THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
by Edgar Allan Poe
Copyright © by poem, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL
BY late accounts from Rotterdam,
that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical excitement. Indeed,
phenomena have their 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 cheered 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 rows and devils in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one
knew, no one could imagine; no one—not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbugs
Von Underdo—had the slightest clew by which to unravel the mystery; so, as
nothing more reasonable could be done, everyone 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
whom, 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 vow Gretel Pall,
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 Pall, 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 Pall
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 taffeta 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 firm. 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 pocketbook.
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, Superbugs
Von Underdo. 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 rescind, 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 Underdo 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 Superbugs von Underdo. That functionary, however, had not failed,
during his circumgyrate 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 Underdo
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 artisan, by name Hans Pall, 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 Pall 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 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 have
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 Neck 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 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 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 enough 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 pretenses, 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 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 Nanty,
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 center 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 makeweight, 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, despite 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 man oeuvre
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 armchairs,
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 inexpressible. 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 man
oeuvre, 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 Pall 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 sometime 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 centers 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 center 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 Biota.
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 Neck'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. Val, 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 luster, 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 enough 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 worthwhile to encumber myself with more provisions than would be enough 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 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 spyglass, 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 recontrol, 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 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 enough
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 from 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 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 wickerwork. 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 enough dimensions, the entire car was in a
manner placed. 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 network 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 network
were separated from the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the car
in the meantime? Now the network 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 network 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 network 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 from. 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, end
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 necessary.
In the meanwhile, I could not help making anticipations. Fancy reveled 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 enough 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 enough 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 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 varies 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 earthen 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 bunghole 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, except for 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 luster 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 overall, 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 center,
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 center
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 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 enough atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.
“April 12th. A singular alteration
took place regarding the direction of the balloon, and although fully
anticipated, afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its
former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off
suddenly, at an acute angle, to the eastward, and thus proceeded throughout the
day, keeping nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar ellipse.
What was worthy of remark, a very perceptible vacillation in the car was a
consequence of this change of route—a vacillation which prevailed, in a 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 continued
in the plane of the ellipse but made little progress to the eastward.
“April 14th. Extremely rapid
decrease in the diameter of the earth. To-day I became strongly impressed with
the idea, that the balloon was now actually running up the line of asides 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 now. 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 Campy
Phlegmasia 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 regarding Neck's comet and the
zodiacal light, I had been strengthened in my opinion by certain observations
of Mr. Schroeder, 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 sometimes
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 then, 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 ascent, with their arms set a-akimbo. I turned from them in
contempt, and, gazing upward at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps forever,
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 Superbugs Von Underdo
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 Underdo,
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 sorts 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:
Imperious. 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 Pall 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 Paal
(*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 Pall” thinks it necessary
to say, in self-defense, that his own jet despite 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 Pall,” 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 will 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 Nusbaum, Mare Tranquilities, Mare Fecundities, 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 which should
have betrayed the fiction. Let us imagine the power 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 was 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 center. The weight is 3
tons. The focal length is 50 feet.
I have label Read à Singulair and somewhat ingénions lite book, hose titre-page
runs thugs : “L’Homme dans la lune ou le Voyage Chimérique fait au Monde de la Lyne,
nouvellement découvert par Dominique Gonzales, Aduanturier Espagnol, Autretot
dit le Courier volant. Mis en notre lange par J. B. D. A. Paris, chez François
Piot, près la Fontaine de Saint Benoist. Et chez J. Guignard, 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. Davisson (Davidson?) although
there is a terrible ambiguity in the statement. “J’en ai eu,” sas hé “l’original de Monsieur D’Alisson, médecin des mieux
versez qui soient aujourd'hui dans le c ? naissance des Belles Lettres, et sur
tout de la Philosophico Naturelle. Je lui ai cette obligation entre les autres,
de m’avoir non seulement mis en main cc Livre en anglais, mais encore le
Manuscrit du Sieur Thomas D’Annan, gentilhomme Escossois, recommandable pour sa
vertu, sur la version duquel j’avoue que j’ay tir ? 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 separates, 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 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 (ganjas) 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 ganjas, 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 Ridnour; 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 ganjas 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 jet 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 Linaria 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 Pall” 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 Tribes. Emic ant Tribes quos docks vacant. —Pliny,
lib. 2, p. 26.
(*3) Since the original publication
of Hans Pall, I find that Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other
late aeronauts, deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of
a decreasing inconvenience,—precisely in accordance with the theory here urged
in a mere spirit of banter.
(*4) Hevelius writes that he has
several times found, in skies perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and
seventh magnitude were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the moon, at
the same elongation from the earth, and with one and the same excellent
telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear equally lucid at all times.
From the circumstances of the observation, it is evident that the cause of this
phenomenon is not either in our air, in the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of
the spectator, but must be looked for in something (an atmosphere?) existing
about the moon.
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 mainland 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 Swammerdam. 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 instill
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 armchair by the crackling
logs, and waited 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 scarab? Us 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 scarab? I 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 Jump 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 antenna? are—”
“Dey aunt no tin in him, Massa Will,
I keep a telling on you,” here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a google bug,
solid, every bit of him, inside and all, seep him wing—never feel half so hobby
a bug in my life.”
“Well, suppose it is, Jump,” 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 almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant
metallic luster than the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge till
tomorrow. In the meantime, I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this,
he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper.
He looked for some in a drawer but found none.
