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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven Edition


Contents

 PREFACE
 LIFE OF POE
 DEATH OF POE
 THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL
 THE GOLD-BUG
 FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD
 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)
 THE BALLOON-HOAX
 MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
 THE OVAL PORTRAIT




EDGAR ALLAN POE
AN APPRECIATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W. H. R.




EDGAR ALLAN POE


By James Russell Lowell

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

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

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

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

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

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

     TO HELEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE


By N. P. Willis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FORDHAM, _April_ 20, 1849

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

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

“Truly yours ever,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

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

“FORDHAM, _January_ 22, 1848.

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

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

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

“Your friend always,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “HANS PFAALL.”

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

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

      Don’t understand at all.

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

      Well—what of that?

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

      He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.

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

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

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

      ~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE GOLD-BUG


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

_—All in the Wrong._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What?—sunrise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;”
      and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
      to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn
      affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the
      drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_
      visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the
      ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Keeps a what, Jupiter?”

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

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

      “No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—‘twas
      _’fore_ den I’m feared—‘twas de berry day you was dare.”

      “How? what do you mean?”

      “Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”

      “The what?”

      “De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout
      de head by dat goole-bug.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What de matter, massa?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever yours,
“WILLIAM LEGRAND”.

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

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

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

      “Him syfe, massa, and spade.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Feel my pulse,” said he.

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

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

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

      “And how is this to be done?”

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

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

      “It has.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “How much fudder is got for go?”

      “How high up are you?” asked Legrand.

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

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

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

      “Then go one limb higher.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “By yourself!—what do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, massa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de
      skull, too?—cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at
      all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye now—here de lef eye! what mus
      do wid it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “That will do—we must try it again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But proceed—I am all impatience.”

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

      “Never.”

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

      “But how did you proceed?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “And you really solved it?”

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

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

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

      Of the character 8 there are 33.

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

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

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

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

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

      t eeth.

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

      t ee,

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

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

      the tree ;4(‡?34 the,

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

      the tree thr‡?3h the.

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

      the tree thr...h the,

      when the word ‘_through_’ makes itself evident at once. But this
      discovery gives us three new letters, _o_, _u_ and _g_,
      represented by ‡, ? and 3.

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

      83(88, or egree,

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

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

      ;46(;88.

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

      th.rtee,

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

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

      53‡‡†.

      “Translating as before, we obtain

      good,

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

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

                5 represents      a
                †       “         d
                8       “         e
                3       “         g
                4       “         h
                6       “         i
                *       “         n
                ‡       “         o
                (       “         r
                ;       “         t
                ?       “         u

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

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

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

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

      “You mean, to punctuate it?”

      “Something of that kind.”

      “But how was it possible to effect this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD


Chacun a ses vertus.

—_Crébillon’s Xerxes._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Very true.

      “There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.”

      There are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Bless me! it is an ape!”

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

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

      Which may be thus paraphrased:

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

      “Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”

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

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

      Then you must be blind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Come let us be off.

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

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

Footnotes—Four Beasts

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




THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE


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

—_Sir Thomas Browne._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I made the attempt in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

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

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

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

      At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “To be sure I am, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      (*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloïse.




THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus
      thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior
      to the girl’s disappearance, and during the absence of its
      occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and
      the name “Marie” inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand.

      The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it
      from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim
      of a gang of desperadoes—that by these she had been borne across
      the river, maltreated and murdered. Le Commerciel, (*11) however,
      a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this
      popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in
      which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his
      race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already
      published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry,
      from this paper and from that. ‘The things had all evidently been
      there,’ he says, ‘at least, three or four weeks, and there can be
      _no doubt_ that the spot of this appalling outrage has been
      discovered.’ The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, are very far
      indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we will
      examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with
      another division of the theme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES—Marie Rogêt

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

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

      (*3) Nassau Street.

      (*4) Anderson.

      (*5) The Hudson.

      (*6) Weehawken.

      (*7) Payne.

      (*8) Crommelin.

      (*9) The New York “Mercury.”

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

      (*11) New York “Journal of Commerce.”

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

      (*13) Adam

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

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

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

      (*17) New York “Express”

      (*18) New York “Herald.”

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

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

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

      (*22) New York “Evening Post.”

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




THE BALLOON-HOAX


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

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

      “THE BALLOON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “THE JOURNAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE


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

—Quinault—Atys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


      The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there
      is upon their countenances an expression more of the eagerness of
      hope than of the apathy of despair.

      In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a
      crowd of canvas, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the
      sea! Oh, horror upon horror!—the ice opens suddenly to the right,
      and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense
      concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic
      amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness
      and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon
      my destiny! The circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly
      within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and
      bellowing, and thundering of ocean and of tempest, the ship is
      quivering—oh God! and—going down.

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




THE OVAL PORTRAIT


      The château into which my valet had ventured to make forcible
      entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded
      condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those
      piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned
      among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs.
      Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very
      lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest
      and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote
      turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered
      and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with
      manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an
      unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in
      frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which
      depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in
      very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the château
      rendered necessary—in these paintings my incipient delirium,
      perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade
      Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room—since it was
      already night—to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which
      stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the
      fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself.
      I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to
      sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these
      pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found
      upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe
      them.

      Long, long I read—and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and
      gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The
      position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my
      hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I
      placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

      But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The
      rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell
      within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into
      deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a
      picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl
      just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting
      hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at
      first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids
      remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so
      shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for
      thought—to make sure that my vision had not deceived me—to calm
      and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a
      very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

      That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the
      first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to
      dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses,
      and to startle me at once into waking life.

      The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It
      was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed
      a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of
      Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair
      melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed
      the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded
      and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be
      more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been
      neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the
      countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me.
      Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its
      half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person.
      I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
      vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such
      idea—must have prevented even its momentary entertainment.
      Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour
      perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted
      upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
      its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of
      the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which,
      at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me.
      With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its
      former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut
      from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
      paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
      designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint
      words which follow:

      “She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
      of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and
      wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having
      already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and
      not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and
      frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things;
      hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet
      and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of
      the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for
      this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even
      his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly
      for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
      dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the
      painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour,
      and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody
      man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that
      the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the
      health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but
      him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she
      saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and
      burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict
      her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and
      weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
      resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
      less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her
      whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the
      labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none
      into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of
      his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard
      the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints
      which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her
      who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
      little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint
      upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the
      flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was
      given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the
      painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but
      in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
      pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed
      Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved:—She was
      dead!”


*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2147 ***