole of that unutterable woe with which I had regarded her thus enshrouded. The night waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the one only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena. It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery. * I felt that it came from the bed of ebony — the bed of death. I listened in an agony of superstitious terror -^but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse — but 58 LIGEIA there was not the slightest perceptible. Yet I could ] not have been deceived. I had heard the noise, how¬ ever faint, and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutely and perseveringly kept my attention riveted j upon the body. Many minutes elapsed before any cir¬ cumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery.. At length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely noticeable tinge of color had flushed up within the cheeks, and along the sunken small veins of the eyelids. Through a species of un¬ utterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality has no sufliciently energetic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty Anally operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer doubt i that we had been precipitate in our preparations — that Rowena still lived. It was necessary that some ' immediate exertion be made; yet the turret was alto¬ gether apart from the portion of the abbey tenanted by the servants — there were none within call — I had no means of summoning them to my aid without leaving the room for many minutes — and this I could not venture to do. I therefore struggled alone in my endeavors to call back the spirit still hovering. In a short period it was certain, however, that a relapse I LIGEIA 59 i had taken place; the color disappeared from both eye¬ lid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of marble; the lips became doubly shrivelled and ] pinched up in the ghastly expression of death; a re- ) pulsive clamminess and coldness overspread rapidly the surface of the body; and all the usual rigorous t stiffness immediately supervened. I fell back with a shudder upon the couch from which I had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to passionate waking visions of Ligeia. An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be possible ?) I was a second time aware of some vague sound issu¬ ing from the region of the bed. I listened — in ex¬ tremity of horror. The sound came again — it was a sigh. Bushing to the corpse, I saw — distinctly saw _a tremor upon the lips. In a minute afterwards they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth. Amazement now struggled in my bosom witk the profound awe which had hitherto reigned there alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my rea¬ son wandered; and it was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more had pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded < 60 LIGEIA the whole frame; there was even a slight pulsation at | the heart. The lady lived; and with redoubled ardor j I betook myself to the task of restoration. I chafed ; and bathed the temples and the hands, and used ' every exertion which experience, and no little medical ' reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, the t color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities of that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb. And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia — and again, (what marvel that I shudder while I write ?) again there reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony bed. But why shall' I minutely detail . the unspeakable horrors of that night ? Why shall I pause to relate how, time after time, until near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous drama of revivi¬ fication was repeated; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently more irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with some invisible foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild change in the j 1 . 61 LIGEIA personal appearance of the corpse ? Let me hurry to a conclusion. The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead, once again stirred — and now more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utter helpless¬ ness than any. I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a helpless prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before. The hues of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the counte¬ nance— the limbs relaxed — and, save that the eye¬ lids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and draperies of the grave still imparted their charnel character to the figure, I might have dreamed that Howena had indeed shaken olf, utterly, the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when, arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of one bewildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced bodily and palpably into the middle of the apartment. 62 LIGEIA I tremblGd not— I stirred not — for a crowd of un- j utterable fancies connected with the air, the stature, j the demeanor of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed — had chilled me into stone. I stirred not — but gazed upon the apparition. There was a mad disorder in my thoughts — a tumult un¬ appeasable. Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena who confronted me ? Could it indeed be Rowena at \ all — the fair-haired, the blue-eyed* Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine ? Why, why should I doubt it ? The bandage lay heavily about the mouth — but i; then might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady of Tremaine ? And the cheeks — there were the roses { as in her noon of life — yes, these might indeed be ' Y/ the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine. ^ And the chin, with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers ? but had she then grown taller since her malady ^ What inexpressible madness seized me | with that thought ? One bound, and I had reached | her feet! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall | from her head the ghastly cerements which had | confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rush- Jj; ing atmosphere of the chamber, huge masses of long j and dishevelled hair; it was blacker than the wings oj I' the midnight! And now slowly opened the eyes of | LIGEIA 63 the figure which stood before me. ^‘Here then, at least,” I shrieked aloud, ^‘can I never — can I never be mistaken — these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes—of my lost love — of the Lady — of the Lady Ligeia.” 4 j SILENCE —A FABLE* j EuSovo’tj' S opioiv Kopv<^t T€ KoX a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence. “ It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head —and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the soWlnity of their desolation. “ And7 all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the 66 SILENCE — A FABLE shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the | moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, » and the rock was gray. Upon its front were char- • acters engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the I rock, and upon the characters ^ — and the characters - were desolation. ; * I “And I looked upwards, and there stood a man 1 upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among ' the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Borne. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct — but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the ' mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncov- i ered the features of his face. And his .brow was lofty j with thought, and his eye wild with care; and in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sor¬ row, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a j longing after solitude. SILENCE—A FABLE 67 “And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desola¬ tion. He looked down into the low, unquiet shrub¬ bery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man flb trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned, and I he sat upon the rock. “ And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. “ Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among the wilderness of the lilies and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hip¬ popotami heard my call, and came, with the b ^emoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fear¬ fully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my 68 SILENCE — A FABLE covert and observed the actions of the man. And the i man trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned, ‘ and he sat upon the rock. ‘‘Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And I the heaven became livid with the violence of the tem¬ pest— and the rain beat upon the head of the man — and the floods of the river came down — and the river was tormented into foam—and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and the forest crumbled before the ' wind — and the thunder rolled — and the lightning ; fell — and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock. “ Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its path¬ way to heaven — and the thunder died away — and ; the lightning did not flash — and the clouds hung J motionless — and the waters sunk to their level and j remained — and the trees ceased to rock — and the J SILENCE—A FABLE 69 water-lilies sighed no more —and the murmur was I heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of j sound throughout the vast ill\mi^able deseit. And I ' looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were : changed; — and the characters were silence. “ And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the 1 man, and his countenance was wOn with terror. And, 1 hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitole desert, and the . characters upon the rock were silence. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more.” ******** Now there are flne tales in the volumes of the Magi _in the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea —and of the Genii that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the sayings which were said by the Sibyls ; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona — but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me, as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonder- 70 SILENCE—A FABLE ful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx, which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face. I i I • •0 / llTHE MASQUE OP THE RED DEATH* I (northern Italy) The “ Eed Death ” had long -devastated the coun- ttry: No pestilence had ever “been so fatal, or so hid- (eons. Blood was its avatar and its seal — the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the ] pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the 1 body, and especially upon the face, of the victim were I the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole I seizure, progress, and termination of the disease were the incidents of half an hour. But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half de¬ populated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the crea- * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 71 72 THE MASQUE OF THE RED D^ATH ; tion of the Prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. ! A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had ' gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought | furnaces and massy hammers, and welded the bolts, i They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defi¬ ance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The Prince had provided all the appli¬ ances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were ’ improvisator!, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the 1 Bed Death.” , It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most - unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scesne, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rocms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many pal¬ aces, however, such suites form a long and straight ' THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 73 vista/j wliilG tli6 folding-doors slido l)a sunrise, from the battlements ! ” It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly for the Prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand. It was in the blue room where stood the Prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of ' this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with delib- ' erate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had in- I spired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he I passed within a yard of the Prince’s person; and i while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, I shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he I made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same ! solemn and measured step which had distinguished i him from the first, through the blue chamber to the | purple — through the purple to the green — through | 9 THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH 81 ;the green to the orange — through this again to the white — and even thence to the violet, ere a decided I movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, I rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while 1 none followed him on account of a deadly terror that 1 had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within t three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the Hatter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pur¬ suer. There was a sharp cry — and the dagger ^ dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of de¬ spair, a throng of the revellers at once threw them¬ selves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in un¬ utterable horror at finding the grave cerements and ' corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form. And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. 82 THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood- bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Dark¬ ness and Decay and the Ked Death held illimitable dominion over all. THE ASSIGNATION * (VENICE) Stay for me there ! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester : The Exequy. Ill-fated and mysterious man ! bewildered in the brilliancy of tbine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath risen before me! not —oh, not as thou art —in the cold valley and shadow — but as thou sTiouldst he — squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own Yenice — which is a star-beloved, Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes ! I repeat it—as thou shouldst he. There are surely other worlds than this: other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude, other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call ♦ By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 83 84 THE ASSIGNATION ! thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy | visionary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings ' of thine everlasting energies ? It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di jSospiri, that I met for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind i the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember 1 — ah ! how should I forget ?—the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal. It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock ^ of the Piazza had sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home i from the Piazetta, by way of the Grand Cg.nal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long-continued shriek/ Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet, while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a ^ THE ASSIGNATION 85 chance of recovery, and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor, we were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaus flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid^and preternatural day. A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, . had fallen from an upper window of the lofty struc¬ ture into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface the treasure which was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the MaTfili£a 2 .--A.phroflite — the adoration of all Venice—the gayest of the gay — the most lovely where all were beautiful — but still the young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep be¬ neath the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of 86 THE ASSIGNATION heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to call upon her name. She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delicate form; but the midsummer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form itself stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe. Yet, strange to say, her large lustrous eyes were not turned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried but riveted in a widely different direction! The prison of the Old Eepublic is, I think, the stateliest building in all Venice, but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay stifling her only child ? Yon dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber window — what, then, could there be in its shadows, in its architecture, in its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices, that the Marchesa di VTentoni had THE ASSIGNATION 87 not wondered at a thousand times before? Non¬ sense ! Who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off ! places the woe which is close at hand ? I Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the I arch of the water-gate, stood, in full dress, the satyr¬ like figure of Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed ennuy^ to the very death, as at intervals he gave directions for the recovery of his child. Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to move from the upright posi¬ tion I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have presented to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as with pale coun¬ tenance and rigid limbs I floated down among them in that funereal gondola. All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most ener¬ getic in the search were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child (how much less than for the mother!); but now, from the interior of that dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled 88 THE ASSIGNATION in a cloak stepped out within reach of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the ghldy descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As in an instant afterwards he stood, with the still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing. No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive her child — she will press it to her heart — she will cling to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! another’s arms have taken it from the stranger— anothei'^s arms have taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace I And the Marchesa 1 Her lip — her beautiful lip trembles; tears are gathering in her eyes — those eyes which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are “ soft and almost liquid.” Yes, tears are gathering in those eyes — and see 1 the entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the swell¬ ing of the marble bosom, the very purity of the marble THE ASSIGNAT) 89 feet, we behold suddenly flushj^over with a tide of ungovernable shudder quivers about h^d^diSe^frame, as a gentle air at Napoli aboubldhe rich silver lilies in the grass. ^^"^fhy should that lady blush? To this demand there is no answer — except that, having left, in the ^ eager haste and terror of a mother’s heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she has neglected to enthrall her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason could there have been for her so blushing ? — for the glance of those wild appealing eyes ? for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom ? for the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand — that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally upon the hand of the stranger ? What reason could there have been for the low — the singularly low tone of those unmeaning words wdiich the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu ? Thou hast conquered,” she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived me ; “ thou hast conquered — one hour after sunTise — we shall meet — so let it be! ” ******** The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away 90 'IE ASSIGNATION within the palace, stranger, whom I now rec¬ ognized, stood alone shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glabS^^around in search of a gondola. I could not do less thS^offer him the service of my own; and he acceptea'thex civility. Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession, and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality. There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The person of the stranger— let me call him by this title, who to all the world was still a stranger — the person of the stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been below rather than above the medium size; although there were moments of intense passion when his frame actually expanded and belied the assertion. The light, almost slender, symmetry of his figure promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity — singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and THE ASSIGNATION 91 brilliant jet —and a profusion of curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at intervals all light and ivory — his were features than which I have seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no peculiar — it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened upon the memory 5 a coun¬ tenance seen and instantly forgotten, but forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own distinct image upon the mirror of that face; but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion had departed. Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next morning. Shortly after sunrise I found myself accordingly at his Pa¬ lazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the Eialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics into 92 THE ASSIGNATION an apartment whose unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door with an actual glare, making me blind and dizzy with luxuriousness. I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Eeport had spoken of his possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around. Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly lighted up. I judged from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber the evident design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been paid to the decora of what is technically called keeping, or to the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object, and rested upon none—neither the grotesques of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Eich draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose origin was f THE ASSIGNATION 93 ot to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by lingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking up from trange convolute censers, together with multitudi- , LOUS flaring and flickering tongues of emerald and ; iolet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured I n upon the whole, through windows, formed each of single pane of crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to md fro in a thousand reflections, from curtains which oiled from their cornices like cataracts of molten diver, the beams of natural glory mingled at length I itfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in jubdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking doth of Chili gold. Ha! ha ! ha! — ha! ha! ha! ” — laughed the pro- Drietor, motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, md throwing himself back at full length upon an ottoman. see,” said he, perceiving that I could .aot immediately reconcile myself to the bienseance of 30 singular a welcome — ‘‘I see you are astonished at my apartment — at my statues — my pictures — my Driginality of conception in architecture and uphol¬ stery ! absolutely drunk, eh, with my magnificence ? But pardon me, my dear sir ” (here his tone of voice dropped to the very spirit of cordiality), “pardon me for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so utterly 94 THE ASSIGNATION astonished. Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous that a man must laugh, or die. To di^ laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths ! Sir Thomas More® — a very fine man wasj Sir Thomas More — Sir Thomas More died laughing you remember. Also in the Absurdities of Bavisius Textor there is a long list of characters who came tc the same magnificent end. Do you know, however,’] continued he, musingly, ‘Hhat at Sparta — which isj; now Palaeochori — at Sparta, I say, to the west of thej citadel, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is £ kind of socle upon which are still legible the letters AA2M. They are undoubtedly part of TEAA^MA Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should have sur vived all the others! But in the present instance,’ he resumed, with a singular alteration of voice anc manner, ‘A have no right to be merry at your ex pense. You might well have been amazed. Europt cannot produce anything so fine as this, my litth regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of the same order — mere ultras oi fashionable insi pidity. This is better than fashion, is it not? Ye1 this has but to be seen to become the rage — that is THE ASSIGNATION 95 with those who could afford it at the cost of their en¬ tire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With one exception you are the only human being, besides myself and my valet, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see ! ” I bowed in acknowledgment: for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, my appr0ciation of what I might have construed into a compliment. ‘^Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around the apartment, — “here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue,° and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They are all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber V such as this. Here, too, are some chefs d’oeuvre of the unknown great; and here, unfinished designs by • men, celebrated in their day, whose very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to silence and to me. What think you,’' said he, turning abruptly as he spoke — ^^what think you of this Madonna della Pieta ? ” 96 THE ASSIGNATION ^ is Guido’s® own!” I said, with all the enthu¬ siasm of my nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. “ It is Guido’s own! — how could you have obtained it ? she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture.” ^^Ha!” said he, thoughtfully, “the Venus —the beautiful Venus?