“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 scarab? Us, 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 scarab? Us must be the queerest scarab? Us 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 scarab? us caput hominis, or
something of that kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories.
But where are the antenna? you spoke of?”
“The antenna?!” said Legrand, who
seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must
see the antenna? 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 antenna? visible, and the whole did bear a
very close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.
He received the paper very
peevishly, and was about to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire,
when a casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In
an instant his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For some
minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length
he arose, took a candle from the table, and 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, Jump,” said I, “what is the
matter now? —how is your master?”
“Why, to speak de taroof, masa, him
not so berry well as ought be.”
“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear
it. What does he complain of?”
“Dar! data's it! —him never plain of
nothing—but him berry sick for all dat.”
“Very sick, Jupiter! —why didn’t you
say so at once? Is he confined to bed?”
“No, date he aunt! —the aunt finds nowhere—that's
just wharf de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be berry hobby 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, masa, taint word while for to get
mad about de matter—Massa Will say coffin at all aunt de matter wide him—but
den what make him go about looking dis her way, wide he head down and he
soldiers up, and as white as a goes? And den he keeps a syphon all de time—”
“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”
“Keeps a syphon wide de figures on
de slate—de queerest figures I ever did see. Ise getting to be skewered, I tell
you. Hob for to keep mighty tight eye pond him no overs. Toddler day he gib me
slip fore de sunup 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 such a
fool date I hadn’t de heart artery all—he looks 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, masa, day aunt bin coffin
unpleasant since den— ‘twas fore den I’m feared— ‘twas de berry day you were
dare.”
“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, masa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug, —I’m berry astrain date
Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de head by date google-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter,
for such a supposition?”
“Claws enough, masa, and mouth too.
I nabbed did see sick a deuced bug—he kicks, and he bite every 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 not like de look oh de
bug moufful, myself, not how, so I would not take hold of him wide my finger,
but I cotch him wide a piece of paper date I found. I rap him up in de paper
and stuff piece ob. it in the moufful—date 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 not think coffin about it—I
nose it. What make him dream bout de google so much, if taint because he bit by
de google-bug? Ise herd bout dem google-bugs fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about
gold?”
“How I know? why because he talks
about it in the sleep—data's how I nose.”
“Well, Jump, 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, masa?”
“Did you bring any message from Mr.
Legrand?”
“No, masa, I bring dis here passed;”
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 brusquer
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 Jump 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, Jump?”
I inquired.
“Him safe, masa, and spade.”
“Very true; but what are they doing
here?”
“Him de safe and de spade what Massa
Will sis pond my buying for him in de town, and de debits own lot of money I
had to gib for me.”
“But what, in the name of all that
is mysterious, is your ‘Massa Will’ going to do with scythes and spades?”
“Data's more dan I know, and debit
take me if I don’t believe ‘tis more dan he knows, 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 impressment which alarmed me and strengthened the
suspicions already entertained. His countenance was pale even to ghastliness,
and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural luster. After some inquiries
respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing what better to say, if he had
yet obtained the scarab? us 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 scarab? us. 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 scarab? us!”
“What! de bug, masa? I’d rudder does
not go far tribble date bug—you must 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 scarab? us, 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 I are
going upon an expedition into the hills, upon the mainland, and, in this expedition,
we shall need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are the only
one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement which you now
perceive in me will be equally allayed.”
“I am anxious to oblige you in any
way,” I replied; “but do you mean to say that this infernal beetle has any
connection with your expedition into the hills?”
“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 me.
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 “date 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 scarab. Us, which he carried attached to the end of a bit of whipcord;
twirling it to and from, 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 meantime, I endeavored, but all in vain, to sound
him regarding 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 drearier 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, masa, Jump climb any tree he ebbed
see in the life.”
“Then up with you as soon as
possible, for it will soon be too dark to see what we are about.”
“How far must go up, masa?” 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 google
bug!” cried the negro, drawing back in dismay— “what for must tote de bug way
up de tree? —d-n if I do!”
“If you are afraid, Jump, 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, masa?” said Jump,
evidently shamed into compliance; “always want for to raise fuss wide old
nigger. Was only funning anyhow. Me feared de bug! what I keep 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 Taliaferro, 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. 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 must 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 fodder is got for go?”
“How high up are you?” asked
Legrand.
“Ebbers so fur,” replied the negro;
“can see de sky fur de top of 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, five—I done
pass five big limb, masa, pond dis side.”
“Then go one limb higher.”
In a few minutes the voice was heard
again, announcing that the seventh limb was attained.
“Now, Jump,” 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 feed for to venture pond 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, masa, him dead as de
door-nail—done up for astrain—done departed dis her 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 ebbed so
plain.”
“Try the wood well, then, with your
knife, and see if you think it very rotten.”
“Him rotten, masa, sure snuff,”
replied the negro in a few moments, “but not so berry rotten as ought be. Ought
to venture out little way pond de limb by myself, data's true.”
“By yourself! —what do you mean?”
“Why I mean de bug. Tic berry hobby
bug. Spouse I drop him down fuss and den de limb won’t break wide just de
weight ob. one nigger.”
“Your 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, masa, needn’t hollo at poor
nigger date 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 wine, Massa Will—deed I is,”
replied the negro very promptly— “moss out to the end 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 end, masa, —o-o-o-o-oh!
Lord-gold-a-Marcy! what is dis here pond de tree?”
