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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

Volume 1 (of 5) of the Raven Edition

Author: Edgar Allan Poe

Release Date: May 19, 2008 [EBook #2147]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE ***

Produced by David Widger

THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

IN FIVE VOLUMES

The Raven Edition

Contents
EDGAR ALLAN POE

DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE

THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL

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 eaves 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 a's
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 bands.

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 in a cue
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, communications.

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 1080,
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 degrees 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 elipse. 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 elipse, 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 degrees 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)

"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.

"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, autremét 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
cònoissance 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 cc 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) Havelius 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.

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 find nowhar—dat's just whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be
berry hebby bout poor Massa Will."

"Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. You say your master is
sick. Hasn't he told you what ails him?"
"Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad 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 unpleasant 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 mouth 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
debbils own lot of money I had to gib for em."

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

"Dat's more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don't blieve 'tis more dan he know, too. But
it's all cum ob 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 nose dat—nose all bout dat—tis my lef hand what I chops de wood wid."

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

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

"Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de skull, too?—cause de skull 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—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 stupified—thunderstricken. Presently he
fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them
there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as
if in a soliloquy,

"And dis all 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 time keepers valueless; the works
having suffered, more or less, from corrosion—but all were richly jewelled and in cases of
great worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a half of
dollars; and upon the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for
our own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the treasure. When, at length, we
had concluded our examination, and the intense excitement of the time had, in some measure,
subsided, Legrand, who saw that I was dying with impatience for a solution of this most
extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all the circumstances connected with it.

"You remember;" said he, "the night when I handed you the rough sketch I had made of the
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 stupified 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 scarabaeus was on the coast
of the main land, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a short distance above high
water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which caused me to let it drop.
Jupiter, with his accustomed caution, before seizing the insect, which had flown towards him,
looked about him for a leaf, or something of that nature, by which to take hold of it. It was at
this moment that his eyes, and mine also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then
supposed to be paper. It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the spot
where we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of what appeared to have been a ship's
long boat. The wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; for the resemblance to
boat timbers could scarcely be traced.

"Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon
afterwards we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant G-. I showed him the insect,
and he begged me to let him take it to the fort. 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*;40692

85);)6†8)4;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;
(88;4(‡?34;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

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

"'A good glass in the bishop's hostel in the devil's seat 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.
—Crebillon'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 a 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 air with which it is thrown upon the
table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the
accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks,
with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all
afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first
two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand,
and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of
the party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with 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 charlâtanerie 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 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 Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about three o'clock in the
morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain
admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had but little
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted
neither at bottom 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 bye-street—very lonely.

"William Bird, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an
Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words,
but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly '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 firmanent 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 ménagais:—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—à 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
us 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
Bourdeaux. 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—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 troisiême.

"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 visiter 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 break 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 Heloise.

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
modifieiren 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 "cigargirl," 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 Andree, 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 visiter, 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 intent 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 fasted 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 front 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 cave 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 throw 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 press 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 looked 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
visiter 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, us
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 garter's 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 a empty boat
floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it
under the barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence, without the knowledge of
any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office."—Le Diligence—Thursday, June
26.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket was received by
the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the
outrage, it must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt. That it was the
scene, I may or I may not believe—but there was excellent reason for doubt. Had the true
scene been, as Le Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée St. Andrée,
the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still resident in Paris, would naturally have been
stricken with terror at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper channel; and,
in certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some
exertion to redivert this attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du Roule having been
already suspected, the idea of placing the articles where they were found, might have been
naturally entertained. There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so supposes, that the
articles discovered had been more than a very few days in the thicket; while there is much
circumstantial proof that they could not have remained there, without attracting attention,
during the twenty days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they
were found by the boys. 'They were all mildewed down hard,' says Le Soleil, adopting the
opinions of its predecessors, 'with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew. The
grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the
threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it bad 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 bad 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 communications by the guilty authors of these communications
themselves.

"This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one. It was unusually dense. Within its
naturally walled enclosure were three extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and
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 is 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
or Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail.

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

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

(*3) Nassau Street.

(*4) Anderson.

(*5) The Hudson.

(*6) Weehawken.

(*7) Payne.

(*8) Crommelin.

(*9) The New York "Mercury."

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

(*11) New York "Journal of Commerce."

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

(*13) Adam

(*14) See "Murders in the Rue Morgue."

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

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

(*17) New York "Express"

(*18) New York "Herald."

(*19) New York "Courier and Inquirer."

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

(*21) New York "Courier and Inquirer."

(*22) New York "Evening Post."

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

THE BALLOON-HOAX
[Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk!—The Atlantic
crossed in Three Days! Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying
Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charlestown, S.C., of
Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth,
and four others, in the Steering Balloon, "Victoria," after a passage
of Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the
Voyage!