—the Venus of the Medici? —she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair ? Part of the left arm,” (here his voice dropped so as to be heard with difficulty) “ and all the right, are restorations 5 and in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give me the Ca- nova! The Apollo, too, is a copy — there can be no doubt of it — blind fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help — pity me ! — I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble ? Then Michel Angelo was by no means original in his couplet_ _ “ ‘ Non ha I’ottimo artista alcun concetto Ch6 un marmo solo in se non circonscriva. ’ ” It has been or should be remarked that, in the man¬ ner of the true gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar, without THE ASSIGNATION 97 being at once precisely able to determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have ap¬ plied in its full force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apart from all other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual thought, pervading even his most trivial actions, intruding upon his mo¬ ments of dalliance, and interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment, like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the grinning masks in the cor¬ nices around the temples of Persepolis. I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little im¬ portance, a certain air of trepidation — a degree of /nervous unction in action and in speech — an unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at all times unaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expecta- H 98 THE ASSIGNATION tion of a visitor, or to sounds which, must have had existence in his imagination alone. It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar Politian’s beautiful tragedy, the Orfeo (the first native Italian tragedy), which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage un¬ derlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third act — a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement — a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion, no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and upon the opposite interleaf were the following English lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance that I had some difficulty in recognizing it as his own: — Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine : A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise THE ASSIGNATION 99 But to be overcast! , A voice from out the Future cries, “Onloul”—but o’er the Past (Dim gulf 1) my spirit hovering lies Mute — motionless — aghast. For alas ! alas ! with me The light of Life is o’er. “No more — no more — no more — (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar. Now all my hours are trances. And all my nightly dreams Are where thy gray eye glances. And where thy footstep gleams, In what ethereal dances, By what Italian streams. Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o’er the billow. From Love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow : From me, and from our misty clime Where weeps the silver willow. That these lines were written in English, a language '■with which I had not believed their author acciuainted, ^afforded me little matter for surprise. I was too well V 100 THE ASSIGNATION aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of the, singular pleasure he took in concealing them from*? observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me? no little amazement. It had been originally written'^ London, and afterwards carefully overscored — not,^ however, so effectually as to conceal the word from a ^ scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me no little!^ amazement; for I well remember that, in a former con -1 versation with my friend, I particularly inquired if hel' had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Men-? toni (who for some years previous to her marriage had^' resided in that city), when his answer, if I mistaken not, gave me to understand that he had never visited'' the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here ■ mention that I have more than once heard (without, ^ of course, giving credit to a report involving so many improbabilities), that the person of whom I speak was ^ not only by birth, but in education, an Englishman. \ *=^****** ; ''There is one painting,” said he, without being] aware of my notice of the tragedy — "there is stilL one painting which you have not seen.” And throw¬ ing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length por¬ trait of the Marchesa Aphrodite. THE ASSIGNATION 101 Human art could have done no more in the delinea- don of her superhuman beauty. The same ethereal igure which stood before me the preceding night, upon :he steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again. But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful strain of mel¬ ancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded 3ver her bosom. With her left she pointed downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth; and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed Ito encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair 'of the most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and dhe vigorous words of Chapman’s Bussy D’Ambois° ^ quivered instinctively upon my lips: — j “I am up Here like a Koman statue ; I will stand Till death hath made me marble 1 ” Come,” he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically stained, together with 102 THE ASSIGNATION two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same ex- j| traordinary model as that in the foreground of thei| portrait, and filled with what I supposed to be Johannis- :j berger. “ Come,” he said abruptly, ‘‘ let us drink ! It,! is early — but let us drink. It is indeed early,” he ’ continued musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the apartment ring with the first hour | after sunrise: “ it is indeed early — but what matters i it ? let us drink! Le t us pour out an offeri ng to yon | solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are j so eager to subdue ! ” And, having made me pledge 1 him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession ! several goblets of the wine. ; To dream,” he continued, resuming the tone of his ; desultory conversation, as he held up to the rich light ^ of a censer one of the magnificent vases — to dream i has been the business^oLjmy-life. I have therefore | framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In ! the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? I You behold around you, it is true, a medley of archi- i tectural embellishments.- The chastity of Ionia is i offended by antediluvian devices, and the sphinxes I of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold; Yet j the effect is incongruous to the timid alone. Pro- ■ prieties of place, and especially of time, are the bug- , r 103 THE ASSIGNATION bears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was myself a decorist; but that vmblimation of folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent his head to his bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At length, erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the lines of the Bishop of Chichester: — “ Stay for me there ! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale.'' In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw himself at full length upon an ottoman. A quick step was heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni’s household burst into the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the in¬ coherent words, ^‘My mistress! —my mistress! — Poisoned! — poisoned! Oh, beautiful — oh, beautiful Aphrodite! ” 104 THE ASSIGNATION Bewildered.^ I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored ! to arouse the sleeper to a sense of the startling intelli- 1 gence. But his limbs were rigid — his lips were livid — his lately beaming eyes were riveted m, death. I staggered back towards the table — my hand fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet — and a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul. ; %' THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO * (rome) ! The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed i revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled — but the very definitive- ness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of I risk. I must not only punish, but punish with im- ipunity. a wrong is unrediessed when retribution overtakes its redresse^ Iti is equally unredressed ' when the avenger failsto make himself felt as such jito him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. ; I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and ihe did not perceive that my smile now was at the . thought of his immolation. He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in other regards he was a man to be respected and * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 105 106 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseur -1 ship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso | spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted j| to suit the time and opportunity — to practise impos- li ture upon the British and Austrian millionnaires. Id I painting and gemmary, Fortunate, like his countrymen, i was a quack — but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him ; materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages j myself, and bought largely whenever I could. )[ It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme | madness of the carnival season, that I encountered j my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, \ for he had been drinking much. The man wore mot- ley. Hie had on a tight-iitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells, i I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should ] never have done wringing his hand. "I said to him, “My dear Fortunate, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! * But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amon¬ tillado, and I have my doubts.’’ “ How ? ”~&aid he-.- “ Amontillado ? A pipe ? Im- : possible ! And in the middle of the carnival! ” “I have my doubts,”-! repliedj “and I was silly THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 107 Qough to pay the full Amontillado price without con- ulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, nd I was fearful of losing a bargain.’^ Amontillado! ” “ I have my doubts.’^ “ Amontillado! ” “ And I must satisfy them.” Amontillado! ” t As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. |,.f any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell ■ne — ” “ Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.” And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a toatch for your own.” “ Come, let us go.” Whither ? ” ‘‘ To your vaults.” My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good¬ nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Lu- 3 hesi — ” “ I have no engagement; — come.” “ My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. ^The vaults are insufferably damp. They are incrusted with nitre.” 108 THE' CASK OF AMONTILLADO II Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely noth-1 ing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.” Thus speaking, Fortunate possessed himself of my hurry me to my palazzo. I There were no attendants at home; they had ab¬ sconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had [ told them that I should not return until the morning, i and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all. as soon as my back was turned. ; I took from their sconces two flambeaus, and giving i one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of ^ rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting i him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length ; ^^^,jbhe foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. “ The pipe,” eaid he-. THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 109 It is farther on/’-said-1; ^^bnt observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls.” He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. Nitre ? ” dm asked at lengHr. “Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough ? ” “ Ugh ! ugh! ugh ! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh ! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. “It is nothing,” he said, at last. “Come,” t said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi — ” “Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.” . “True — true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily — but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.” 110 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO } ,1 Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle wbicb I j drew from a long row of its fellows tbat lay upon tbe j mould. Drink/^ I said, presenting him the wine. ’ He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and t nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. drink,” he said, ^‘to the buried that repose ' around us.” And I to your long life.” He again took my arm, and we proceeded. These vaults,” he^said, are extensive.” The Montresors,” -I- replied, ‘‘ were a great and numerous family.” I forget your arms.” A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.” And the motto ? ” Nemo me impune lacessitJ^ Good! ” he said. ■ The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I 4 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 111 imade bold to seize Fortunate by an arm above the (elbow. I The nitre! T said j see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. ' The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, I' we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough_” ‘at is nothing,’i^-he^aid; “let us go on. But first, ; another draught of the Medoc.” I I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce 1 light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with . a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the move- I ment — a grotesque one. “ You do not comprehend ? ” ho said; “ Not I,” I replied. “ Then you are not of the brotherhood.” “ How ? ” “ You are not of the masons.” “Yes, yes,” Toaid, “yes, yes.” “ You ? Impossible ! A mason ? ” “ A mason,” I replied; “ A sign,” he said. , “ It is this,” I answered, produciUg a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire. 112 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO “You jest/^ he' exclaimed, recoiling a few-paces. “ But let us proceed to the Amontillado.’’ “Be it so,” I-said, replacing the tool beneath tbe cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed" through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaus rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we per¬ ceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 113 It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess, llts termination the feeble light did not enable ns to see. ^^Proceed,’^'-Irsaid; ^‘herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi — ’’ is an ignoramus,’’-interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immedi¬ ately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the. extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A I moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. ]In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each (Other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these (depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. 'Thro wings the links about his w aist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped Iback from the recess. Pass your hand,” I*eaid, over the wall; you can- inot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. Ho ? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render hyou all the little attentions in my power.” ^^The Amomillado ! ” ejaculated my friend, not yet -recovered from his astonishment. I 114 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO “ True,” I replied; “ the Amontillado.” • As I said these words I busied myself among the - pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throw¬ ing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of build¬ ing stone and mortar. With these materials and with' the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up i the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indica¬ tion I had of this was a low moaning cry from the - depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken ’■ man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. . I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth;!, and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain.'^ The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly - upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the fiambeaus over the mason work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting THE CASl. OF AMONTILLADO 115 I suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated — I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope wi! h it about the recess; but the thought of an insta it reassured me. I placed my i hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt ■ satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the , yells of him who clamored. I reechoed — I aided — I I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did I this, and the clamorer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was suc¬ ceeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recog¬ nizing as that of the noble Fortunate. -The voice ! ha! — ne! he ! he ! a very good indeed — an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo — he ! he! he ! — over our wine — he! he! he! ” said;^ a! ha 116 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO “ The Amontillado ! ” I said. i ' “ He ! he! he! — he ! he! he! — yes, the Amontil- | lado. But is it not getting late ? Will not they be jj awaiting us at the palazzo, — the Lady Fortunate and i the rest ? Let us be gone.’’ 7 ' Yes,” I said, ‘‘let us be gone.” ! For the love of God, Montresor!’^ “ Yes,” I said, “ for the love of God ! ” But to these words T hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud — “Fortunate!” •' No answer. I called again — “Fortunate!” . 'i y No answer still. I thrust a torch through the re- 1 maining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a j ingling of The bel^l s. My heart 4 grew sick — on account of the dampness of the cata- ! combs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it ! up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old 1 rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal ! has disturbed them. In pace requiescat. ’ ' •) \ THE PIT ANt) THE PENDULUM”* ■ (SPAIN) I . Impia tortorum longas hie turba furores Sanguinis innocui, non, satiata, aluit. Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, ' : Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to he erected upon the site of the Jacobin 'i Club House at Paris. I WAS sick — sick unto death with that long agony ; and when they at length unbound me, and I was per¬ mitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence — the dread sentence of death — was the i:3last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed ^merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It con¬ veyed to my soul the idea of revolution, perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period; for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 117 118 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM judges. They appeared to me white, whiter than the i sheet upon which I trace these words, and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their ex¬ pression of firmness, — of immovable resolution, of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the de¬ crees of what to me was Tate were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me; but then, alt at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 119 o.ame at length properly to feel and entertain it, the C figures of the judges vanished, as if magically, from before me ^ the tall candles sanh into nothingness j their flames went out utterly; the blackness of dark¬ ness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe. I had swooned; but still will not say that all of con¬ sciousness was lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber — no ! In delirium •—no! In a swoon — no! In death —no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound of slum¬ bers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward (so frail may that web have I been) we remember not'that we have dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon there are two stages : first, that of the sense of mental or spiritual, secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon reaching the second stage, we' could recall the impressions of the first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond. And that gulf is — what ? How at least 120 THE PIT AND THE PEi'^DULUM shall we distinguish its shadows fron' those of the |: tomb ? But if the impressions of what I have termed the first stage are not at will recalled, yet, after a long ||: interval, do they not come unbidden, while we marvel 1 whence they come? He who has never swooned is | not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar i faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds float¬ ing in mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence which has ; never before arrested his attention. • i Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remem- j ber, amid earnest struggles to regather some token of ^ the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul ' had lapsed, there have been moments when I have { dreamed of success; there have been brief, very brief ' periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could ji have had reference only to that condition of seeming ] unconsciousness. These shadows of memory tell, in- : distinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down — down — still down — till a hideous | dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the inter- j minableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague [ THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 121 ' horror at my heart, on account of that heart’s unnatu- 1 ral stillness. Then comes a sense 'of sudden motion¬ lessness throughout all things; as if those who bore 1 me (a ghastly train!) had outrun in their descent the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisome¬ ness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness .and dampness; and then all is madness — the mad¬ ness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden ! things. Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound — the tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and touch — a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought — a condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and ear¬ nest endeavor to comprehend my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later day and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to recall. S' I i THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM (K. 122 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM ^ So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine where and ichat I could be. I longed yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look upon things horrible, but that ! grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me. I strug¬ gled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intol¬ erably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I brought to mind the inquisi¬ torial proceedings, and attempted from that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in what state was I ? The condemned to death, I knew, perished usually at the autos-da-f4° and one of these I THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 123 Ihad been held on the very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my dungeon to await the inext sacrifice, which would not take place for many 1 months ? This I at once saw could not be. Victims 1 had been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dun- ! geon, as well as all the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not altogether excluded. A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in tor¬ rents upon my heart, and for a brief period I once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recovering, I ! at once started to my feet, trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms extended, and my eyej"°^^ straining from their sockets, in the hope of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces; but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous of fates. And, now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there came thronging upon my recollection a 124 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM thousand vague rumors of the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange things narrated — fables I had always deemed them — but yet strange, and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to perish of starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me ? That the result would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and the hour were all that occupied or distracted me. My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry — very smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the careful distrust with which certain antique narratives had inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no means of ascertain¬ ing the dimensions of my dungeon; as I might make its circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, without being aware of the fact, so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought the knife which had been in my pocket when led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes had been ex¬ changed for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 125 masonry, so as to identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and placed the fragment at full length, and at right angles to the wall. In groping my way around the prison I could not fail to encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I had not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness. The ground was moist and slippery. I staggpred onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue induced me to rertiain prostrate 5 and sleep soon overtook me as I lay. Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. Shortly afterward, I re¬ sumed my tour around the prison, and with much toil came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the period when I fell, I had counted fifty-two paces, and, upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight more — when I arrived at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and, admitting two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in 126 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the vault; for vault I could not help supposing to be. I had little object — certainly no hope — in these researches; but a vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first, I proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly of solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length, how-ever, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly — endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my legs. I stepped on it and fell violently on my face. In the confusion attending my fall, I did not imme¬ diately apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this : my chin rested upon the floor of the prison but, my lips and the upper portion of my head, although seem- ^ i^ss elevation than the chin, touched noth¬ ing. At the same time, my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 127 and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping about the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds I hearkened to its rever¬ berations as it dashed against the.sides of the chasm in its descent; at length there was a sullen plunge into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment there came a sound resembling the quick opening and as rapid closing of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away. I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and congratulated myself upon the timely acci¬ dent by which I had escaped. Another step before- my fall, and the world had seen me no more. And the death just avoided was of that very^ character which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny there was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung, until I trem¬ bled at the sound of my own voice, and had become 128 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM in every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which awaited me. Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall — resolving there to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of which my imagination now pic¬ tured many in various positions about the dungeon. In other conditions of mind, I might have had courage to end my misery at once, by a plunge into one of these abysses; but now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what I had read of these pits — that the sudden extinction of life formed no part of their most horrible plan. Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours; but at length I again slumbered. Upon arous¬ ing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been drugged — for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me — a sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, of course I know not; but, when once again I unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the extent and » aspect of the prison. THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 129 In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned .me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed — for what could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances which i 7 ^ ^ I ' pn\rivrkTiPfl rnp. t.Tia.Ti thp, mere dimensions of mv dun- iti.v 1 geon ? But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in endeavors to account for the error I had committed in my measurement. The truth at ^ration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the period 'when I fell: I must then have been within a pace or two of the fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the circuit of the vault. I then slept and,i upon awaking^ I must have returned upon my steps, thus supposing the circuit nearly double what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me from observing that I began my tour with the wall to the left, and ended it with the wall to the right. I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. In feeling my way, I had found many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect of total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The angles were K I 130 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM simply those of a few slight depressions, or niches, at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was square. What I had taken for masonry, seemed now to be iron, or some other metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression. The entire surface of this metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which the charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls. I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded and blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the only one in the dungeon. All this I saw distinctly and by much effort, for my personal condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such extent that I could, by dint of much exer- i • THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 131 . tion, supply myself with food from an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to my ! horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I say, to my horror — for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be the design of my , persecutors to stimulate, for the food in the dish was I meat pungently seasoned. I Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some thirty or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side walls. In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted my whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of a huge pendulum, such as we see on antique clocks. There was something, however, in the appearance of this machine which caused me to regard it more attentively. While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own), I fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell. I 132 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing it. i. They had issued from the well, which lay just within ^ j view to my right. Even then, while I gazed, they j] came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, i allured by the scent of the meat. Erom this it re- i| quired much effort and attention to scare them away. It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour (for I could take but imperfect note of time), before I again cast my eyes upward. What I then saw, confounded and amazed me. The sweep of the j pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. I As a natural consequence, its velocity was also much ^ greater. But what mainly disturbed me, was the idea i that it had perceptibly descended. I now observed— ! with what horror it is needless to say — that its nether ■ extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel, j about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns 1 upward, and the under edge evidently as keen as that | of a razor. Like a razor also, it seemed massy and ^ heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid and broad | structure. It was appended to a weighty rod of brass, " and the whole hissed as it swung through the air. \ I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me \ by monkish ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of | ) THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 133 tthe pit had become known to the inquisitorial agents — the pit, whose horrors had been destined for so bold a recusant as myself — the pit, typical of hell, and rregarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their {punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment, formed an important por¬ tion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths. 1 Having failed to fall, it was no part of the demon ] plan to hurl me into the abyss; and thus (there being ino alternative), a different and a milder destruction . awaited ]ne. Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such application of such a term. What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal, during which I counted the rushing oscillations of the steel! Inch by inch — line I by line — with a descent only appreciable at intervals that seemed ages — down and still down it came! Days passed — it might have been that many days passed — ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed — I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful cimeter. 134 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM And then I fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare bawble. There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into life, there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew there were demonS who took note of my swoon, and who could have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recov¬ ery, too, I felt very — oh, inexpressibly — sick and weak, as if through long .inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period the human nature craved food. With painful effort, I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half-formed thought of joy — of hope. Yet what business had I with hope ? It was, as I say, a half-formed thought: man has many such, which are never completed. I felt that it was of joy — of hope; but I felt also that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to perfect — to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile — an idiot. The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 135 to my lergth.. I saw that the crescent was designed I to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the serge of my robe — it would return and repeat its operations — again—and again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more), and I ‘T;he hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder ! these very walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe i would be all that, for several minutes, it would accom¬ plish. And at this thought I paused. I dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of attention — as if in so dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the garment — upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this frivolity until my teeth were on edge. Down — steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the right — to the left — far and wide — with the shriek of a damned spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed and howled, as the one or the other idea grew predominant. Down — certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated 136 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM . . . ^ "i within three inches of my bosom! I struggled vio¬ lently— furiously — to free my left arm. This was .| free only from the elbow to the hand. I could reach } the latter from the platter beside me to my mouth, with great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings above the elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche! Down — still unceasingly — still inevitably down ! I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves spas¬ modically at the descent, although death would have been a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom.' It was hope that prompted the nerve to quiver — the frame to shrink. It was hope — the hope that triumphs on the rack — that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition. I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in actual contact with my robe; and with this observation there suddenly came over my THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 137 spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. For the first time during many hours — or perhaps days — I thought. It now occurred to me, that the bandage, or surcingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no separate cord. The first stroke of the razor-like cresent athwart any portion of the band would so detach it that it might be unwound from my person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the torturer had not foreseen and provided for this possibility ? Was it probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum? Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions — save in the path of the destroy- ing crescent. Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position, when there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe than as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I have previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated indeterminately through my brain when I raised food 138 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 1 to my burning lips. The whole thought was now ^ present — feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite — j but still entire. I proceeded at once, with the ner¬ vous energy of despair, to attempt its execution. For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon which I lay had been literally swarm¬ ing with rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous — their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey. To what food,’’ I thought, have they been accus¬ tomed in the well ? ” They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to pre- ! vent them, all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter; and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement deprived it of effect. In their voracity the vermin frequently fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of the oily and spicy viand which now re¬ mained I thoroughly rubbed the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still. At first, the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the change — at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought the well. I THE PW AND THE PENDULUM 139 [But this was only for a moment. I had not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I re¬ mained without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the framework, and smelt at the sur- I cingle. This seemed the signal for a general rush. jlForth from the well they hurried in fresh troops. I They clung to the wood — they overran it, and leaped [lin hundreds upon my person. The measured move- iment of the pendulum disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied themselves with tthe anointed bandage. They pressed—they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their thronging pressure; disgust, 1 for which the world has no name, swelled my bosom, ' and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I ] knew that in more than one place it must be already severed. With a more than human resolution I lay still. . Nor had I erred in my calculations — nor had I endured in vain. I at length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribbons from my body. But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my 140 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had I cut through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot through every nerve. But the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave i of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously away. ! With a steady movement — cautious, sidelong, shrink- ' ing, and slow — I slid from the embrace of the band- I age and beyond the reach of the cimeter. For the ; ■ moment, at least, I was free. ^ Free! — and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I ! had scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and I beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling* This was a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but escaped death in one form of agony to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual — some change which, at first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and trembling abstraction I busied myself in vain, unconnected conjecture. During this period, I be- -mE PIT AND THE PENDULUM ame aware, for the first time, of the origin of the ulphurous light which illumined the cell. It prot ■eeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width xtendmg entirely around the prison at the base of lie walls, which thus appeared and were completely' eparated from the floor. I endeavored, but of course 1 vain, to look through the aperture. As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the Iteration in the chamber broke at once upon my uderstanding. I have observed that, although the itlines of the figures upon the walls were suffi- ently^ distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and * idefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were I I omentarily assuming, a startling and most intense I fidlliancy, that gave to the spectral and fiendish por- • aitures an aspect that might have thrilled even [ mer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild id ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand i rections, where none had been visible before, and ' earned with^ the lurid lustre of a fire that I could >t force my imagination to regard as unreal. I C/hrea// —Even while I breathed there came to f y nostrils the breath of the vapor of heated iron! suffocating odor pervaded the prison. A deeper ^ 3W settled each moment in the eyes that glared THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM I'- at* mv agonies! A riclier tint of crimson diffused itseif over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted. I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors — oh, most unrelenting. oh, most demoniac of men ! I shrank from the glow¬ ing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea o the coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced d wrestled its way into my soul — it burned itself ir upon my shuddering reason. Oh, for a voice to speak _ oh, horror ! — oh, any horror but this! With i shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my faci in my hands — weeping bitterly. : The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There hai been a second change in the cell — and now the chang was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vai that I at first endeavored to appreciate or understan what was taking place. But not long was I left i doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurne THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 143 by my twofold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute — two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the alter¬ ation stopped not here — I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. ^^Death/^ I said, any death but that of the pit! Bool! might I not have known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me ? Could I resist its glow? or if even that, could I withstand its pressure ? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapid¬ ity that left me no time for contemplation. Its cen¬ tre, and, of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back — but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink — I averted my eyes — There was a discordant hum of human voices! t' IS 144 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM There was a loud blast as of many trumpets ! There 1 was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders ! The I fiery walls rushed back ! An outstretched arm caught- I my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was \ that of General Lasalle. The French army had en- ; tered Toledo. The Inquisition® was in the hands of ! its enemies. •WILLIAM WILSON”• What say of it ? what say of conscience grim, That spectre in my path ? Chamberlatne : Pharronida. Let me call myself, for the present, William Wil- 5 son. The fair page now lying before me need not I be sullied with my real appellation. This has been ialready too much an object for the scorn — for the 1 horror — for the detestation of my race. To the utter- imost regions of the globe have not the indignant ^winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast ! of all outcasts most abandoned! — to the earth art tthou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, t to its golden aspirations ? — and a cloud, dense, dis- imal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between tthy hopes and heaven ? I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a I record of my later years of unspeakable misery and I unpardonable crime. This epoch, these later years, t took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude, 1 whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. h 146 146 WILLIAM WILSON Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an ! i instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From I comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the I stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of I an Elah-Gabalus. What chance —what one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy — I had nearly said for the pity of my fellow-men. I would fain have them believe ; that I have been, in some measure, the slave of cir¬ cumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow — what they cannot refrain from allowing — that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before — certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered ? Have I not indeed been living in a dream ? And am i I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mys¬ tery of the wildest of all sublunary visions ? I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times r WILLIAM WILSON 147 rrendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest in¬ fancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a i cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, addicted tto the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungov- -ernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with con¬ stitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts I resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward my 1 voice was a household- law; and at' an age when few children have abandoned their leading-strings I was Heft to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions.- My earliest recollections of a school life are con-’ I nected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a 1 mi sty-looking village of England, where were a vast I number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where allj Ithe houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the re¬ freshing chilliness of its deeply shadowed avenues. A 148 WILLIAM WILSON inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight at the deep hoi- ■ low note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with ' sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay , imbedded and asleep. It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can i now in any manner experience to dwell upon minute \ recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am — misery, alas! only too real — I , shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight ’ and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume to my fancy adventi¬ tious importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognize the first am¬ biguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember. The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like ram¬ part formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week — once every Saturday after¬ noon, when, attended by two ushers, we were per- > WILLIAM WILSON 149 mitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighboring fields — and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically fiowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, — could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habili¬ ments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian Laws of the academy ? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution! At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire! It was never opened save for the three periodical egres¬ sions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery — a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation. 150 WILLIAM WILSON The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, hav- | ing many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four | of the largest constituted the play-ground. It was j level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well re- ; member it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything ! similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the i house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs; but through this sacred divi- i sion we passed only upon rare occasions indeed — such as a first advent to school or final departure thence, or perhaps when, a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holidays. But the house! — how quaint an old building was this ! — to me how veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its windings — to its incom¬ prehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at any given i time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories I one happened to be. From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable, inconceivable, and so returning in upon /; themselves dhat our most exact ideas in regard to the ; whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During the j S'V- WILLIAM WILSON 151 five years of my residence here I was never able to as¬ certain, with precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. The schoolroom was the largest in the house_I I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very I long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and ter¬ ror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, ^'during hours,’’ of our principal, the Eeverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the Dominie” we would all have willingly perished by the peine fort et dure. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the classical ” usher; one, of the English and mathematical.” Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless ir¬ regularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much- bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and other mul¬ tiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might have been their 152 WILLIAM WILSON portion in days long departed. ‘A huge bucket with | water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock j of stupendous dimensions at the other. Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of inci¬ dent to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from lux¬ ury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must be¬ lieve that my first mental development had in it much of the uncommon — even much of the outrL Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow — a weak and irregular remem¬ brance — an indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt, with the energy of a man, what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the Carthaginian medals. Yet in fact — in the fact of the world’s view — how little was there to remember! The morning’s awaken¬ ing, the nightly summons to bedj the connings, the j WILLIAM WILSON 153 recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and peram¬ bulations ; the play-ground, with its broils, its pas¬ times, its intrigues; — these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensa¬ tion, a world of rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit- stirring. O/i, le hon temps, que ce si^de defer!” In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperi¬ ousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow but natural gradations gave me an ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself; over all with a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a scholar who, although no relation, bore the same ^ Christian and surname as myself, — a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable; for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those everyday appellations which seem by prescriptive right to have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this narrative I lja.ve therefore designated myself as William Wilson, — a fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school-phraseology constituted our set,” presumed to jO compete with me in the studies of the class — in the sports and broils of the. play-ground — to refuse im- 154 WILLIAM WILSON plicit belief in my assertions, and submission to my will — indeed, to interfere with my arbitrary dictation ; in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a su- ^ preme and unqualified despotism, it is the despotism j of a master-mind in boyhood over the less euergetic ' s;^irits of its companions. ^ Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment; the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him •; and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I feared him, ■! and could not help thinking the equality, which he ^ maintained so easily with myself, a proof of his true i superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a per- ; petual struggle. Yet this superiority, even this equal- j ity, was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by some unaccountable blindness, seemed <« not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled, me to excel. In his rivalry ^ he might have • been supposed actuated solely by a j whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify my- j self; although there were times when I could not help j WILLIAM WILSON 155 observing, with a feeling made np of wonder, abase¬ ment, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inappro¬ priate, and assuredly most unwelcome, affectionateness of manner. I could only conceive this singular be¬ havior to arise from a consummate self-conceit assum¬ ing the vulgar airs of patronage and protection. Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson’s conduct, conjoined -with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that Wilson was not in the most remote degree connected with my family. But as¬ suredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby’s, I casually learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January, 1813; and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day is precisely that of my own N nativity. It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not 156 WILLIAM WILSOW bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner, con- | trived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon what are called speaking terms,” while there were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake in me a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my ^ real feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture: some petulant ani¬ mosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addi¬ tion, that Wilson and myself were the most insepa- 'j rable of companions. i It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs ex- J isting between us which turned all my attacks upon J ^ him (and they were many, either open or covert) into ^ the channel of banter or practical joke (giving pain : while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and determined hostility. But . my endeavors on this head were by no means uni- > 'WILLIAM WILSON 157 ,, formly successful, even when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and quiet au¬ sterity which, vhile enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and abso¬ lutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that lying in a personal peculiarity arising, perhaps, from constitutional dis¬ ease, would have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit’s end than myself: — my rival had a weak¬ ness in the faucial or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his voice at any time above a very loiv whisper. Of this defect I did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power. Wilson’s retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his practical wit that disturbed mo beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a ques¬ tion I never could solve; but having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian prsenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, 158 WILLIAM WILSON and doubly disgusted with the name because a stranger ^ bore it, who would be the cause of its twofold repeti¬ tion, who would be constantly in my presence, and j whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school 3 business, must inevitably, on account of the detesta- ble coincidence, be often confounded with my own. -i The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to show re- i semblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself, I had not then discovered the remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we 1 ^ were of the same height, and I perceived that we were \ even singularly alike in general contour of person and . outline of feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing could more seriously disturb me (although I scrupulously con¬ cealed such disturbance), than any allusion to a simi¬ larity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself) this similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, or even ob¬ served at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was appar WILLIAM WILSON 159 ent; but that he could discover in such circumstances I so fruitful a field of annoyance can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetra- j tion. His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of my- I self, lay both in words and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My dress it was I an easy matter to copy; my gait and general man¬ ner were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect,, even my voice did not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, un¬ attempted, but then the key, — it was identical; and his singular whisper, — it grew the very echo of my own. How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me (for it could not justly be termed a caricature) I will not now venture to describe. I had but one con¬ solation— in the fact that the imitation, apparently,^ was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having pro¬ duced in my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavors \ 160 WILLIAM WILSON might have so easily elicited. That the school, in* deed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplish¬ ment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the masterly air of the copyist, who, disdaining the . letter (which in a painting is all the obtuse can see), gave but the full spirit of his Original for my individ- iml contemplation and chagrin. I have already more than once spoken of the dis¬ gusting air of patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent officious interference with my will. This interference often took the ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repug¬ nance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and worldly wis¬ dom, was far keener than my own; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man^ WILLIAM WILSON 161 I had I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised. As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly what I considered his intoler¬ able arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of our connection as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily ripened into^" friendship; but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion,, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, and afterwards avoided or made a show of avoiding me. It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I dis¬ covered, in his accent, his air, and general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy — wild, confused, and thronging H 162 WILLIAM WILSON' memories of a time when memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me than by saying that I could with diffi¬ culty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago — some point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular namesake. The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however (as must necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned), many little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these small apartments was occupied by Wilson. One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately after the altercation just men¬ tioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilder- i WILLIAM WILSON 163 ness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in opera¬ tion, and I resolved to make him feel the whole ex¬ tent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tranquil breath¬ ing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes at the same moment upon his countenance. I looked, — and a numbness, an iciness of feeling, instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the V face. Were these, — these the lineaments of William Wilson ? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague, in fancying they were not. What was there about them to confound me in 164 WILLIAM WILSON this manner ? I gazed, — while my brain reeled with B a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he S appeared — assuredly not thus — in the vivacity of his | waking hours. The same name! the same contour | of person! the same day of arrival at the academy! ’ And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of | my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner! Was j it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the I habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation ? Awe- j stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished I the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, ! at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again. After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. The 1 brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my re- * membraiice of the events at Dr. Bransby’s, or at least to effect a material change in the nature of the feel¬ ings with which I remember them. The truth — the I tragedy — of the drama was no more. I could now ! find room to doubt the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at the extent of human credulity, and a smile at the i vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily WILLIAM WILSON 165 possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless folly, into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, en¬ gulfed at once every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence. I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy here — a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance, of the institutions. Three years of folly, passed without profit,* had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the east while our delirious extravagance was at its height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted profan- 166 WILLIAM WILSON ity, when my attention was suddenly diverted, by the violent, although partial, unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall. Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interrup¬ tion rather delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. ‘In this low and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the threshold, I became -aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and hab¬ ited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering, he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seiz¬ ing me by the arm with a gesture of petulant impa¬ tience,- whispered the words William Wilson! ” in my ear. I grew perfectly sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he WILLIAM WILSON 167 held it between my eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement; but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the preg¬ nancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hiss¬ ing utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of by-gone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses he was gone. Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered imagination, yet it was evaneecent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular individual who thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson ? — and whence came he ? _and what were his purposes? Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied — merely ascertain¬ ing, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby’s academy on the afternoon of the day in which I my¬ self had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to 168 WILLIAM WILSON" think upon the subject, my attention being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon went, the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and annual establish¬ ment which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart — to vie in pro¬ fuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain. Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe. It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to practise it habit¬ ually as a means of increasing my already enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my I {' i i ] WILLIAM WILSON 169 fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and honorable sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such courses the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson — the noblest and most liberal commoner at Oxford: him whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy — whose errors but inimitable.whim — whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing extravagance ? I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a young parvenu nobleman, Glendinning — rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus — his riches, too, as easily ac¬ quired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and of course marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler’s usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be 170 WILLIAM WILSON final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-com« moner (Mr. Preston), equally intimate with both, but who, to do him justice, entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better coloring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon simi¬ lar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim. We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite ^cartL The rest of the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around us as spec¬ tators. The parvenu, who had been induced, by my j artifices in the early part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I thought, might partially but could not altogether account. In a very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long WILLIAM WILSON 171 draught of port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating — he proposed to double our al¬ ready extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I finally com¬ ply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was in my toils; in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say, to my aston¬ ishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although in them¬ selves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed,-was the I idea which most readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from any less inter¬ ested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an ejacu¬ lation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendin- 172 WILLIAM WILSOM ning, gave me to understand that I had effected his \ total ruin under circumstances which, rendering him J an object for the pity of all, should have protected ij him from the ill offices even of a fiend. | What now might have been my conduct it is diffi- J cult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe had ! thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and for | some moments a profound silence was maintained, dur- 11 ing which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle I with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach | cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that an intolerable weight of anxiety | was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the j sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued, j The wide, heavy folding-doors of the apartment were | all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a 1 vigorous and rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely muffied in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total ; and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the, voice of the intruder. WILLIAM WILSON 173 Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct, and never- to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very mar¬ row of my bones, gentlemen, I make no apology for this behavior, because, in thus behaving, I am but ful¬ filling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who has to-night won at ^carU a large sum of money from Lord Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and de¬ cisive plan of obtaining this very necessary informa¬ tion. Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat ca¬ pacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper.” While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In^ ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I — shall I describe my sensations ? Must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned ? Most assuredly I had little time for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the court cards essential in 4cart4, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, fac-similes of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of 174 WILLIAM WILSON the species called, technically, arrondis ; the honors being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in the records of the game. Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was received. Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, Mr. Wilson, this is your property. (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.) “ I presume it is supererogatory to seek here ” (eying the folds of the garment with a bitter smile) ‘Mor any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quit¬ ting Oxford — at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers.” Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling Ian- WILLIAM WILSON 175 i guage by immediate personal violence, had not my : whole attention been at the moment arrested by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I I had worn was of a rare description of fur; how rare, I how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature. AVhen, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and near the folding-doors of the apart¬ ment, it was with an astonishment ^nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it), and that the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible * particular. The singular being who had so disas- j trously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party, with the exception of my¬ self. Ketaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own; left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day, com¬ menced a hurried journey from Oxford to the conti¬ nent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame. 176 WILLIAM WILSON IJled in vain. evil destiny pursued me as if in I exultation, and prbved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious domiiiion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot inyParis, ere I had fresh evidence of the j detestable int^st taken by this Wilson in my con¬ cerns. Yeafs flew, while I experienced no relief, j Villain ! —at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At Vienna, too — at Berlin and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart ? From his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a . pestilence 5 and to the very ends of the earth IJled i m vain. ' And again, and again, in secret communion with my | own spirit, would I demand the questions, “Who is he ? — whence came he ? — and what are his objects ? ” But no answer was there found. And now I scruti¬ nized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of his impertinent su- . pervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It was noticeable, in- i deed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to dis- WILLIAM WILSON 177 turb those actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied! I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time (while scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with myself), had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the ver¬ iest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton, — in the destroyer of my honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition at Koine, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, — that in this, my arch¬ enemy and evil genius, I could fail to recognize the William Wilson of my schoolboy days : the namesake, the companion, the rival, the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby’s ? Impossible ! — but let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama. Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperi¬ ous domination. The sentiment of deep awe with 178 WILLIAM WILSON which I habitually regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror with which certain other traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient-of con¬ trol. I began to murmur, to hesitate, to resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness, that of my tor¬ mentor underwent a proportional diminution ? Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved. It was at Eome, during the Carnivar of 18—, that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapoli¬ tan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table ; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irri¬ tated me beyond endurance. The difiiculty, too, of WILLIAM WILSON 179 forcing my "vay through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper ; for I was anxiously seeking (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous confidence she had previously communi¬ cated to me the secret of the costume in which she would be habited,, and now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence. At this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable whisper within my ear. In an absolute frenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own ; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his face. “ Scoundrel! I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury ; “ scoundrel! impostor ! accursed villain ! you shall not — you shall not dog me unto death ! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!” — and * I broke my way from the ball room into a small ante- 180 WILLIAM WILSON chamber adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went. Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He hesi¬ tated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon hi& defence. The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom. At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view ? The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to pro¬ duce, apparently, a material change in the arrange¬ ments at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror — so at first it seemed to me in my con¬ fusion— now stood where none had been perceptible WILLIAM WILSON 181 before | and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait. Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist — it was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment — not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own! It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whis¬ per, and I could have fancied that I myself was speak¬ ing while he said: — “ You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead — dead to the World, to Heaven, and to Hope ! In me didst thou exist — and, in my death, see hy this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyselp^ \ v\ FI m tV A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM'' The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways ; nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus. Joseph Glanvill. We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. ‘‘Not long ago/’ said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man — or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of — and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man — but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. ^ DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 183 « Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy ? ’’ The “ little cliff/’ upon whose edge he had so care- I lessly thrown himself down to rest that the weightier I portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge — this little cliff ” arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of its brink. In I truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position ! of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky — while I struggled ' in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the distance. You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, ^^for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned — and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye. 184 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM We are now,” he continned, in that particularizing manner which distinguished him — “ we are now close upon the -Norweg^iauj mat:^ in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude — in the great province of Nordland — and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher — hold on to the grass if you feel giddy — so — and look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea.” I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account of the Mare Tenehrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To tne right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island ^ or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wil(^erness of surge in which it was enveloped. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 185 About two miles nearer the land arose another of smaller size, hid eously craggy and b^ ren, and encom¬ passed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every direction — as well in the teeth of the wind as other¬ wise. Of foam there was little except in the imme- aiate vicinity of the rocks. The island in the distance,’’ resumed the old man, ^^is called by the Norwegians Yurrgh. The one mid¬ way is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Iflesen, Hoeyholm, Kieldholm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off — between Mos¬ koe and Vurrgh — are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Skarholm. These are the true names of the places — but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water ? ” 186 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to the east¬ ward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed — to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungov¬ ernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. t[pere the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into frenzied convulsion — heaving, boiling, hissing — gy¬ rating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity v/hich water never elsewhere assumes, except in precipitous descents. L^In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general surface grew A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 187 somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great dis¬ tance, and entering into combination, took unto them¬ selves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly — very suddenly — this assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth,^ shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speed¬ ing dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation. “This,” said I at length, to the old man—'‘this 188 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM can be nothing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom.’’ ‘^So it is sometimes termed,” said he. ^^We Nor¬ wegians call it the Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.” The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no | means prepared me for what I saw. That of Jonas i Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of i any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of i the magnificence or of the horror, of 'the scene —or of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which con¬ founds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle. ‘‘Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is between thirty-six and forty fathoms ; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh), this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 189 Wh6n it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapid¬ ity ; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts, the noise being heard several leagues off; and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and w hen the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradu¬ ally returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their bowlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be 190 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and Jfro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea — it being constantly high and low water every six hours. {Xn the year 1645, early in the morn¬ ing of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground.” In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The “ forty fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe- strom must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help smil¬ ing at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Eamus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 191 anecdotes of the whales and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the largest ships of the line in existence, coming within the influ¬ ence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane, arid must disappear bodily ; and at once. I _ I The attempts to account for the phenomenon — some of which, I remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal — now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the Feroe Islands, “have no other cause than the colli¬ sion of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently' known by lesser experiments.’’ — These are the words of the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” Kircher and others imagine that in the centre of the channel of the Mael¬ strom is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part — the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, 192 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTR6iI my imagination most readily assented; and, mention- ' ing it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him ' say that, although it was the view almost universally i| entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it never- J theless was not his own. As to the former notion he / confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him — for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abys*s. You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said ! the old man, “ and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I i ought to know something of the Moskoe-strom.” I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded. Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner- rigged smack of about seventy tons’ burden, with which ' we were in the habit of fishing among the islands be¬ yond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies ' at sea there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, i if one has only the courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen we three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward. There A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 193 fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only : yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance ; so that we often got in a single day^ what the more I timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. I In fact, we made it a matter of desperate speculation ; _the risk of life standing instead of labor, and cour¬ age answering for capital. We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than this ; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the fifteen min¬ utes’ slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sand- flesen, where the eddies are not so violent as else¬ where. Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition with¬ out a steady side wind for going and coming — one that we felt sure would not fail us before our return — and we seldom made a miscalculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here 5 and 194 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, i starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we < should have been driven out to sea in spite of every¬ thing (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently that, at length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents — here to-day and gone to-morrow — which drove us under the lee of ! Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up. I could not tell you the twentieth part of the diffi¬ culties we encountered ^ on the ground ^ — it is a bad spot to b#^n, even in good^weather — but we made shift always to run the gamff^t of the Moskoe-strbm j itself without accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at start¬ ing, and then we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack unman¬ ageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing — A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 195 but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into the danger — for, after all said and done, it was a horrible danger, and that is the truth. “ It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18—, a day which the people of this part of the world will never forget — for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow. “ The three of us — my two brothers and myself — had crossed over to the island about two o’clock p.m., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we -had ever known them. It was just seven, by my watch, when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time -spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw 196 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseg- gen. This was most unusual — something that had never happened to us before — and I began to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no head¬ way at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a sin¬ gular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. “ In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, how¬ ever, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us — in less than two the sky was entirely overcast — and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. “ Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to at¬ tempt describing. The oldest seamen in hTorway never experienced anything like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff both our masts went by the board as A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 197 if they had been sawed off —the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. “ Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, ‘ with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the Strom, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once — for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. Bor my part, as soon as I had-let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ringbolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this — which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done — for I was too much flurried to think. Bor some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Pres* 198 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM ently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid j herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now | trying to get the better of the stupor that had come ' over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what i was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. 1 It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, I for I had made sure that he was overboard — but the i next moment all this joy was turned into horror — for I he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out ; the word ^ Moskoe-strom ! ’ i ^^No one will ever know what my feelings were at : that moment. I shook from head to foot as if I had i had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he i meant by that one word well enough — I knew what i he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Strom, and nothing could save us ! “ You perceive that in crossing the Strom channel, we always went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack —but now we were driv¬ ing right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this ! < To be sure,’ I thought, < we shall get there i just about the slack — there is some little hope in A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 199 that’ — but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship. “ By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it so much as we scudded before it; but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay fiat and frothing, now got up into absolute moun¬ tains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky — as clear as I ever saw — and of a deep bright blue — and through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up every¬ thing about us with the greatest distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up! I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother — but in some manner which I could not un¬ derstand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say listen I / 200 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM At first I could not make out what he meant — but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then < burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. | It had run down at seven clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and the vMrl of the Strom was in full fury ! When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she , is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her | — which appears very strange to a landsman — and i this is what is called riding, in sea phrase. i ‘^Well, so far we had ridden the swells very j cleverly; but presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose — up — up — as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance i around — and that one glance was all-sufficient. I | saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe- strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 201 ahead — but no more like the everyday Moskoe-strom, than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognized the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. ‘‘It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek — such a sound as you might imagine given out by the water-pipes of many thousand steam vessels, letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge us into the abyss — down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of 202 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing i wall between us and the horizon. ^^It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt moye composed than ^ when we were only approaching it. Having made up | my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of ' that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose j it was despair that strung my nerves. [ It may look like boasting — but what I tell you is | truth — I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it ! was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was 1 in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own ' individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation | of God’s power. I do believe that I blushed with | shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little j while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity ‘about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief ‘was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore j about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man’s mind in such extremity — and I have often thought, since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might hav3 ; rendered me a little light-headed. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 203 “ There was another circumstance which tended to 1 restore my self-possession; and this was the cessation ' of the wind, which could not reach us in our present ' situation — for, as you saw yoursfelf, the belt of surf is ( considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances — just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain. ‘^How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ringbolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard v/hen the gale first 204 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM ^ 2 ‘.\ '•I- took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he | let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure gr^P- I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act — although I knew he was a madman when he did it — a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, how¬ ever, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the | cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; for j the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an j even keel — only swaying to and fro, with the immense | sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. ^‘As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them — while I expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. 205 A DESCEifT INTO THE MAELSTROM I Still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and tie motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been e ore, while in the belt of foam, with the exception ^ that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again upon the scene. Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror an admiration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose per¬ fectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for th'e gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon from that circular rift amid the clouds, which I have . already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory .along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. “At hrst I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The general burst of terrific .grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain lan unobstructed view, from the manner in which [the smack hung on the inclined surface of the 206 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM iti pool. She was quite upon an even keel —that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water — but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help 1 observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more j difiiculty in maintaining my hold and footing in this i situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, Avas owing to the speed at j which we revolved. v The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but still I could make f out nothing distinctly, oh account of a thick mist in .. which everything there was enveloped, and over ; which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmans say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the ;; clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all . met together at the bottom — but the yell that went up to the heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe. Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by no A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 207 means proportionate. Bound and round we swept — not with any uniform movement, but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards — sometimes nearly the complete cir¬ cuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible. Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible frag¬ ments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious — for I even sought amusement in speculat- ing upon the relative velocities of their several de¬ scents toward the foam below. ‘This fir tree,’ I found myself at one time saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disap¬ pears,’— and then I was disappointed to find that 208 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM tlie wreck of a Diitcli merchant ship overtook it s and went down before. At length, after making f several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in | all — this fact — the fact of my invariable miscalcu- | lation, set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily ' once more. • ] “ It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose ■ partly from memory, and partly from present obser- ^ vation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant ] matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strom. 1 By far the greater number of the articles were shat- ^ tered in the most extraordinary way — so chafed and ;; roughened as to have the appearance of being stuck ' full of splinters — but then I distinctly recollected ’ that there were some of them which were not dis¬ figured at all. Now I could not account for this ! difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been com¬ pletely absorbed — that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 209 flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important observations. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of any other shape, the supe¬ riority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my I escape, I have had several conversations on this sub¬ ject with an old schoolmaster of the district; and it was from him that I learned the use of the words ‘^cylinder’ and ^sphere.^ He explained to me — I although I have forgotten the explanation — how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments, and showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a wortex, offered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty, than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. F 210 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed some- ,.j thing like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the won- i ders of the whirlpool, were now high up above us, . and seemed to have moved but little from their origi¬ nal station. i j 4. I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to ""i- lash myself securely to the water cask upon which I / now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to | '"- throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my : brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the floating j barrels that came near us, and did everything in my . power to make him understand what I was about to | do. I thought at length that he comprehended my f (jesign —but, whether this was the case or not, he j shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring bolt. It was impossible to I: reach him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and | so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings ; which secured it to the counter, and precipitated my- A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 211 self with it into the sea, without another moment’s hesitation. “The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale — as you see that I did escape — and as you are al¬ ready in possession of the mode in which this escape wms effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have further to say — I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or there¬ about, after my quitting the smack, when, having de¬ scended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bear¬ ing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirl¬ pool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel be¬ came momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found 212 A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM myself on the surfaae of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strori had been. It was the hour of the slack, but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne vio¬ lently into the chainel of the Strom, and in a few minutes was hurried'down the coast into the ^grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat picked me up — exhausted from fatigue — and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily com¬ panions, but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair, which had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story — they did not believe it. I now tell it to you — and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.’’ THE GOLD-BUG°* What ho ! what ho 1 this fellow is dancing mad t 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 Hugue¬ not 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 * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. 213 214 THE GOLD-BUG seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Mouh - trie stands, and where are some miserable frame build¬ ings, tenanted during summer by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the ex¬ ception of this western point, and a line of hard white beach on the seacoast, is covered with a dense under¬ growth of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance. In the utmost 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 melan¬ choly. He had with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements were gun¬ ning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles in quest of shells or entomologi- THE GOLD-BUG 215 r cal 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 be¬ fore the reverses of the family, but who could be in¬ duced, 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 im¬ probable 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 repassage 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 216 THE GOLD-BUG 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 armchair 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 assist¬ ance, a scarabceus 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 scarabcei 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 fool¬ ishly, I lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay here to-night, THE GOLD-BUG 217 and 1 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 antennm are — '^ Dey ain’t no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you, here interrupted Jupiter j 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, some¬ what more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, is that any reason for your letting the biids burn? The color” — here he turned to me_ ^^is realj.y almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You ne\'er saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit — but of this you cannot judge till to¬ morrow. In the meantime I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none. 218 THE GOLD-BUa «Never mind/' said lie at length, 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 ? ” Bar ! dat’s it! — him neber plain of notin — but him berry sick for all dat.” 222 THE GOLD-BUG Very sick, Jupiter ! —why didn’t you say so at | once ? Is lie confined to bed ? ” jj ‘‘No, dat he aint!