“Well!” cried Legrand, highly
delighted, “what is it?”
“Why taint coffin but a
skull—somebody bin left him head up de tree, and de crows done gobble every bit
of de meat off.”
“A skull, you say! —very well! —how
is it fastened to the limb? —what holds it on?”
“Sure snuff, masa; must look. Why
dis berry curious circumstance, pond 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, masa.”
“Pay attention, then! —find the left
eye of the skull.”
“Hum! hood! data's good! why dare aunt
no eye left at all.”
“Curse your stupidity! do you know
your right hand from your left?”
“Yes, I nose date—nose all bout date—tis
my left 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,
“Does de left eye of de skull pond
de same side as de left hand of de skull, too? —cause de skull aunt got not a
bit ob. a hand at all—nabbed mind! I got de left eye now—here de left eye! what
must do wind 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 date done, Massa Will; mighty
easy ting for to put de bug fur 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 scarab? us 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 center, 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 scarab? Us, 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 yelping's 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 meantime, I made
no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his tools.
This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in 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 fully opened his eyes and mouth,
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! aunt dis
here my left eye for astrain?” roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand
upon his right organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate
pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge.
“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!”
vociferated Legrand, letting the negro go, and executing a series of curvets
and caracoles, much to the astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his
knees, looked, mutely, from his master to myself, and then from myself to his
master.
“Come! we must go back,” said the
latter, “the game’s not up yet;” and he again led the way to the tulip-tree.
“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached
its foot, “come here! was the skull nailed to the limb with the face outwards,
or with the face to the limb?”
“De face was out, masa, so date de
crows could get at de eyes good, without any trouble.”
“Well, then, was it this eye or that
through which you dropped the beetle?”—here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s
eyes.
“Taws dis eye, masa—de left eye—jigs
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 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 howling's 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 mold 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 woolen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large
Spanish knife, and, as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and
silver coin came to light.
At sight of these the joy of Jupiter
could scarcely be restrained, but the countenance of his master wore an air of
extreme disappointment He urged us, however, to continue our exertions, and the
words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having caught the
toe of my boot in a large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth.
We now worked in earnest, and never
did I pass ten minutes of more intense excitement. During this interval we had
fairly unearthed an oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect preservation
and wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing
process—perhaps that of the Bi-chloride of Mercury. This box was three feet and
a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly
secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open
trelliswork over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the top, were three
rings of iron—six in all—by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by six
persons. Our utmost united endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very
slightly in its bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so great a
weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts.
These we drew back—trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant, a
treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the rays of the
lanterns fell within the pit, there flashed upwards a glow and a glare, from a
confused heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely dazzled our eyes.
I shall not pretend to describe the
feelings with which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand
appeared exhausted with excitement and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s
countenance wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in
nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed stupefied thunder
stricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his naked
arms up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury
of a bath. At length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy,
“And dis all cum ob. de google-bug!
de putty google bug! de poor little google-bug, what I boozed in date savage
kind of style! Aunt you ashamed of yourself, nigger? —answer me date!”
It became necessary, at last, that I
should arouse both master and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure.
It was growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might get everything
housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should be done, and much
time was spent in deliberation—so confused were the ideas of all. We, finally,
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 pretense, 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. Everything
had been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we found
ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we had at first supposed. In
coin there was rather more than four hundred and fifty thousand
dollars—estimating the value of the pieces, as accurately as we could, by the
tables of the period. There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of
antique date and of great variety—French, Spanish, and German money, with a few
English guineas, and some counters, of which we had never seen specimens
before. There were several very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could
make nothing of their inscriptions. There was no American money. The value of
the jewels we found more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some of
them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten in all, and not one of them
small; eighteen rubies of remarkable brilliancy; —three hundred and ten
emeralds, all very beautiful; and twenty-one sapphires, with an opal. These
stones had all been broken from their settings and thrown loose in the chest.
The settings themselves, which we picked out from among the other gold,
appeared to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent identification.
Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments;—nearly two
hundred massive finger and earrings;—rich chains—thirty of these, if I
remember;—eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes;—five gold censers of
great value;—a prodigious golden punch bowl, ornamented with richly chased
vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two sword-handles exquisitely
embossed, and many other smaller articles which I cannot recollect. The weight
of these valuables exceeded three hundred- and fifty-pounds avoirdupois; and in
this estimate I have not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold
watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred dollars, if one.
Many of them were very old, and as timekeepers valueless; the works having
suffered from corrosion—but all were richly jeweled 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 scarab? us. 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 scarab? Us, and that this skull, not only in outline, but in
size, should so closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence
absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is the usual effect of such
coincidences. The mind struggles to establish a connection—a sequence of cause
and effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary
paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned upon me
gradually a conviction which startled me even far more than the coincidence. I
began distinctly, positively, to remember that there had been no drawing upon
the parchment when I made my sketch of the scarab? us. 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 way the parchment had come into my
possession. The spot where we discovered the scarabaeus was on the coast of the
mainland, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a short distance above
high water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which
caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution, before seizing
the insect, which had flown towards him, looked about him for a leaf, or
something of that nature, by which to take hold of it. It was at this moment
that his eyes, and mine also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, 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 connection. I had put together
two 2147links of a great chain. There was a boat lying upon a seacoast, and not
far from the boat was a parchment—not a paper—with a skull depicted upon it.