The subjoined jeu d'esprit with the preceding heading in

magnificent capitals, well interspersed with notes of admiration, was
originally published, as matter of fact, in the "New York Sun," a
daily newspaper, and therein fully subserved the purpose of creating
indigestible aliment for the quidnuncs during the few hours
intervening between a couple of the Charleston mails. The rush for
the "sole paper which had the news," was something beyond even the
prodigious; and, in fact, if (as some assert) the "Victoria" did
not absolutely accomplish the voyage recorded, it will be difficult
to assign a reason why she should not have accomplished it.]

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

"THE BALLOON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The supporting power being estimated at 2500 pounds, and the united weights of the party
amounting only to about 1200, there was left a surplus of 1300, of which again 1200 was
exhausted by ballast, arranged in bags of different sizes, with their respective weights marked
upon them—by cordage, barometers, telescopes, barrels containing provision for a fortnight,
water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and various other indispensable matters, including a coffee-
warmer, contrived for warming coffee by means of slack-lime, so as to dispense altogether
with fire, if it should be judged prudent to do so. All these articles, with the exception of the
ballast, and a few trifles, were suspended from the hoop overhead. The car is much smaller
and lighter, in proportion, than the one appended to the model. It is formed of a light wicker,
and is wonderfully strong, for so frail looking a machine. Its rim is about four feet deep. The
rudder is also very much larger, in proportion, than that of the model; and the screw is
considerably smaller. The balloon is furnished besides with a grapnel, and a guide-rope;
which latter is of the most indispensable importance. A few words, in explanation, will here
be necessary for such of our readers as are not conversant with the details of aerostation.
"As soon as the balloon quits the earth, it is subjected to the influence of many circumstances
tending to create a difference in its weight; augmenting or diminishing its ascending power.
For example, there may be a deposition of dew upon the silk, to the extent, even, of several
hundred pounds; ballast has then to be thrown out, or the machine may descend. This ballast
being discarded, and a clear sunshine evaporating the dew, and at the same time expanding
the gas in the silk, the whole will again rapidly ascend. To check this ascent, the only recourse
is, (or rather was, until Mr. Green's invention of the guide-rope,) the permission of the escape
of gas from the valve; but, in the loss of gas, is a proportionate general loss of ascending
power; so that, in a comparatively brief period, the best-constructed balloon must necessarily
exhaust all its resources, and come to the earth. This was the great obstacle to voyages of
length.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sunday, the seventh. [Mr. Mason's MS.] This morning the gale, by 10, had subsided to an
eight or nine—knot breeze, (for a vessel at sea,) and bears us, perhaps, thirty miles per hour,
or more. It has veered, however, very considerably to the north; and now, at sundown, we are
holding our course due west, principally by the screw and rudder, which answer their
purposes to admiration. I regard the project as thoroughly successful, and the easy navigation
of the air in any direction (not exactly in the teeth of a gale) as no longer problematical. We
could not have made head against the strong wind of yesterday; but, by ascending, we might
have got out of its influence, if requisite. Against a pretty stiff breeze, I feel convinced, we
can make our way with the propeller. At noon, to-day, ascended to an elevation of nearly
25,000 feet, by discharging ballast. Did this to search for a more direct current, but found
none so favorable as the one we are now in. We have an abundance of gas to take us across
this small pond, even should the voyage last three weeks. I have not the slightest fear for the
result. The difficulty has been strangely exaggerated and misapprehended. I can choose my
current, and should I find all currents against me, I can make very tolerable headway with the
propeller. We have had no incidents worth recording. The night promises fair.
P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] I have little to record, except the fact (to me quite a surprising one)
that, at an elevation equal to that of Cotopaxi, I experienced neither very intense cold, nor
headache, nor difficulty of breathing; neither, I find, did Mr. Mason, nor Mr. Holland, nor Sir
Everard. Mr. Osborne complained of constriction of the chest—but this soon wore off. We
have flown at a great rate during the day, and we must be more than half way across the
Atlantic. We have passed over some twenty or thirty vessels of various kinds, and all seem to
be delightfully astonished. Crossing the ocean in a balloon is not so difficult a feat after all.
Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Mem: at 25,000 feet elevation the sky appears nearly black, and
the stars are distinctly visible; while the sea does not seem convex (as one might suppose) but
absolutely and most unequivocally concave.(*1)

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

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

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

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

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

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

Qui n'a plus qu'un moment a vivre

N'a plus rien a dissimuler.

—Quinault—Atys.

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

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18— , from the port of Batavia,
in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I
went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which
haunted me as a fiend.
Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at
Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive
islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The
stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

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

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

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

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

We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me has not 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 Sybils of the future. The cabin floor was
thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and mouldering instruments of science, and
obsolete long-forgotten charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored, with
a fiery unquiet eye, over a paper which I took to be a 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 chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit
me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those
piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the
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 chateau rendered necessary—in these paintings
my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to
close the heavy shutters of the room—since it was already night—to light the tongues of a tall
candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed—and to throw open far and wide the fringed
curtains of black velvet which 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!"

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