—he aint find nowhar — dat’s j just whar de shoe pinch — my mind is got to be berry i hebby bout poor Massa Will.” “Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him ? ” “ Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him — but den what make him go about ^ looking dis here way, wid he head down and he sol- | diers up, and as white as a gose ? And then he keep | a syphon all de time — ” ! “ Keeps a what, Jupiter ? ” , “Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate — , queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin to be , skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to gib him d-d good beating when he did come — but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart arter all — he look so berry poorly.” « Eh ?_what ? — ah yes! — upon the whole I think you had better not be too severe with the poor fellow THE GOLD-BUG 223 — 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 nofiin onpleasant since' den — ’twas fore den I’m feared — ’twas de berry day you was dare.” “ How ? what do you mean ? ” “ Why, massa, I mean de bug — dare now.” “ The what ? ” “De bug — I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de head by dat goole-bug.” “And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition ? ” “Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a d-d bug — he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you — den was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn’t like de look ob de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff — dat was de way.” “And you think, then, that your master was really 224 THE GOLD-BUG bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick ? don’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 for¬ tunate 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. Le- grand ? ” “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 hot 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 THE GOLD-BUG 225 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. 226 THE GOLD-BUG “ Him syfe, massa, and spade.’’ Very true; but what are they doing here ? ” ^^Hiin 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 W^ill ’ going to do with scythes and spades ? ’•’ “ Dat’s more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don’t blieve ’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob de bug.” Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by de bug,” I now stepped into the boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous empressement, which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions already entertained. His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre. After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing what better to THE GOLD-BUG 227 saj, if he had yet obtained the scarabceus from Lieu¬ tenant G-. “Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the next morning. Nothing would tempt me to part with that scarabceus. • 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 goW^ 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 i arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that scarabceus ! ” “What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug — you mus git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabceus, and, at that time, unknown to naturalists — of course a great prize in a scientific point of view. There were 228 THE GOLD-BUG 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 respect¬ ing it; but what to make of Legrand’s agreement with that opinion, I could not, for the life of me, tell. I sent for you,’^ he said, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had completed my examination of the beetle, sent for you that I might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of the • . ‘‘ 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 slight¬ est 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 THE GOLD-BUG 229 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, I 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.” am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I re¬ plied; ^‘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 230 THE GOLD-BUG wheii this freak of yours is over, and the bug business (good God !) settled to your satisfaction, you "vill then return home and follow my advice implicitly, as that of your physician ? ” ‘‘Yes; I promise; and now let us be olf, 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 tdo, 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 complai¬ sance. His demeanor was dogged in the extreme, and “dat d-d bug” were the sole words which escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself with the scardbceus, which he carried attached to the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with the air of a conjurer, 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 THE GOLD-BUG 231 chance of success. In the meantime I endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object of the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold con¬ versation upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no other reply than We shall see ! We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the mainland, proceeded in a north¬ westerly direction, through a tract of country exces¬ sively 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 pin¬ nacle, 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 232 THE GOLD-BUG against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in vari¬ ous 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 impossi¬ ble 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 foli¬ age 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: ‘Wes, 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.” THE GOLD-BUG 233 '^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, evi¬ dently shamed into compliance; "always want fur to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only funnin anyhow. Me feered de bug! what I keer for de bug ? " Here ' he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree. In youth, the tulip tree, or Liriodendron Tulipifera, 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' 234 THE 0OLD-BUG 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 pro¬ jections, 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 virtu¬ ally 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 en¬ veloped 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.” I THE GOLD-BUQ 235 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 ? “ Ond*, 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, an¬ nouncing 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 enter¬ tained 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.” 236 THE GOLD-BUG What in the name of heaven shall I do ? asked Legrand, seemingly in the greatest distress. Do! ” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, ‘‘ why come home and go to bed. Come now ! — that’s a fine fellow. It’s getting late, and besides, you remember your promise.” “ Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, ‘‘ do you hear me ? ” Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.” Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it very rotten.” Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few moments, but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat’s true.” By yourself ! —what do you mean ? ” ‘^Why, I mean de bug. ’Tis herry 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, appar¬ ently much relieved, what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that ? As sure as you let that beetle fall, I’ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter ! do you hear me ? ” Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.” THE GOLD-BUQ 237 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 I ” 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 nofiin 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 fas¬ tened 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.” 238 THE GOLD-BUG « Hum I hoo! dat’s good ! why, dar ain’t no eye lef at all.” Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your left ? ” Yes, I nose dat—nose all bout dat — ’tis my 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 ain’t got not a bit ob a hand at all —nebber mind! I got de lef eye now — here de lef eye ! what mus do wid it ? “ Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach — but be careful and not let go your hold of the string.” “All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de hole — look out for him dar below ! ” During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter s person could be seen; but the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the end of the string. THE aOLD-BUa 239 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 scaraboius hung quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet Le grand 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 I produced from his pocket a tape-measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of the trunk of the tree w iich was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the direction a ready 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 240 THE GOLD-BUG 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 de¬ pended, 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 super¬ stitions about money buried, and that his fantasy had received confirmation by the finding of the'scarabceus, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining it to be ^^a bug of real gold.” A mind disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such 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 THE GOLD-BUG 241 demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions he en¬ tertained. 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 com¬ posed, 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 pro¬ ceedings. 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, I getting out of the hole with a dogged air of delibera¬ tion, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his sus¬ penders, 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 242 THE GOLD-BUG treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at an end. Legrand, however, although evidently much discon¬ certed, wiped his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the entire circle of four feet di¬ ameter, and now we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to the farther depth of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at length clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning of his labor. In the meantime I made no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to ga,ther 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 syl¬ lables from between his clenched teeth — “ you infer¬ nal black villain ! — speak, I tell you! — answer me THE GOLD-BUG 243 this instant, without prevarication! — which — which is your left eye ? “ Oh, my golly, Massa Will! ain’t dis here my lef eye for sartain ? ” roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge. I thought so ! I knew it! Hurrah ! ” vociferated Legrand, letting the negro go, and executing a series of curvets and caracoles, much to the astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked mutely from his master to myself, and then from myself to his master. Come! we must go back,” said the latter, the game’s not up yet; ” and he again led the way to the " tulip tree. “ Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, come here! Was the skull nailed to the limb with the face outward, or with the face to the limb ? ” He 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 244 THE GOLD-BUG 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 west¬ ward 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 dread¬ fully weary, but, scarcely understanding what had oc¬ casioned 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 fore¬ thought, or of deliberation — which impressed me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with something that very much resembled ex- THE GOLD-BUG 245 pectation, for tho fancied treasure^ the vision of which, had demented my unfortimate companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully pos¬ sessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a half, we were again interrupted by the violent bowlings of the dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been evidently but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould frantically with his paws. In a few seconds he had uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two complete skeletons, inter¬ mingled with several buttons of metal, and what ap¬ peared to be the dust of decayed woollen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Span¬ ish knife, and, as he 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, how¬ ever to continue our exertions, and the words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, hav¬ ing caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth. 246 * THE GOLD-BUG 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 won¬ derful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing process — perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury. This box was three feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of trellis-work over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron — six in all — by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so great a weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These we drew back — trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within the pit, there flashed upwards, from a confused heap of gold and of jewels, a glow and a glare that absolutely dazzled our eyes. I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predomb THE GOLD-BUG 247 naut. Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement, and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in the nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed stupefied—thunder-stricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy: And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole- bug ! de poor little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style ! Ain’t you shamed ob yourself, nigger ? answer me dat! ” It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might get everything housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should be done, and much time was spent in deliberation — so confused were the ideas of all. We finally light¬ ened 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 pre- 248 THE GOLD-BUG i tence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our return. We then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning. Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do more just now. 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 hole unfilled again set out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we deposited our golden burdens, just as the first streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the tree- tops in the east. We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of the time denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three or four hours’ duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to make exami¬ nation of our treasure. The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day, and the greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its contents. There had been nothing like order or arrangement. Everything had been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with i THE GOLD-BUG 249 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 accu¬ rately as we could, by the tables of the period. There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of antique date and of great variety: French, Spanish, and Ger¬ man money, with a few English guineas, and some counters, of which we had never seen specimens be¬ fore. There were several very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could make nothing of their inscrip¬ tions. 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 brill¬ iancy ; three hundred and ten emeralds, all very beau¬ tiful ; 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, ap¬ peared to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent identification. Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments: nearly two hundred massive finger and ear-rings; rich chains — 250 THE GOLD-BUG 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 su¬ perb gold watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, and as time-keepers valueless, the works having suffered more or less from corrosion; but all were richly jewelled and in cases of great worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a half of dollars; and, upon the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the treasure. When, at length, we had concluded our examina¬ tion, 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. THE GOLD-BUG 251 ^^You remember/’ said he, ^‘the night when I handed you the rough sketch I had made of the scarabceus. You recollect, also, that I became quite vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled a death’s-head. When you first made this assertion I thought you were jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar spots on the back of the insect, and admitted to myself that your remark had some little foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my graphic powers irritated me — for I am considered a good artist — and, therefore, when you handed me the scrap of 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. Eor a moment I was too much amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my design was 252 THE GOLD-BUG 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 re¬ markable similarity of outline — at the singular coin¬ cidence 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 scai'ahcEus, and that this skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind struggles to establish a connection — a sequence of cause and effect — and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there had been no drawing on the parchment when I made my sketch of the scarabceus. I became perfectly cer¬ tain of this 5 for I recollected turning up first one side THE GOLD-BUG 253 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 demon¬ stration. 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 investi¬ gation 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 scara- bcBus was on the coast of the mainland, 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, 254 THE GOLD-BUG which I then supposed to be paper. It was lying half-buried in the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of what appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; for the resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced. “Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon afterwards we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant G-. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to let him take it to the fort. On my consenting, he thrust it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the parchment in which it had been wrapped, and which I had continued to hold in my hand during his inspection. Perhaps he dreaded my changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure of the prize at once — you know how enthusiastic he is on all sub¬ jects 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, THE GOLD-BUG 255 hoping to find an bid letter, and then my hand'fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which it came into my possession; for the circum¬ stances impressed me with peculiar force. “No doubt you will think me fanciful — but I had already established a kind of connection. I had put together two links of a great chain. There was a boat lying on a seacoast, and not far from the boat was a parchment —not a paper —with a skull depicted on it. You will, of course, ask ^ where is the connection ? ’ I reply that the skull, or death’s-head, is the well- known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s- ‘ head is hoisted in all engagements. * “ I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper. Parchment is durable — almost imperishable. Matters of little moment ■ are rarely consigned to parchment; since, for the mere ordinary purposes of drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. This reflection suggested some meaning —^ some relevancy — in the death’s-head. I did not fail to observe, also, the form of the parchment. Although one of its corners had been, by some accident, de¬ stroyed, 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 256 THE GOLD-BUG of something to be long remembered and carefully preserved.’^ “ But/’ I interposed, “ you say that the skull was not upon the parchment when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you trace any connection between the boat and the skull — since this latter, according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the scarabceus f ” 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 scarabceus, there was no skull apparent on the parchment. When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you nar¬ rowly 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 never¬ theless 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 (0 rare and happy accident!), and a fire was blazing on the hearth. I THE GOLD-BUG 257 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 New¬ foundland, entered, and leaped upon your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and kept him off, while your right, holding the parchment, was per¬ mitted to fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was about to caution you, but, before I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged in its examination. When I considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a moment that heat had been the agent in bringing to light, on the parchment, the skull which I saw designed on it. You are well aware that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind, by means of which it is possible to write on either paper or vellum, so that the characters shall become visible only when subjected to the action of fire. 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, s 258 THE GOLD-BUG but again become apparent upon the reapplication 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 kin¬ dled a fire, and subjected every portion of the parch¬ ment to a glowing heat. At first, the only effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; but, on persevering in the experiment, there became visible at the corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the death’s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was intended for a kid.” “ Ha! ha! ” said I, to be sure I have no right to laugh at you — a million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth — but you are not about to establish a third link in your chain: you will not find any especial connection between your pirates and a goat; pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming interest.” But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat.” THE GOLD-BUG 259 “Well, a kid, then — pretty much the same thing.’^ “Pretty much, but not altogether,’’ said Legrand. “You may have heard of one Captain Kidd. I at once looked on the figure of the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature, because its position on the vellum suggested this idea. The death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I was sorely put out by the absence of all else — of the body to my imagined instrument — of the text for my context.” “I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the signature.” “ Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irre¬ sistibly impressfd with a presentiment of some vast good fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an actual belief; — but do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect on my fancy ? And then the series of accidents and coincidences — these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe how mere an accident it was that these events should have occurred on the sole day of all the year in which it has been, or may be, suffi¬ ciently,cool for fire, and that without the fire, or with- 260 THE GOLD-BUG out the intervention of the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure ? ” ^ But proceed — I am all impatience.” Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories ; current — the thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere on the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must have had some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have existed so long and so continuously, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the circum¬ stance of the buried treasure still remainiiig entombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder for a time, and after¬ wards 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 them- THE GOLD-BUG 261 selves 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 ? “hTever.