You will, of course, ask ‘where is the connection?’ 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 connection between the boat and the skull—since this
latter, according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only knows
how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the scarab? Us?”
“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 scarab? us, 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 near 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,
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. Laffer,
digested in aqua regia, and diluted with four times its weight of water, is
sometimes employed; a green tint result. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in
spirit of niter, 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 2147link in your chain—you
will not find any especial connection between your pirates and a goat—pirates,
you know, have nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming
interest.”
“But I have just said that the
figure was not that of a goat.”
“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 remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed his
plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the rumors would scarcely have
reached us in their present unvarying form. You will observe that the stories
told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders. Had the pirate
recovered his money, there the affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that
some accident—say the loss of a memorandum indicating its locality—had deprived
him of the means of recovering it, and that this accident had become known to
his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that treasure had been
concealed at all, and who, busying themselves in vain, because unguided
attempts, to regain it, had given first birth, and then universal currency, to
the reports which are now so common. Have you ever heard of any important
treasure being unearthed along the coast?”
“Never.”
“But that Kidd’s accumulations were
immense, is well known. I took it for granted, therefore, that the earth still
held them; and you will scarcely be surprised when I tell you that I felt a
hope, nearly amounting to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found,
involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”
“But how did you proceed?”
“I held the vellum again to the
fire, after increasing the heat; but nothing appeared. I now thought it
possible that the coating of dirt might have something to do with the failure;
so I carefully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having
done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards, and put the pan
upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become
thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted,
in several places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again, I
placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another minute. Upon taking it
off, the whole was just as you see it now.” Here Legrand, having re-heated the
parchment, submitted it to my inspection. The following characters were rudely
traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:
“53???305))6*;4826)4?)4?);806*;48?8?60))85;1?);
*8?83(88)5*?46(;88*96*?8) *? (;485);5*?2: *? (;4956*
2(5*?4)8?8*;4069285) ;)6?8)4??;1(?9;48081; 8:8?1;4
8?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 led to imagine from the
first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as anyone 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 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 teeth.
“Here we are enabled, at once, to
discard the ‘the,’ as forming no portion of the word commencing with the first
t; since, by experiment of the entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the
vacancy, we perceive that no word can be formed of which this the can be a
part. We are thus narrowed into
t eye,
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 thru??3h then.
“Now, if, in place of the unknown
characters, we leave blank spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:
the tree thru...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 agree,
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: the tree. 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, 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 Besson, 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 Besson'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 center 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. Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure, which I
doubt not—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 enough, 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.
—Crabillons Xerxès.
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 Tuba,
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 Antiochian
Epitaphed, 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 Seleucids 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, Virus
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, except for the Mediterranean, which stretches, like a
broad mirror, about twelve miles off to the southward. Everyone 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. Was 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, 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 Epitaphed 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 Leah Gabala. 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 Sonship is not
there—at least not the Sonship 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 kings.
“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-chamber. 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 Epitaphed.
“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 Timaru's. 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 Heraclids,
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 Ashima. 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 Ashima 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 Ashima 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,
Décollais, un homo !
Mille, mille, mille, mille, décollais !
Mille, mille, mille,
Vivat qui mille mille occidents !
Tantum vine habit nemo
Quantum sanguinis effunded! (*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
Then 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 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 came leopard and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of
the animal’s hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the rabbles
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 Epitaphed! 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 came leopard 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 Epimers—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 cameo leopard; 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, Eline and Argolis; 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 is hailing him ‘Prince of Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’
‘Delight of the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Camelopards.’ 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 perceives.
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 came
leopard 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 same leopard. ‘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 Camelopards!’
Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! What a capacity for leg-bail
thou art developing! Run, Prince! —Bravo, Epiphanes! Well done, Camelopard! —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 hands 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 Epitaphed that would
not have had a nibble at thy carcass. 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 Epitaphed 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 Hospices says, that the
hymn here introduced was sung by the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in
the Sarmatia war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of
the enemy.
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, 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 per? terannual. 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 analyses. A chess-player, for example, does the one without
effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon
mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise,
but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at
random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the
reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the
unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess.
In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with
various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual
error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play.
If it flags 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 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 recognizes what is played through
feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or
inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the
accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting
of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation,
eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception,
indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having
been played, he is in full possession of the 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 Duping. 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 Duping
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 Duping. 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 Duping—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 Duping broke forth with these words:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s
true, and would do better for the Th??tree des Vary? t? s.”
“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 way the speaker had chimed in with my meditations.
In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.
“Duping,” 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 r? le of Xerxes, in Cr?
billon’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 fruitier,” replied my
friend, “who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of
sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omen.”
“The fruitier! —you astonish me—I
know no fruitier 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 fruitier,
carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by
accident, as we passed from the Rue C —— into the thoroughfare where we stood;
but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of
charlatanerie about Duping. “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 fruitier
in question. The larger 2147links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr.
Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruitier.”
There are few persons who have not,
at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by
which 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 fruitier, 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 ‘Mus? e,’ the satirist, making some
disgraceful allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin,
quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line
Perdida antique literal
sound.
“I had told you that this was in
reference to Orion, formerly written Union; 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 Th??tree des Vary? t? s.”
Not long after this, we were looking
over an evening edition of the “Gazette des Tribune,” when the following
paragraphs arrested our attention.
“EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.—This
morning, about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Rocha 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 Esplanade, and her daughter Mademoiselle Camille Esplanade.
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 earring of topaz, three large silver
spoons, three smaller of m? tall dealer, 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 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 Esplanade 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 fingernails, 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.
“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 DuFour, 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 regarding
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 Esplanade 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 jeweler,
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 connexons of Madame L. and her
daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the
rear were always closed, except for the large back room, fourth story. The
house was a good house—not very old.
“Isidore Musset, 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 upstairs. 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 ‘scar?’ and ‘disable.’ 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 parties who first entered
the house. Corroborates the testimony of Musset 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.
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.
“—Bodenheimer, 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 ‘scar?’ ‘disable,’ and once ‘mon
Dieu.’
“Jules Minard, banker, of the firm
of Minard et Fills, Rue DE Loraine. Is the elder Minard. Madame Esplanade 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 Minard et Fills,
deposes that on the day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame Esplanade
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 parties 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 ‘scar?’ and ‘mon Dieu.’ There was
a sound now 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. Everything
was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no
person was seen. The windows, both 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 (mansards.) A trapdoor 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 if five. The door was opened with difficulty.
“Alfonzo Garcia, undertaker, deposes
that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the parties
who entered the house. Did not proceed upstairs. Is nervous and was
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention.
The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said.
The shrill voice was that of an Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand
the English language, but judges by the intonation.
“Alberto Montana, 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 anyone could have descended while the party proceeded upstairs.
The body of Mademoiselle Esplanade 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 eyeballs protruded. The
tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon
the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the
opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle Esplanade 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 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, was never 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 clue
apparent.”
The evening edition of the paper
stated that the greatest excitement continued in the Quartier St. Rocha—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.
Duping 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 Duping, “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-chamber—pour
mix 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. Vedic, 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. 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 luster—a luster which grows
dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of
rays fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the
more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and
enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the
firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
“As for these murders, let us enter
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. Rocha.
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—Duping, 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 upstairs—into the chamber where the
body of Mademoiselle Esplanade 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 Tribune.” Duping
scrutinized everything—not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went
into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout.
The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way
home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the daily
papers.
I have said that the whims of my
friend were manifold, and that Je les m? aegis: —for this phrase there is no
English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation about
the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had
observed anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.
There was something in his manner of
emphasizing the word “peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing
why.
“No, nothing peculiar,” I said;
“nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.”
“The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has
not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle
opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered
insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of
solution—I mean for the out? 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 upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle Esplanade, 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 Duping 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 me; but his voice, although by no means loud, had
that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to someone 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 Esplanade 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 anything 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 regarding the shrill, or, as one individual termed it,
the harsh voice.
“That was the evidence itself,” said
Duping, “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 recognize nothing
familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic—of an
African. Neither Asiatic 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 Duping,
“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 per? terannual events. Madame and Mademoiselle Esplanade 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. The assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle Esplanade
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 must 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 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 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.
“I proceeded to think thus—a
posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being so,
they could not have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened;
—the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny
of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then,
have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this
conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some
difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I
had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now know, exist; and this
corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises at least, were correct,
however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A
careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and,
satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.
“I now replaced the nail and
regarded it attentively. A person passing out through this window might have
reclosed it, and the spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been
replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my
investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window.
Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable,
there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the
modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over
the headboard 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 2147link 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 anyone
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' ferrates—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but
frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in the
form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower
half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for
the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a
half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about
half open—that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is
probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement;
but, if so, in looking at these ferrates 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 preternatural character of that agility which could have accomplished
it.
“You will say, no doubt, using the
language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue,
than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter.
This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My 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 Duping 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 affected 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 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 Esplanade 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 Minard, 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 out? —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 enough to
drag it down!
“Turn, now, to other indications of
the employment of a vigor most marvelous. 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 me. 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 Esplanade 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 Duping
asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving
maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Sant?”
“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 Esplanade. Tell me what you can
make of it.”
“Duping!” 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 Esplanade, 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 Duping, “this
passage from Cuvier.”
It was a minute anatomical and
generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Orangutan 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 Orangutan, 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 (Montana, 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 Orangutan 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 Bios de Boulogne,
early in the morning of the—inst., (the morning of the murder,) a very large,
tawny Orangutan of the Burmese 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 triose? me.
“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 Duping. “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 Orangutan. He will reason thus: — ‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Orangutan
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 Bios 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 Orangutan,
and keep it close until this matter has blown over.’”
At this moment we heard a step upon
the stairs.
“Be ready,” said Duping, “with your
pistols, but neither use them nor show them until at a signal from myself.”
The front door of the house had been
left open, and the visitor had entered, without ringing, and advanced several
steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we
heard him descending. Duping 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 Duping, 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 Neufchatels,
were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
“Sit down, my friend,” said Duping.
“I suppose you have called about the Orangutan. 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 DuFour, 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 Duping.
“I don’t mean that you should be at
all this trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very
willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, anything
in reason.”
“Well,” replied my friend, “that is
all very fair, to be sure. Let me think! —what should I have? Oh! I will tell
you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your
power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”
Duping 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 Duping, 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 Duping 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 Orangutan. 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 keyhole
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, using a whip, and to this he now
resorted. Upon sight of it, the Orangutan 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 Esplanade'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 Orangutan 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 Esplanade
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 Esplanade 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 Orangutan 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 Orangutan. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the
Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabbering's
of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The
Orangutan 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 Plants. Le Don was instantly released, upon our narration of
the circumstances (with some comments from Duping) 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 Duping, 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 can't, by which he has attained his
reputation for ingenuity. I mena the
wax hé has ‘de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas.’” (*)
(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise.