^^ 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 I amounting to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found involved a lost record of the place i of deposit.” ! But how did you proceed ? ” ' “ I held the vellum again to the fire, after increas- : ing the heat, but nothing appeared. I now thought ! it possible that the coating of dirt might have some¬ thing 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 262 THE GOLD-BUG lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it I to remain another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now.” Here Legrand, having reheated the parchment, ; submitted it to my inspection. The following char¬ acters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat: — j 63ttt305))6*;4826)4t.)4t);806^;48t81I60)) 85;;] 8*;:t*8t83(8 '' 8)6*t;46(;88*96*?;8)*t(;485);5*t2:*U;4956*2(5*—4)81I8*;4069 j 285);)6t8)4ti;l(t9;48081;8:8Jl;48t85;4)485t528806*81(J9;48;( 88;4(t?34;48)4t;161;:188;t?; ' “ But,” said I, returning him the slip, “ I am as much in the dark as ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me on my solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them.” And yet,” said Legrand, ^‘the solution is by no means so difficult as you might be led to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a ' cipher — that is to say, they convey a meaning; but ' then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not sup- j pose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, I that this was of a simple species — such, however, as THE GOLD-BUG 263 would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, abso¬ lutely 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 applica¬ tion, resolve. In fact, having once established con¬ nected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere difficulty of developing their import. “In the present case — indeed in all cases of secret writing — the first question regards the language of the cipher; for the principles of solution, so far, especially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned, depend on, and are varied by, the genius of the par¬ ticular idiom. In general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed by probabilities) of every tongue known to him who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained. But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty is removed by the signature. The pun upon the word ^Kidd’ is appreciable in no other language than the English. But for this considera¬ tion I should have begun my attempts with the 264 THE GOLD-BUG 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 as¬ sumed 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 • $ u 26 4 19 t) (( 16 * (( 13 5 (( 12 6 (( 11 tl C( 8 0 (( 6 92 6 : 3 u 4 ? (( 3 IT (C 2 1 t( 1 ^^Kow, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e. Afterwards the succession runs thus: aoidlinrstuycfglmwh'kpgxz. E predominates, however, so remarkably that an individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the prevailing character. ^^Here then, we have, in the very beginning, the groundwork for something more than a mere guess. The general use which may be made of the table is ob¬ vious— but, in this particular cipher, we shall only very partially require its aid. As our predominant character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the e of the natural alphabet. To verify the supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples — for e is doubled with great frequency in English — in such words, for example, as ^meet,’ ^ fleet,’ ^ speed,’ ^ seen,’ ‘ been,’ ‘ agree,’ etc. In the present instance we see it doubled no less than five times, although the cryptograph is brief. Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of all words in the language, ‘ the ’ is most usual; let us see, there¬ fore, 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 266 THE GOLD-BUG the word ^the/ On inspection, we find no less than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may, therefore, assume that the semicolon repre¬ sents t, that 4 represents h, and that 8 represents e — the last being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has been taken. ‘^But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish a vastly important point; that is to say, several commencements and terminations of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the last instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs — not far from the end of the cipher. We know that the semicolon immediately ensuing is the commence¬ ment 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 < 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 THE GOLD-BUG 267 .and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as be- Ifore, we arrive at the word ^tree^ as the sole possible I 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(J?34 the, or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it 1 reads thus: the tree thrf?3h the. “ISTow, if, in place of the unknown characters, we ■1 leave blank spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus: I the tree thr . . . h the, I when the word ' through ^ makes itself evident at once. I But this discovery gives us three new letters, o, u and p, represented by f ? and 3. “Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement. I 84(88, or egree, •' 268 THE GOLD-BUG which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ^ degree/ and gives us another letter, d, represented by t* ‘‘Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’we perceive the combination ;46(;88* “Translating the known characters, and represent¬ ing 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 char¬ acters, i and n, represented by 6 and *. “Eeferring, now, to the beginning of the crypto¬ graph we find the combination, 53ttt. “ Translating as before, we obtain good, which assures us that the first letter is -4, and that the first two words are ‘ A good.’ “ To avoid confusion, it is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in a tabular form. It will stand thus: , 5 represents a t “ d 8 “ e 3 “ g THE GOLD-BUG 269 4 represents h ^ 6 “ i # «t u I “ o ( “ r ; “ t «We have, therefore, no less than ten of the most : important letters represented, and it will be unneces¬ sary 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 ,tthe rationale of their development. But be assured ^ that the specimen before us appertains to the very , simplest species of cryptograph. It now only re- |i mains to give you the full translation of the charac- tters upon the parchment, as unriddled. Here it is : good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat twenty one degrees and thirteen minutes north¬ east 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 I condition as ever. How is it possible to extort a ^meaning from all this jargon about ^ devil's seat,' ^ death's-heads,' and ^ bishop's hotels ' ? " ( 270 THE GOLD-BUa I confess/’ replied Legrand, “ that the ni&,tter 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 cryptog- raphist.” You mean, to punctuate it ? ” Something of that kind.” But how was it possible to effect this ? ” 1 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. W^hen, 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 charac¬ ters, 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 crowd¬ ing. Acting on this hint, I made the division thus: ^ M good glass in the JBishop’s hostel in the Devil s seat _ twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes — north¬ east 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.”^ THE GOLD-JWQ 271 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 build¬ ing 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 proceed- ■ ing 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 reinsti¬ tuted 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. 272 TKE GOLD-BUG The ^castle’ consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs and rocks — one of the latter being quite re¬ markable 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 on 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 defi¬ nite point of view, admitting no variatio7i, from which to use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, Hwenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ^north-east and by north,’ were intended as direc¬ tions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly excited THE GOLD-BUG 273 by these discoveries, I hurried home, procured a tele¬ scope, and returned to the rock. “ I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible to retain a seat on it unless in one particular position. This fact confirmed my precon¬ ceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of course, the ^ twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes ’ could allude to nothing but elevation above the visible hori¬ zon, since the horizontal direction was clearly indicated by the words, ‘ north-east and by north.’ This latter direction I at once established by means of a pocket- compass ; then, pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of twenty-one degrees of elevation as I could do by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it out to be a human skull. On this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma solved; for the phrase ^main branch, seventh limb, east side,’ could refer only to the posi¬ tion of the skull on the tree, while ^ shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head’ admitted, also, of but one 274 THE GOLD-BUG interpretation, in regard to a search for buried treas¬ ure. 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 near¬ est point of the trunk through ‘ the shot ’ (or the spot where the bullet fell), and thence extended to a dis¬ tance 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, al¬ though ingenious, still simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then ? ” ‘^Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned homewards. The instant that I left ^ the devil’s seat,’ however, the circular rift vanished ; nor could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced me it is a fact) that the circular opening in question is visible from no other attainable point of view than that afforded by the narrow ledge on the face of the rock. “ In this expedition to the ‘ Bishop’s Hotel ’ I had been attended by Jupiter, who had no doubt observed, for some weeks past, the abstraction of my demeanor. THE GOLD-BUG 275 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 flog¬ ging. 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 convictions that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, we might have had all our labor in vain.” “ I presume the fancy of the skull — of letting fall a 276 THE GOLD-BUG bullet through the skull’s eye —was suggested to i Kidd by the piratical flag. No doubt he felt a kind . of poetical consistency in recovering his money through ' this ominous insignium.” “Perhaps so; still, I cannot help thinking that common-sense had quite as much to do with the matter as poetical consistency. To be visible from the Devil’s seat, it was necessary that the object, if small, should be whiter and there is nothing like your human skull for retaining and even increasing its whiteness under exposure to all vicissitudes of weather.” “ But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle —how excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist on letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull ? ” “Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident suspicions touching my sanity, and so resolved to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a little bit of sober mystification. For this reason I swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the tree. An observation of yours about its great weight suggested the latter idea.” “Yes, I perceive; and noV there is only one point THE GOLD-BUG 277 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 plau¬ sible way of accounting for them — and yet it is dread¬ ful to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would imply. It is clear that Kidd — if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure, which I doubt not — it is clear that he must have had assistance in the labor. But, the worst of this labor concluded, he may have thought it expedient to remove all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a mattock were suffi¬ cient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit; per¬ haps it required a dozen — who shall tell ? I THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE" * | What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed | when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, j are not beyond all conjecture. ^ Sir Thomas Browne : Urn-Burial. I 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 I 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 ana- ; lyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He ! derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupa¬ tions bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics ; exhibiting i in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and ^ * By permission of H. S. Stone & Co. [ 278 1 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 279 essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigo¬ rated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it, which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze. A chess-player, for example, does the one, without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at ran¬ dom; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that tbie higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostenta¬ tious 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 atten¬ tion 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 280 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the I more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. ^In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little varia¬ tion, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unem- : ployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less ab¬ stract : 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 rechercM movement, the result ' of some strong exertion of the intellect. ClDeprived of I ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself inAo I the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculatioiQ Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of j the highest order of intellect have been known to V'l take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while S eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there • THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 281 is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. W^hen I say pro¬ ficiency, 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 concentra- tive 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 282 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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, compar¬ ing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gather¬ ing up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognizes what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation — all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 283 consents 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- 0^1 their own. The analytical power should not be confounded with ^ simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combin¬ ing power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primi¬ tive 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 char¬ acter 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 propoo’tions jUst advanced. Residing n Paris during the spring and part of the summer of —, I there became acquainted with a 284 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentle.man ! was of an excellent — indeed of an illustrious — fhm- * J ily, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been 're- ( duced 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 neces¬ saries 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 Eue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very re- ^ • markable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply'’^' interested in the little family history which^he de¬ tailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor and the vivid freshness of his 'magination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sougit, I felt that THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 285 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 embar¬ rassed 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 mad¬ men— 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 L u A/C 286 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building; lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams — reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Dark¬ ness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford. At such times I could not help remarking and ad¬ miring (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 knowl THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 287 edge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expres¬ sion ; 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 enun¬ ciation. 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 Boyal.® 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 Thedtre des Varieth.” “ There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwit¬ tingly, and not at first observing (so much had I been 288 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in i 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 com¬ prehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am | amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of — ? Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. — “ of Chantilly,’’ said he, why do you pause ? You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.” This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy ^ so called, and been notoriously pasquinadod for his 1 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 i fact, I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, who J THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 289 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 j>ue C-into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not pos¬ sibly understand. There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. “I will explain,” he said, ^‘and, that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus — Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.” There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often u 290 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE full of interest; and he who attempts it far the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable dis¬ tance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amaze¬ ment when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowl¬ edging 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 w'e 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 experi- THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 291 ment, 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 ivery affectedly applied to this species of pavement. knew that you could not say to yourself ^ stereotomy ’ without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epi¬ curus j 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 Mus^e, 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 con¬ versed. I mean the line “ ‘ Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.’ I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written XJrionj and, from certain pungencies 292 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, there¬ fore, 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 immola¬ tion. 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 3^ou reflected upon the diminutive flgure 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 TMdtre des Varietes.” . Not long after this, we were looking over an even¬ ing edition of the Gazette des Trihunaux, 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 d6. lay, 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 i I A THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 293 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 land¬ ing 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 pre¬ sented 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 gray 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 small of mHal 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 unusukl quantity of soot being observed in the fireplace, a search was made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate !) the corpse of the daughter, head downward, was dragged there- 294 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE from ; it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon exam¬ ining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disen¬ gaged. 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 particu¬ lars. “ The Tragedy in the Bue 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 Duhourg., laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them dur¬ ing that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms — very affectionate towards each other. They were THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 295 excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or I 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 neighbor¬ hood, 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 underlet the upper rooms to various persons. The hou^ was the property of Madame L. She became dis¬ satisfied 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 connections of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters of the front win¬ dows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house — not very old. ! Isidore Mus'et, 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 j with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on | account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither ^ at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be ^ screams of some person (or persons) in great agony —were \ loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the ^ way upstairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention : the one a gruff voice, the othermuchshriller —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 distin¬ guish the words ‘sacre’ and ^ diable.^ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the ' voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the - room^ and of the bodies was described by this witness as we i described them yesterday. ’ Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, de- \ posed that he was one of the party who first entered the house. . Corroborates the testimony of Mus6t in general. As soon as ’ they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the late¬ ness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 297 ^ 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 jL. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. [Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of either of the i deceased. “- Odenheimer^ restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the I house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several min¬ utes—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 French- iman. Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick — unequal — spoken apparently in fear as well I as in anger. The voice was harsh — not so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said ^repeatedly, ‘ sacre,’ ^ diable,' and once ‘ mon Dieu.' Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had opened an account with his banking 1 house in the spring of the year- (eight years previously). ■Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for noth¬ ing until the third day before her death, when she took out in [person the sum of 4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money. 298 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE “ 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. ap¬ peared 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. Ht 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 French¬ man. Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly ‘sacre’ and ‘mo/i 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, de¬ posed that the door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Everything was perfectly silent — no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from ■ the front room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the house, on the fourth THE MURDERS IX THE RUE MORGUE 299 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 Kue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed upstairs. 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 sev¬ eral 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 Kussian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia. “ Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys 300 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By ‘ sweeps ’ were meant cylin¬ drical 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 upstairs. The body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength. “ Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about daybreak. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chim¬ ney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eyeballs protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Es¬ panaye 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 shat¬ tered. 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such re¬ sults, 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 sepa¬ rated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument— prob¬ ably with a razor. '■‘■Alexandre J^tienne, 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 sev¬ eral other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before com¬ mitted 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 care¬ fully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, how¬ ever, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned, although nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed. Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 rohe de chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique. The re¬ sults attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are un¬ availing, 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 303 in so doing he necessarily lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as bein sf too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge,.! 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 sidelong 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 304 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 diffi¬ culty in obtaining the necessary permission.” The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those miser¬ able 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 ob¬ jectless 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 slid¬ ing 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 ^ee no possible object. Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our credentials, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 305 were admitted by the agents in charge. We went upstairs — 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 Trihunaux. Dupin scrutinized everything, not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occu¬ pied 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 mani¬ fold, and that Je les mhiagais: — 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 anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity. There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word ‘^peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. ‘‘No, nothing peculiar I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper,’’ 306 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 rea¬ son which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution — I mean, for the outr^ character of its fea¬ tures. The police are confounded ’ by the seeming absence of motive: not for the murder itself, but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention with the facts that no one was discovered upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle X’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 put¬ ting 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 307 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 — 1 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 inno¬ cent. 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 308 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 IVfadame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found ; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely precludes the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in conten¬ tion. Let me now advert —not to the whole testi¬ mony 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, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 309 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 some¬ thing to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unani¬ mous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is — not that they disagreed — but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a 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 loith the Sqjanish.’ The Dutch¬ man 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 in¬ tonation ’ altogether, ^ as he has no knowledge of the 310 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE English.’ The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but ‘has never conversed with a native of Russia.’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian ; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is, like the Spaniard, ^convinced by the intonation/ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been elicited ! — in whose tones, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic — of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one witness ‘ harsh rather than shrill.^ It is represented by two others to have been ‘ quick and unequal’ No words no sounds resembling words — were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable. “ I know not,’^ continued Pupin, “ what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understand¬ ing ; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate de¬ ductions even from this portion of the testimony — the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices — are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 311 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 ex¬ pressed. 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 believes in preternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how ? For¬ tunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite de¬ cision.— 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 312 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the inasoniy of the walls, in every direction. No secTBt 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 lead- ing from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chim¬ neys. 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, be¬ ing 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 une(^uivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent im¬ possibilities. 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 vis¬ ible. 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 313 S6cur6ly fast6nG(i from within. It iGsistod. thG utmost forcG of thosG who GndoavorGd to raisG it. A largG gimlGt-holG had boon piorcod in its framo to thG iGft, * and a vGry stout nail was found fittod thoroin, noarly to tliG hoad. Upon Gxamining thG othGr window, a similar nail was sggu similarly fittod in it; and a vigorous attGinpt to raisG this sash failod also. Tho policG wGrG now Gntiroly satisfiod that Ggrcss had not boon in thosG dirGctions, And, therefore, it was thought a mattGr of supGrorogation to withdraw tho nails and opGn thG windows. My own Gxarnination was somGwhat more particu¬ lar, and was so for the reason I have just given; because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impos¬ sibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. I proceeded to think thus — d 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 obvi¬ ousness, 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 unob¬ structed casement, withdrew the nail with some diffi- 314 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE | ti' culty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all | my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring 1 must, I now knew, exist 5 and this corroboration of i 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, t and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise \ the sash. \ I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. I A person passing out through this window might have I reclosed it, and the spring would have caught — but ^ the nail could not have been replaced. The conclu- j sion was plain, and again narrowW 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 prob¬ able, 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, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 315 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 re¬ spect, the appearance of its fellow in the other win¬ dow ; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the con¬ sideration 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 mv fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet- hW, 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 o a hammer, which had partially imbedded, m the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail, now carefully replaced this head portion in the inden¬ tation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete —the fissure was invisible. THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 as¬ sassin 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 fas¬ tened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring whmh 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/ermdes — a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door), except that the upper half is latticed or worked THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 317 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 per¬ ceive 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 be¬ stow 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. Betting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against 318 t THE MURDERS IK THE RUE MORGUE I 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 requi¬ site 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 understand¬ ing the very extraordinary, the almost preternatural, character of that agility which could have accom¬ plished it. You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ^ to make out my case ^ I should rather un¬ dervalue 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 pur¬ pose 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.” THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupln flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, with¬ out 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, ‘Hhat I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to suggest that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of ap¬ parel 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 en- i cumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold i was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in 1 bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to dis- i card from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive, ![ engendered in the brains of the police by that portion I the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remaikable 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 i lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks 1 in the way of that class of thinkers who have been : educated to know nothing of the theory of probabili- | ties: that theory to which the most glorious objects THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 321 lating 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 em¬ ploy no such modes of murder as this. Least of al , 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 outri something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, ow 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 bare y sufficient to drag it down! Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth were thic tresses —very thick tresses —of gray human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the X THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw j the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots I (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the i flesh of the scalp: sure token.of the prodigious power i 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 lEtienne, have pro¬ nounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse in¬ strument j 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 cham^ - THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 323 ber, 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 syllabifica¬ tion. What result, then, has ensued ? What impres¬ sion have I made upon your fancy ? ” I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the I question. ‘‘ A madman,” I said, “ has done this deed _some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Sante.” “In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabifica¬ tion. 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’Espa. naye. 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, 1 324 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MOROVE ' i; 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 1 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, evi- dently the impression of fingers.’ , r ^‘You will perceive,” continued my friend, spread- ' ing 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 — t ' 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 i 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.” THE MURDERS IH THE RUE MORGUE 325 «Ilead now,” replied Dupin, ‘'this passage from Mvier.” j It was a minute anatomical and generally descrip- ive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang o he East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the )rodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, ind the imitative propensities of these mammalia are mfficiently well known to all. I understood the fu lorrors 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 tutt of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly com¬ prehend 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.” • -i, “ True; and you will remember an expression attrib¬ uted almost unanimously, by the evidence, to tps yoice, — the expression, ‘ mow Dieu.’ This, un er the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner) as an 326 THE MURDERS IlSf THE RUE MORGUE expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon t 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 j it is far more than probable — that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have recaptured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these 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, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE avsny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The oxcner 'who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese ves¬ sel) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfac- Prilv, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. -, Bue -, Faubourg St. Germain — au troisihne." ‘‘ How was it possible,” I asked, that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a Mal¬ tese vessel ? ” ‘‘ I do not know it,” said Dupin. I am not sure ot 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 be¬ longed to either of the deceased. How 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 circum¬ stance into which he will not take the trouble to in¬ quire. But if I am right, a great point is gained THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 j I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger ? Here .11 it is, within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de i\ Boulogne at a vast distance from the scene of that 1 1 butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute ■, beast should have done the deed ? The police are at J , fault; they have failed to procure the slightest clew. | Should they even trace the animal, it would be impos- | sible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to impli- I cate 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 claim- % ing a property of so great value, which it is known 1 that I possess, I will render the animal, at least, liable ] to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention i] 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.’ ’’ j At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs. THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE ‘‘Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but leither use them nor show them until at a signal from oayself.” 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 descend¬ ing. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we aagain 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 t tone. A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently, ^a t 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 Prench accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still suffi¬ ciently indicative of a Parisian oiigin. << Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “ I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my 330 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE word, I almost envy you the possession of him ; a re- markably 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 canT 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 Eue 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 Hu^. I don t mean that you should be at a,ll this trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. Couldn’t lexpect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal — that is to say, anything in reason.” •1 ) j 1 I Well, replied my friend, that is all very fair, to I be sure. Let me think! — what should I have ? Oh! 1 I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about these s murders in the Eue Morgue.” ij Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and ;i very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked toward ji 1 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 331 ' le door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. He len drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, with- at the least flurry, upon the table. The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling nth suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped is cudgel; but the next moment he fell back into his 9 at, trembling violently, and with the countenance of eath itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from lie bottom of my heart. My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “ you are larming yourself unnecessarily — you are indeed. Ve mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the .onor of a gentleman', and of a Frenchman, that we Qtend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you ,re innocent of the atrocities in the Hue Morgue. It viW not do, however, to deny that you are in some aeasure implicated in them. From what I have Iready said, you must know that I have had means :>f information about this matter — means of which ''ou could never have dreamed. How the thing stands hus. You have done nothing which you could have Lvoided — nothing, certainly, which renders you cul- lable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when rou might have robbed with impunity. You have lothing to conceal. You have no reason for conceal- 332 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE merit. On the other hand, yon are bound by every principle of honor to confess all you know. An inno¬ cent 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 j 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 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 333 foot, rt:ceived from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. E-eturning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the morning, of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Kazor 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 posses¬ sion 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 334 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 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 win¬ dow of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it per¬ ceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with incon¬ ceivable 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 light¬ ning-rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the win¬ dow, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over T'«C» - THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 335 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 towards the windows ; 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 motion¬ less ; 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 336 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE wrath. With one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into frenzy. Gnash¬ ing its teeth, and flasiiing Are 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 discern¬ ible. 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 daugh¬ ter, 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 muti¬ lated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home — dreading the consequences of the butch¬ ery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude ■ THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE 337 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. ^ was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the Jafdin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every person minding his own business. ‘‘ Let 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 338 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE ' 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 qu’est et d’expUquer ce que n’est pas.’ ” ° NOTES Page 1. The Fall of the House of Usher first appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine, published in Philadelp ' It was reprinted in a collection of Poe’s stones published m 1840 under the title Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. This story, with Ligeia, hold the preeminence in Poe s piose which are held by Ulalume and I7ic Baven in Ins verse^ They register the highest mark of his genius for narration an for expression ; they disclose his imagination and his art n their most perfect products. The story is a psychological study of fear, and is unsurpassed in artistic feeling and The landscape is marvellously harmonized with the huma tragedy wliicli it unfolds ; while the inner relationship between the crumbling house and the dying family uihabite ^ takes possession of the imagination and 1 the inLable catastrophe. The story presents a wreck and extinguishment, which is flawless in conception and in execution. Pa-e 17. The Haunted Palace first appeared in the Amem- el Museum, a Baltimore publication, in April, duced into The Fall of the House of Usher, in September the same year ; and included in a volume of poems published 839 340 NOTES in 1845 under the title The Baven and Other Poems. Like The Conqueror Worm., it is an allegory and takes the highest rank, not only in Poe’s poetry, hut in the poetry of the world, as an example of imaginative self-portraiture. Page 20. Gresset. A French poet and dramatist; born in 1709, died in 1777. Macliiavelli. An Italian novelist; bom in 1469, died 1527. The little story to which Poe refers has been translated into many languages. Holberg. A Norwegian writer of satire and comedy; born 1684, died 1754 ; he also wrote histories and fables. De la Chambre. Chiromancy is the art of divination or fore¬ telling the future from the lines and conformation of the hand. It was once widely practised. Tieck. A famous German writer; one of the founders of the Romantic School; born in 1773, died 1853 ; novelist, poet, critic, and writer of fairy tales and fables ; characteristics : brilliant fancy, inventive skill, and a touch of the fantastic. Campanella. An Italian ; born in 1568, died 1639 ; a phi¬ losopher who claimed entire freedom in speculation, and was tortured and imprisoned for thirty years in consequence. Page 21. Pomponius Mela. A representative Roman geog¬ rapher, who lived in the reign of Claudius and was the author of a treatise entitled The Plan of the World. Page 35. Ligeia was originally contributed in 1838 to the American Museum of Baltimore, and subsequently reprinted in Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque in 1840. It strik- NOTES 341 ingly resembles Morelia^ which may be regarded as a pre¬ liminary sketch of the later and more perfect tale. In its final form, the tale may be taken as the most characteristic expres¬ sion of Poe’s imagination and of his magical command of the resources of prose-writing. It takes possession of the reader’s imagination by a series of incidents and descriptions, so con¬ trived that a purely imaginative and fantastic narration gains all the power of a record of fact. Page 41. Joseph Glanvill. An English philosophical writer ; born 1636, died 1680 ; author of a defence of belief in witch¬ craft. Page 94. Sir Thomas More. A famous English scholar and writer ; born 1480, died 1536 ; author of ITtopict y be¬ came Lord Chancellor; a man of great learning and wit; of uncorruptible character and unflinching courage; long a fa¬ vorite of Henry VIII.; his refusal to accede to the divorce from Catharine of Aragon led to his imprisonment, trial, and execution. * Page 95. Cimabue. An Italian painter; born at Elorence in 1240, died about 1300 ; one of the early restorers of painting in Italy at the close of the Dark Ages ; he introduced individu¬ ality and freedom at a time when the manner end forms of the Byzantine painters had become traditional in Italy. Page 96. Guido. Italian painter ; born in Bologna m 1575 ; the “Aurora” is probably the best known of his pictures; characteristics : harmony of color, grace, gentleness; excelled in treatment of devout and pathetic subjects. S42 NOTES Page 101. Chapman’s Bussy D'^Amhois; one of a group of dramas dealing with French subjects, by one of the later drama¬ tists of the Elizabethan Age; best known as the translator of Homer. Page 117, The Pendulum and the Pit first appeared in an annual, The Gift, in 1843; it was reprinted later in the Broadway Journal. Page 122. Auto-da-f6 was the name given to the ceremony of execution of heretics condemned to death by the Inquisition in Spain and Portugal. The executions generally took place on Sunday. Page 144. The Inquisition, sometimes called the Holy Office, was a tribunal in the Roman Catholic Church, organized for the purpose of discovering, repressing, and punishing heresy and other offences against the Church. The Inquisition devel¬ oped in Spain into a State Tribunal, the excesses of which, Roman Catholic writers declare, the Pope endeavored in vain to check. Its victims in that country were numbered by tens of thousands. Its power was greatly reduced and its rigor abated when the Napoleonic invasion put an end to its existence. It was subsequently revived and finally abolished in 1835. Page 145. William Wilson was first contributed to The Gift in 1840, and reprinted in the Tfles of the Grotesque and Arabesque. It was the earliest of Ijfoe’s tales of conscience as affected by fear; and, although the idea of a double who becomes a kind of avenger is old, the story is essentially origi¬ nal. The resemblance of Mr. Stevenson’s “ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ” to this early work of Poe’s has been noted. ' The de- NOTES 343 scriptioii of the poet’s school life in England gives this tale auto- biograpliic value. ^ Page 178. The Carnival. A festival held in Italy, which took the form of masquerading, buffoonery, and feasting, and ended on the eve of Ash Wednesday, when the fast of Lent began. Many of its forms and customs survived from pagan f festivals. Page 213. The Gold-Bug was accepted by Graham's, but subsequently withdrawn by Poe, who substituted a critical article in its place, and submitted the story in competition for I a prize of one hundred dollars offered by The Dollar News¬ paper of Baltimore. It was published in two parts in June, 1843, and has probably been more widely read than any other of Poe’s tales. Page 279. The Murders in the Bue Morgue was contributed to Graham's for April, 1841, when Poe had become the editor of that publication. It was the earliest of the tales of ratio¬ cination. Page 287. Palais Royal. Built by Cardinal Richelieu in the centre of Paris in 1634 ; the garden and galleries, with shops and restaurants, have long been a favorite rendezvous for visitors. Page 338. “Of denying that which is and explaining that which is not,” h u mat: UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA ■II III III III III II 3 0112 003429468