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET
A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE
MORGUE.”
Es gibed Eine Raahe idealizer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
parallel left. Seiten fallen see seamen. Menschen und zufalle
modifier geophilic die idealist Bergenheim, so days see
unfoldome escheat, und hire Folger glacially unfoldome
send. So, bee der Reformation; stat des Protestantism us kami das
Luther hum fervor.
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 Enrichen.
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 marvelous
a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been unable to
receive them. Such sentiments—for the half-credence's 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 Cecile 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 Duping, 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 Dupain'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 regarding what I both heard and saw so long ago.
Upon the winding up of the tragedy
involved in the deaths of Madame Esplanade 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 Duping 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 Rog? t.
This event occurred about two years
after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie, who's Christian and family name
will at once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the
unfortunate “cigar girl,” was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Rog? t.
The father had died during the child’s infancy, and from the period of his
death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which forms the
subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue
Pave Saint Andre; (*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 into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur
Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Rog? t 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 Pave Saint Andre.
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 Bari? re du Role. (*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 meantime,
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 ?mutes, 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 Duping and myself. Engaged in researches which absorbed our
whole attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad,
or received a visitor, or more than glanced at the leading political articles
in one of the daily papers. The first intelligence of the murder had 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 Duping, 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. Duping, sitting steadily in his
accustomed armchair, 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 Rog? t left the residence of
her mother, in the Rue Pav? e St. André? e, 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 Dr? mess. The Rue des Drums
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 Roget. St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of
Marie, and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the pension. He was to have
gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her home. In 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 Rog? t (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 Dr? mess; 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 anything 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 Barriered du Role,
on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pave St. Andre, 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 volition. 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 affected 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 from the spot at which it was brought ashore.
Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as
far as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion
resulted. A weekly paper, (*9) however, at length took up the theme; the corpse
was disinterred, and a re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited
beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted to
the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified as those worn by
the girl upon leaving home.
Meantime, the excitement increased
hourly. Several individuals were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell
especially under suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible
account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home.
Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G——, affidavits, accounting
satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and no
discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumors were circulated, and
journalists busied themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which
attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rog? t 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 Etoile, (*10) a paper
conducted, in general, with much ability.
“Mademoiselle Rog? t 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 connection, in the Rue des Dr? mess. 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 Rog? t 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 Bari? re de Role. This was, even if we presume that Marie Rog? t
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 Rog? t, it could only have been in the
water two and a half days, or three at the outside. All experience has shown
that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by
violence, require from six to ten days for decomposition to take place to bring
them to the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and
it rises before at least five- or six-days’ immersion, it sinks again, if let
alone. Now, we ask, what was there in this case to cause a departure from the
ordinary course of nature?... If the body had been kept in its mangled state on
shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.
It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon afloat, even
were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And, furthermore, it is
exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a murder as is
here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when
such a precaution could have so easily been taken.”
The editor here proceeds to argue
that the body must have been in the water “not three days merely, but, at
least, five times three days,” because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais
had great difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was fully
disproved. I continue the translation:
“What, then, are the facts on which
M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt the body was that of Marie Rog? t? 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 Rog? t, at seven o’clock, on Wednesday evening, that an
investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If we allow that
Madame Roget, from her age and grief, could not go over, (which is allowing a
great deal,) there certainly must have been someone who would have thought it worthwhile
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 Pav? e St. André? e, that reached even the occupants of the same
building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and intended husband of Marie, who boarded
in her mother’s house, deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the
body of his intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his
chamber and told him of it. For an item of news like this, it strikes us it was
very coolly received.”
In this way the journal endeavored
to create the impression of an apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie,
inconsistent with the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to
be hers. Its insinuations amount to this:—that Marie, with the connivance of
her friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving a charge
against her chastity; and that these friends, upon the discovery of a corpse in
the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the
opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death. But 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 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 Etoile in furtherance of
the impression it designed to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily disproved.
In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion
upon Beauvais himself. The editor says:
“Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that
on one occasion, while a Madame B—— was at Madame Roget's house, M. Beauvais,
who was going out, told her that a gendarme was expected there, and she, Madame
B., must not say anything to the gendarme until he returned, but let the matter
be for him.... In the present posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have
the whole matter locked up in his head. A single step cannot be taken without
M. Beauvais; for, go which way you will, you run against him.... For some
reason, he determined that nobody shall have anything to do with the
proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way,
according to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have
been very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.”
By the following fact, some color
was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office,
a few days prior to the girl’s disappearance, and during the absence of its
occupant, had observed a rose in the keyhole 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 Commercial, (*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 Bari? re du Role. It is impossible
that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have
passed three blocks without someone having seen her; and anyone 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 Barriered du Role, or to the Rue des Drums, 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 Bari? re du Role, there would have been
no necessity for any such arrangement. The fact that the body was found
floating near the Bari? re, 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 Commercial's argument.
Two small boys, sons of a Madame DeLuca, while roaming among the woods near the
Bari? re du Role, 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 Rog? t.” 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 DeLuca testified that she keeps a roadside inn not
far from the bank of the river, opposite the Bari? re du Role. 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 DeLuca'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 DeLuca, 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 Rog? t crosses 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 me, from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Duping,
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 Duping,
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 out? 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 Esplanade,
(*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 Esplanade 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 Bari? re du Role, was found under such circumstances as
to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has
been suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the Marie Roget for
the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and
respecting whom, solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect. We
both know this gentleman well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating
our inquiries from the body found, and thence tracing a murderer, we yet
discover this body to be that of some other individual than Marie; or, if
starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her assassinated—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 Rog? t who is missing.
“With the public the arguments of 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 indicter. 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 regards 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 melodrama of the idea, that Marie Roget still lives,
rather than any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to 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 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 Etoile, may be imagined to have
existed actually thus in the brain of its indicter—‘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 Duping,
“merely to make out a case against this passage of Etoile's argument, I might
safely leave it where it is. It is not, however, with Etoile that we must 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 c? incident 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 Etoile's suggestion, by calling your attention to its ex parted
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, except for Le Monitor. (*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 Etoile. But there is something excessively
unphilosophical in the attempt on the part of Le Monitor, to rebut the general
assertion of Etoile, by a citation of 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 Etoile's rule,
until such time as the rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the rule, (and
this Le Monitor does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions,) the
argument of 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 Etoile's position until the instances so childishly adduced shall be
sufficient in number to establish an antagonistically 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 enough to cause the body to
sink, as a 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 anything 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 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 rule, would not sink at
all—a fact of which 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 Rog? t, 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 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 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 anything is.
The question of identity is not even approached, and Etoile has been at great
pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before. ‘We are
perfectly convinced,’ it says, ‘that the body found was that of a murdered
female.’
“Nor is this the sole instance, even
in this division of his subject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against
himself. His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as
possible, the interval between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the
corpse. Yet we find him urging the point that no person saw the girl from the
moment of her leaving her mother’s house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, ‘that
Marie Rog? t was in the land of the living after nine o’clock on Sunday, June
the twenty-second.’ As his argument is obviously an ex parted one, he should,
at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had anyone been known to see
Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in question would have been
much reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of
the corpse being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to observe
that Etoile insists upon its point in the full belief of its furthering its
general argument.
“Repursue now that portion of this
argument which has reference to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. Regarding
the hair upon the arm, 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 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 before her leaving home. It is now
madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What Etoile says in respect to this abbreviation
of the garter’s being a 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 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 Etoile really entertained a doubt, under the circumstances, there
would be no need, in his case, of a commission de lunatic inquired. 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 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
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 vaguer 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 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-boyish, 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 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 Commercial?”
“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 Commercial
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 someone having seen her.’ This is the idea of a man long resident in
Paris—a public man—and one whose walks to and from 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 from, 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 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 having
existed in the mind of Le Commercial 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 Commercial, 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 Commercial, ‘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, except for Sunday, the streets of the city are, it is
true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace is 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 Commercial. ‘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 indicter
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 connection 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 regarding
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 malpractice 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 yet done. So far, we have only reconnoitered
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 Dupain'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 meantime, my friend occupied himself, with what seemed to me a
minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper files.
At the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts:
“About three years and a half ago, a
disturbance very similar to the present, was caused by the disappearance of
this same Marie Rog? t, from the perfumeries of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the
Palais Royal. At the end of a week, however, she re-appeared at her customary compote,
as well as ever, except for 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 Rog? t. It is well
known that, during the week of her absence from Le Blanc’s perfumeries, 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 Mercury—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 from 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 Manasi; (*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 Roget has become a
victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest the vicinity of
the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is decidedly in favor of this
supposition. We shall endeavor to make room for some of these arguments
hereafter.”—Evening Paper—Tuesday, June 31. (*22)
“On Monday, one of the bargemen
connected with the revenue service, saw an empty boat floating down the Seine.
Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it under the
barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence, without the knowledge
of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office.”—Le
Diligence—Thursday, June 26.
Upon reading these various extracts,
they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which
any one of them could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for
some explanation from Duping.
“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 villainy 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 anything said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of
whom the relatives (at least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets
upon the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that she
hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid
the solitary groves of the Barriered du Role? 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 Rog? t on the morning of Marie’s departure? — ‘I
fear that I shall never see Marie again.’
“But if we cannot imagine Madame Rog?
t 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 Dr? mess 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 Bari? re du Role
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 Drums, 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 Drums—I will tell St. Eustache not to call for me until dark—in
this way, my absence from home for the longest possible period, without causing
suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in
any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call for me at dark, he will be sure
not to call before; but, if I wholly neglect to bid him call, my time for
escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier,
and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to
return at all—if I had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in
question—it would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache call; for, calling, he
will be sure to ascertain that I have played him false—a fact of which I might
keep him forever 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 Drums. 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 regarding 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 connection 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 anything, evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly
coincident, was not so committed. It would have been a miracle indeed, if,
while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most
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 marvelous 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 Bari?
re du Role. 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 Rog? t.’ 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 Commercial suggested, in the
neighborhood of the Rue Pave St. Andre, 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 Bari? re du Role having been already suspected, the idea of
placing the articles where they were found, might have been naturally
entertained. There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so supposes, that
the articles discovered had been more than a very few days in the thicket;
while there is much circumstantial proof that they could not have remained
there, without attracting attention, during the twenty days elapsing between
the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys.
‘They were all mildewed down hard,’ says Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of
its predecessors, ‘with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew.
The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was
strong, but the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where
it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being
opened.’ In respect to the grass having ‘grown around and over some of them,’
it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the words,
and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the
articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party. But
grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather, (such as was that of the
period of the murder,) as much as two or three inches in a single day. A
parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely
concealed from sight by the up-springing grass. And touching that mildew upon
which the editor of Le Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs the
word no less than three times in the brief paragraph just quoted, is he 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 up springing and
decadence within twenty-four hours?
“Thus, we see, at a glance, that
what has been most triumphantly adduced in support of the idea that the
articles had been ‘for at least three or four weeks’ in the thicket, is most
absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is
exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the
thicket specified, for a longer period than a single week—for a longer period
than from one Sunday to the next. Those who know anything of the vicinity of
Paris, know the extreme difficulty of finding seclusion unless at a great
distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored, or even an
unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to
be imagined. Let anyone who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained
by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis—let any such one attempt,
even during the 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 Bari? re du Role 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 DeLuca, 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 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 Rog? t.’ 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 natural arrangement. I should rather have
looked to see the things all lying on the ground and trampled underfoot. 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 from 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 affected 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 DeLuca's. But, in fact, this is a point of
minor importance. We are not engaged to discover the scene, but to produce the
perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness
with which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show the folly
of the positive and headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and chiefly,
to bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation of the
doubt whether this assassination has, or has not been, the work of a gang.
“We will resume this question by
mere allusion to the revolting details of the surgeon examined at the inquest.
It is only necessary to say that his published inferences, regarding 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 defenseless
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 passive at their will.
You will hear 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 paralyzing 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 an enough, 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 several 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 several
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 Commercial; 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 Commercial, 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 Commercial.
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 it slipping off.
And, now, the murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the
loins. He would have used this, but for its volition 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 DeLuca, (!) 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 DeLuca, in and about
the vicinity of the Bari? re du Role 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 DeLuca, 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 hind ill? ire??
“But what is the precise evidence of
Madame DeLuca? ‘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 reclosed the river
as if in great haste.’
“Now this ‘great haste’ very
possibly seemed greater haste in the eyes of Madame DeLuca, 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 DeLuca. But we are told that it
was upon this very evening that Madame DeLuca, as well as her eldest son,
‘heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.’ And in what words
does Madame DeLuca 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 Bari? re du Role prior to the screams overheard
(?) by Madame DeLuca. 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 DeLuca, or of a murder perpetrated, in
the thicket at the Bari? re du Role, 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 Mercury, 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 DeLuca. 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 ferryboat. 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 Manasi. 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 DeLuca 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, skillfully directed, will not
fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information on this 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 sailboat 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 connection with the navy—some
personal permanent connection 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 Rog? t 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 Duping. 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 per? term-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 Roget 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 denouement the
mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an extension of
the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the
discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar
ratiocination, would produce any similar result.
For, in respect to the latter branch
of the supposition, it should be considered that the most trifling variation in
the facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important
miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of events; very much
as, in 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 enough here to say that it forms one of an infinite
series of mistakes which arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for
seeking truth in detail.
FOOTNOTES—Marie Rog? t
(*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 pretense 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 DeLuca 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 Hardenburgh.
(*3) Nassau Street.
(*4) Anderson.
(*5) The Hudson.
(*6) Weehawken.
(*7) Payne.
(*8) Cromolyn.
(*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) Manasi 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 jet despite 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 sub served
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 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 Brenthurst; Mr. Osborne, a
nephew of Lord Bentinck’s; Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the
well-known ?runouts; 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 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 Wilbur 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 center 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 ?runout 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? rial 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 Brenthurst and Mr. Osborne, two
gentlemen well known for scientific acquirement, and especially for the
interest they have exhibited in the progress of? rotation. 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 Brenthurst, and Mr. Osborne,) at the seat of
the latter gentleman near Menstrual, 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 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, except for 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
floats 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-Vow House, Mr. Osborne’s seat, about a mile from Menstrual, in North
Wales; and at 7 minutes past 11, everything 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
enough 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 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 man oeuvre 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 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 dream 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 halfway 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. Omen ignite 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 remodeled, 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 “Atalante.” 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-Vow, 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 anyone 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 dispatched
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 formers may be regarded as nearly parallel. In this manner the horizon
of the? runout 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 à
vivre
N’a plus rien à dissimuler.
—Quinault—Attis.
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 Pyrrhonist of my opinions has always 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 ingest 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 Sundae 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 Lachaise islands. We had
also on-board coir, jiggered, ghee, cocoanuts, 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 like those
arising from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, and
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 center. 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 sternpost 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 now 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, except for we, 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 packthread,
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 framework 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 jiggered, procured with great difficulty
from the forecastle—the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly
succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equaling 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 luster, 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 mizzenmast,
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, 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 up reared 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 from 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 about 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 endeavor. 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 ratline-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 studdingsail which lay near me on a
barrel. The studdingsail 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 shriveled 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 studdingsail. 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 arrow 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 moldering instruments of science, and
obsolete long-forgotten charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he poured,
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 Led. The crew glide to and from 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 Baalbek, and Talmor, 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 lead 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 Apennines,
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 criticize 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 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 bedposts. 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 background 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 igniting, 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 sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye,
the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the
lamp. And then the 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!”
THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE VOLUME I
![THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE VOLUME I]()
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February 20, 2020
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